#this is also me encouraging everyone to go read the fics. read corporate call! read the grindstone of pain and necessity!

[lbctal]

match my freak (read every fic under the neal gamby/lee russell tag on ao3 multiple times)

[ineffable-snowman]

Fic: Maybe Someday

I finally finished a somewhat longer (7k) Good Omens fic. You can also read it here on AO3.

Many thanks to @tickety-boo-af, who was a super nice and helpful beta reader!

*****************

One Saturday afternoon, Aziraphale miracled the buttons of his vest a shade darker. Normally, he was against using miracles on clothes because he believed in tailors but it was only a minor change and it was meant as a symbol. Because he had a plan.

As far as Aziraphale knew, most humans put a lot of effort into their corporation to look nice for their, well, date. (There really was no way to still call this a “meeting” when neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had a job anymore.) Humans did it to give the other person something pleasant to look at, as Aziraphale understood. He was glad Crowley did not follow Hell’s fashion choices because he was not ready to put dirt or even worse on his face. There was no doubt what Crowley liked: black and tight-fitting clothes. But Aziraphale didn’t own any black clothes and he was pretty sure that trousers like Crowley’s would just look ridiculous on him.

Searching through his bookshop, he found some clothes from the last two centuries in a wooden chest squeezed under several books. After he had encouraged the moths and spiders to leave, he scrutinised the clothes. Most of them had moth holes and smelled a bit. But nothing a thorough miracle wouldn’t fix. He had liked the hats in the Victorian Age. But maybe not the best memories for Crowley. What about that cravat from the Sixties? Fashion had been crazy then and even Aziraphale had decided to purchase something new. But mostly he had tried to give Crowley a reason to live – because then Aziraphale had still worried that Crowley wanted to use the holy water on himself. It had been utterly frightening to find the fine balance between promising Crowley something more (but at the same time not promising too much and not too obviously) and stopping him from getting himself into even more danger.

But that was over now. And the cravat had looked a bit dashing, hadn’t it? It would be quite fitting to wear this again when Aziraphale wanted to take the next step in their Arrangement…or was it a Relationship now? He felt that it should be, but it was not, not really. Aziraphale knew what a romantic relationship looked like, he had read enough books. And the things that, according to human literature, were supposed to happen had not happened between him and Crowley.

Aziraphale had cautiously placed his hand on the table between them when they were dining at the Ritz. Crowley had not taken it. Aziraphale had lingered after Crowley had dropped him off at the bookshop and accompanied him to the door. Crowley had not kissed him goodnight.

After a few weeks of nothing happening, Aziraphale had had the sneaking suspicion that Crowley held back because of him. Maybe Crowley was trying to take things slow because he did not want to scare Aziraphale off like the last time when Aziraphale had told him that he went too fast. Aziraphale had always felt deep regret whenever he had had to stop Crowley from doing something dangerous. It had not seemed fair to stop someone from loving, of all things.

He told himself that he should be happy, and what if they were taking things slow? They had all of eternity. But there was still this nagging feeling that Crowley was holding back. It didn’t seem right after everything that had happened. Maybe it was now Aziraphale’s turn to move things forward. To grant Crowley permission. To show him that there was nothing to fear, that Aziraphale would not reject his love, ever again.

How to do it? It certainly was not Aziraphale’s strongest suit. But he had read enough to get an idea about…flirting? Courting? Dating? The words seemed terribly frivolous but then most humans would consider getting dinner together at expensive restaurants a date. So they were already doing it. Now it was up to Aziraphale to ��spice things up.” Tastefully, of course.

And that is how his beloved vest ended up with miracled buttons.

When they had their next dinner date (Aziraphale had read a promising review in the newspaper about a fancy new French restaurant), he miracled the cravat clean and tied it carefully. He fretted a bit with his shirt and could not decide: Was it indecent to leave the top button open? He did not know that restaurant yet. What if they expected a certain dress code? What would Crowley think if he – well, no, Crowley certainly did not mind showing a bit of skin if his own clothing decisions were anything to go by.

Aziraphale left that button decision for later and focused on his hair first. He had decided to use a tiny bit of product to make his curls less frizzy and more defined as his barber had always suggested he do but so far Aziraphale had never seen the purpose of that. He had just finished his very careful application when he heard the familiar honk of the Bentley.

“Dear Lord, is it already time?” Aziraphale glanced at the cuckoo clock. Crowley was fashionably late as always. Aziraphale grabbed his coat, opened the top button in a desperate last minute decision and hurried outside.

Crowley was casually leaning against the Bentley, as he always did. He gave Aziraphale an intent look.

Aziraphale’s heart hammered, not only from the physical exertion. “Running a bit late,” he said with a quick nervous look to make sure no one was staring at his new outfit. He felt terribly exposed. “Please don’t make up for it by exceeding the speed limit more than is strictly necessary.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s go?”

Crowley went 70mph, which Aziraphale took as a sign of goodwill on his part.

After ten minutes of silence, during which Aziraphale had to force his nervous hands down to keep them from closing the opened button, Crowley eventually asked, “What happened to your bowtie?”

“Oh, er, I thought it-it would be nice t-to try something new once in a while.”

Crowley gave him a sidelong glance. “That cravat is hardly new, is it?”

Oh, so he noticed! Aziraphale was not sure if that frightened or elated him. Somehow it was both at the same time.

The Bentley’s tyres skidded on the pavement, the car slid for some meters and Crowley hurled a very rude word at the street.

“Well, not everyone acquires new clothes every decade,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, gripping the door handle very tightly.

Fortunately they arrived at the restaurant without discorporating. Aziraphale kept nervously touching his cravat upon entering. “You don’t think it’s a bit too, well, risqué?” he said under his breath.

Crowley smirked. “We’ll see if they throw you out when they see you.”

“Oh, don’t mock me, you old serpent.” But it oddly helped calm his nerves.

No one threw him out and no one gave him funny glances for his attire. No one but Crowley. Now that they weren’t in the car anymore but seated opposite each other at the small table, Crowley looked at him all the time. Let him stare, Aziraphale told himself. I dressed up for him to look at me. He deserves this. No hiding anymore. It was exhilarating and frightening, Aziraphale’s breath was a bit quicker than usual and he was certain that Crowley noticed. But Crowley didn’t mention it. In fact, he was unusually silent. They did some weird small talk about the weather, about the menu and the wine… which Aziraphale almost spilled. Well, he did actually knock over his glass with his shaking hand but, with a quick-witted miracle, he saved the tablecloth and himself the embarrassment. Crowley noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment, just raised his brows.

Once they had their food, things went a bit smoother. The food was excellent and it made conversation easier. Aziraphale’s main dish, wild pheasant in mushroom and wine sauce, turned out to be a perfect choice, and Crowley let him try (and then offered him the bigger part of) his wonderfully glazed potatoes.

Again, Crowley did not take his hand when he placed it on the table after they had finished dessert.

When they left the restaurant, Aziraphale decided to be brave. “Could you give me a lift?” he asked, purposefully repeating the words from 1967.

Crowley stopped and turned to him. “’Course. What else would I do with -” He indicated first Aziraphale, then the Bentley. “Kidnap you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale said lightly.

Crowley’s brows climbed up into his hairline. “How on earth am I supposed to take that?”

“Er. Probably with the knowledge that the wine has been a bit on the stronger side. Oh dear.”

“Right.” Crowley climbed into the car and waited for Aziraphale to follow. “So. Where do you want me to give you a lift to?”

Aziraphale briefly considered the notion of replying with something dramatic like, “To the stars,” but he had said and done enough foolish things for today. But then he couldn’t just say, “Back to the bookshop,” either, could he? He racked his brain. What to do at night in London?

“I was wondering, have you ever been on the London Eye?”

“Sure. ‘S nice. But I thought you hated it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did. In a very polite but scathing way.”

“Well. I thought I could give it a try. If you were amenable, that is.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He sobered up to drive them there.

Usually the London Eye closed at 20:30 but they were miraculously lucky that there was still a lovely young lady who was busy with cleanup. She agreed to let them into the VIP pod and turned the wheel on to move again. Aziraphale tipped and blessed her generously.

It was true, he had been reluctant when the London Eye had been installed, especially when he had heard that Crowley had somehow been involved. Tourist trap, disfigurement of the skyline etc. But once they were up in the air, he had to admit that the view was splendid.

“Marvellous what these humans come up with,” he said upon looking at the thousands and thousands of lights of the city below. They had seen how a small village had turned into a dirty industrial town, then a majestic imperial city, then a tourist destination. They knew all the buildings (and had met most of their builders).

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed softly. “Glad they’re still here. Would be a bit boring otherwise.”

Aziraphale turned away from the city lights to smile at Crowley. He had taken his glasses off to better enjoy the view and was leaning against the glass. At this moment Aziraphale felt like his heart could burst with love. For the world, the stars, the humans, and for this wonderful demon who had been here with him through everything.

“Yes. I am glad, too.”

For some reason the observation wheel took them on two more rounds.

“Funny, I only convinced it to go one more round,” Crowley remarked.

“Goodness. So did I.”

They exchanged a quick glance and a smile and then they enjoyed the view and each other’s company. During the next round they reminisced about the people, events and buildings they had seen during the last centuries. There had been fires, diseases, two wars, and yet nothing had ever stopped the humans from rebuilding and making things better again.

During the third round they had a heated argument about architecture. Crowley seriously argued that that horrible Gherkin was an enhancement of the city but St. Paul’s Cathedral was “not very inventive” when he knew Aziraphale had had a bit of a hand in it!

The last ten minutes they spent in companionable silence sitting very close to each other.

When Crowley dropped him off at the bookshop he wished Aziraphale a good night but still didn’t kiss him.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale said urgently just before Crowley could get into the car and leave.

Crowley stopped dead and turned abruptly. “Yeah?”

“I-I-I just wanted to say.” His human heart was beating erratically again. “I really had a lovely evening. Thank you very much.” He smiled tremulously.

“It’s not like I personally caught your pheasant and cooked it.”

“No, thank goodness you didn’t.” They had never got the hang of preparing human food. Although Aziraphale had become quite experienced with tea during the years and had, once, succeeded at semi decent biscuits. “But, I believe you had a hand in the creation of the London Eye. Which was rather, er, nice.”

“Eh, I was mostly responsible for the pricing and marketing. The rest was all the humans.”

“Still. It was a lovely evening.”

Crowley made a sort of agreeing noise. “You, I mean, the – it suits, um, you – look good.”

Before Aziraphale could say anything, the car doors banged shut, the engine whined and the Bentley raced away, leaving him standing in front of his bookshop, lost for words but smiling giddily.

*

So the dressing up bit had been a success. Aziraphale decided to repeat it. He grew a bit more comfortable with the opened button, and asked his barber for recommendations for the best hair product. He even gave his wings a very thorough preening. One could never know what would happen.

He found that he liked dressing up for Crowley. He always felt nervous anticipation as he got ready before Crowley arrived to pick him up. That was probably what all those romance novels meant with “butterflies in one’s stomach” (which Aziraphale thought was a rather disgusting image).

He also liked it when Crowley looked at him for longer than strictly necessary although it made his insides churn at the same time. Funny, these inconsistent emotions.

Still, Crowley did not kiss him. Although his glances were so intent they almost felt physical, he had not even once touched Aziraphale purposefully. Every time they met, Aziraphale expected it to happen and was nervous and excited. Every time it did not happen, he was both relieved and disappointed. But most of all he was worried. He didn’t want Crowley to think that he wasn’t allowed. He didn’t want him to doubt Aziraphale’s love for him.

So Aziraphale did the bravest thing he had ever done, something that took even more courage than disobeying God Herself by giving the humans a flaming sword, or marching into Hell in Crowley’s body. When Crowley dropped him off this night at the bookshop, Aziraphale did not leave the car but turned to face Crowley.

“You can kiss me, you know,” he said in a very small voice. “If – if you wanted to, that is,” he added quickly. He did not want to presume anything.

“If I – what?!” Crowley’s mouth hung open.

Aziraphale expected hellfire or the holy army of angels to rain down on them but nothing whatsoever happened. It was very quiet in the car. He could feel his chest lift and fall quickly and he kept looking at Crowley, who was still gaping at him.

“What about you?” Crowley said eventually, still not looking away.

“What?” Aziraphale’s voice came out high pitched.

“Do you?”

“I’m afraid you will have to elaborate, my dear.”

Crowley finally turned away and spoke determinedly to the front window. “Do you. Want me. To… kiss you?”

“I…” Aziraphale trailed off. This was not going according to plan. And he did not have an answer to that question. Did he want Crowley to kiss him? He supposed he must. This sort of thing was supposed to happen, right? All the humans liked it, all the poets had sung its praises, so it must be good. “I-I-I wouldn’t mind,” he finally allowed.

“Right.” Crowley was still staring straight ahead. His fingers were drumming an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel. “Get out of the car!” he suddenly snapped.

Aziraphale winced in shock at the harsh tone. “I-I-I’m terribly sorry if I have overstepped any boundaries,” he was quick to apologise. “It seems I have not read the situation correctly.”

“I said,” Crowley reiterated and his voice was dark and faintly demonic, “get out of the car.”

“Crowley, please let me -”

“No.”

The door on Aziraphale’s side flew open. He gingerly stepped outside. “Well,” he said helplessly, hovering next to the car, wringing his hands, “have a lovely evening.”

*

Aziraphale spent the next few days brooding over how everything could have gone so terribly wrong so suddenly. They had had a perfectly fine dinner at his favourite Italian restaurant. Crowley had kept looking and sometimes even smiling at him and had offered him his tiramisu. They had reminisced about their time in Rome, and Crowley had good-naturedly mocked him (at least it had seemed good-naturedly at that time) for having tempted him with oysters.

So what had changed?

What was so horrible about the idea of a kiss?

Aziraphale had been so sure that Crowley loved him. Could he have been wrong? So maybe he did not love Aziraphale in the sense that he wanted to kiss him but was that a reason to be so offended and reject Aziraphale so rudely? Yes, it had hurt. And even worse was that he had not heard from Crowley since then. Since the averted Apocalypse they had hardly spent a week without seeing each other or at least speaking on the telephone. But no sign from Crowley for several days now.

His other idea was that it was Crowley’s usual offence when being called nice or any such thing that was not appropriate for a demon. But he had seemed free at last from those hellish expectations – or at least more relaxed (no one knew better than Aziraphale that you couldn’t just change 6000 year old habits), because there had been no more angry outbursts or even wall-slamming when Aziraphale had complimented him but he had only rolled his eyes, like he had needed to at least keep up appearances. Was insinuating that he loved just too much?

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale was deeply unhappy with the state of things. Oh, they had had much worse fights before. Aziraphale knew Crowley’s dramatic departures. He knew that Crowley could spend years or even decades sulking. But ultimately he had always come back, often to save Aziraphale’s corporation in an even more dramatic fashion. Yes, it had always been deeply touching (and also a bit exciting, if Aziraphale was entirely honest) and he did not doubt for a second that this time Crowley would come for him if he found himself in a dangerous situation. And yet, he did not want that. He did not want to spend years apart and he did not want Crowley unhappily sulking. No, he had almost lost Crowley in that blasted Apocalypse business, he was not going to let a stupid misunderstanding get in the way now. If Aziraphale had learned anything from reading and watching all the great tragedies of human literature, it was that a lot of these could have been avoided by sensible communication. (He had had a very heated discussion with Will about the ending of “Romeo and Juliet”. Will had unfortunately entirely disregarded Aziraphale’s suggestions for an alternative ending, which had led to the decision to keep his Shakespeare collection incomplete and to the steadfast refusal to ever watch that play again.)

So, communication. Humans did it all the time and they were amazingly successful considering they had such a short time. So he should be able to pull it off, too, with his millennia of experience, right?

He spent a week wondering if he should write Crowley a letter (he composed several drafts), contact him via phone (he dialled the number but always put the earpiece down at the last moment) or go to see him in person (he rehearsed every possible conversation in his head and some out loud).

Once, he thought he saw the Bentley speeding past the bookshop.

It was then that Aziraphale decided to go to see him in person. He did not put on the cravat or use hair product. His hand was shaking when he rang the bell. Crowley did not buzz him in but used the intercom.

“What?” he snapped.

“Er, hello. I – I think we need to talk.”

“Oh?”

“I think there has been a – a misunderstanding and I would really like to apologise and-”

“Right. Come in. Or – let’s go for a walk? Weather’s nice today.”

“I don’t really mind.” As long as they were together and talked this through and agreed to still be friends, Aziraphale was really fine with anything.

“Decide, angel,” Crowley’s voice came impatiently out of the intercom.

“Oh, well, then let’s head to St. James’s. The weather is rather nice, isn’t it?”

Just a few minutes later, Crowley was standing outside, hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale.

“Thank you for, for agreeing to talk with me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley just sighed but he followed him to St. James’s anyway, silent and moody and with his hands in his pockets but he was there and willing to listen and that was all that mattered for now.

Aziraphale needed three circuits through the park until he found his courage to start the actual conversation. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding because I misinterpreted certain things. I was operating under the assumption that you were interested in pursuing a…” He faltered. “A… romantic relationship. Romantic relationship in the sense of… a relationship. Not related to the Nineteenth Century, of -”

“I know what a romantic relationship is, for hea- whatever.”

“Oh, good. I mean, I’m terribly sorry that I offended you. But I’m afraid I am still not entirely sure if it was the insinuation of a, er, romantic relationship or a, a… Good Lord.” Aziraphale quickly glanced around to make sure that nobody overheard them, and lowered his voice. “A kiss. Or the, the suggestion of your capacity to love.” He cleared his throat. “So, obviously, you can rest assured that I will absolutely never mention the – the things again if any of them bother you. Although I should say that I firmly believe that you are capable of love, even though you may not be interested in a romantic relationship, because there are so many different types of love – I, as an angel, should know–“

“That’s not the point,” Crowley snapped.

“Well, then, pray tell what is the point,” Aziraphale retorted in much the same manner because he was getting a bit impatient. Communication only worked if both partners were willing to be open and honest and he felt like he was doing all the work here and was making a complete fool of himself by stammering and blabbering and talking about things widely out of his comfort zone while Crowley just sulked. “It would be jolly helpful if you could at least tell me what offended you so I can avoid it in the future.” He stopped in his tracks and stood in front of Crowley so he was forced to stop too. “You know, because I would rather like to salvage our friendship.” He relented a bit. “You are too important to me, Crowley,” he implored more softly.

Several complicated emotions flickered over Crowley’s face and Aziraphale regretted that they had not stayed at Crowley’s flat because then he could at least have seen his eyes and maybe understood a bit more. The emotions finally settled on a sneer. “Oh, so we’re friends now?”

“Please don’t be difficult,” Aziraphale admonished.

Crowley finally tore his hands out of his pockets and threw them in the air to gesticulate wildly. “Difficult, now that’s a bit rich! You are difficult, telling me to kiss you and – and talking about romantic relationships out of the blue!” He spat the word ‘romantic’ like it was an insult. Aziraphale felt insulted.

“Right.” He adjusted his bowtie and turned away to…to look at the ducks. “Oh, look, I think I haven’t seen this young swan before. Have you by any chance brought something to feed them?”

At the next moment, Crowley was shoving fruits, frozen peas, three sorts of bread and on top of all that a packet of oat flakes into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Oh. Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale balanced all the hastily miracled food in his arms and started feeding the ducks. He was ever so grateful when the ducks accepted the food that he carefully threw them with trembling hands. If Crowley could not accept what he offered, well, at least the animals were appreciative.

He heard Crowley sighing next to him. “Aziraphale, listen, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I think I explained it all just now and I told you it was obviously a misunderstanding, so why-”

“Why do you think you have to enter into a, nrhm, romantic relationship with me?”

Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly on the ducks. He was glad he had more than enough food to keep them and himself occupied for a while. “They are not really big on love in Heaven. They say they are, of course, but it’s very different from down here. Over the years you have been very helpful and generous with me, in a way that I was not used to, and I suppose that’s why I mistook your friendship for…love. I don’t want to belittle our friendship by that because it means the world to me and I wouldn’t want to lose it, not for anything.” He felt tears prickling at his eyes. He squatted down to pet one of the older swans that knew him and was therefore trusting enough to let itself be touched. It was only a small comfort. There was a long silence until Crowley cautiously knelt down next to him. The swan startled and fluttered away. Crowley cursed loudly and thus roused even more ducks nearby.

“Sorry -” Crowley stood up hurriedly and took some steps backwards. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

Aziraphale turned to him. He looked lost and like he did not know what to do with his long limbs. Aziraphale took a deep breath and stood up. “I’m being silly. Bit emotional. Goodness.” He forced a chuckle. “Don’t mind me, dear.”

“Stop it.” Crowley lifted a hand, made an aborted gesture, let it fall again. “We’re still friends, of course. No need to worry. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Oh, good.” Aziraphale smiled tremulously but gratefully.

“Can I…” Crowley looked doubtful, hesitated. “How about a hot chocolate? Some pastries?”

Aziraphale felt the tears prickling again. Dear God, he was so in love. “That would be lovely.”

“Good,” Crowley said in relief, Aziraphale suggested a café nearby, and when they walked there side by side things felt almost normal again. Almost. Somehow Aziraphale still did not feel like going inside the café and sitting there between all these humans. He felt too vulnerable.

“Can we maybe just go back to the bookshop?” he asked.

“Sure, of course, yeah, why not.” Crowley paid for the chocolate and the pastries and they made their way back.

When they arrived at the bookshop Crowley was oddly hesitant and hovered in front of the door.

“Won’t you come inside?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. “I couldn’t possibly eat all the pastries by myself.”

“Oh, no, it’s good, they’re for you.” Crowley shoved them into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Ah. I see. Thank you. I’m sure they will be wonderful.”

“Yeah, sure, enjoy.” And he was gone.

*

Again Crowley did not seek him out for days. The days turned into weeks and not a word from him. But then one day a plain package was delivered to the bookshop. Attached was a short note in Crowley’s familiar handwriting:

Got this at an internet auction. Guess this was still missing from your collection? C.

It was an edition of Christine de Pizan’s early poems. There was even a signature. It was a very rare manuscript and a wonderful addition to his collection but the other signature – the “C.” – was so much more important. Still using the abbreviation in case the letter fell into the wrong hands.

Aziraphale rummaged through his bookshop until he found the most beautiful stationery he owned. Then he chose his favourite fountain pen to compose a reply.

My dear C.,

Thank you ever so much for that generous gift! It was such a pleasant surprise when the postman delivered the package this morning. A signed work from Christine de Pizan was indeed missing from my collection. You might remember that I, unfortunately, did not really appreciate Christine’s writing choices during her lifetime and therefore never thought to personally ask her for a signature. I’m all the more looking forward to reading her poems today.

It seems I sometimes need a bit of time to fully appreciate good things for what they are.

I was really grateful for the thoughtful gift and was very glad to hear from you again. I hope you are faring well? After spending so much time together during the last years, I find myself missing your company. Please ring me up if you are in the mood to have lunch together or just to meet up and talk.

Yours

Aziraphale

He made sure to write his full name and hoped Crowley would understand it for the gesture it was.

Maybe he did because just two days later Aziraphale’s phone rang.

“So. I was thinking of going to the Globe tomorrow. Was wondering if you wanted to come, too. They’re putting on a new production of -”

“Yes!  Yes, that sounds lovely, I would absolutely love to go – sorry, I interrupted you. What production did you say they were putting on?”

“Romeo and Juliet. Still want to go?”

Aziraphale briefly hesitated. He had vowed never to see that play again. But then, it was not so much about the play but about the company. It certainly would not do to reject Crowley now that he was reaching out again. “Yes, why not?”

“I thought you didn’t like that one.”

“I thought you didn’t like the gloomy ones.”

“Ah. It’s a modern production. They could’ve changed everything, who knows.”

“Well, you know I’m not usually a fan of these modern reinterpretations but it could only improve Romeo and Juliet.”

Crowley snorted and just like that everything was easy again. They bickered over modern theatre, discussed Shakespeare’s works and reminisced about the good old times (Crowley especially missed throwing tomatoes and eggs at the stage when the play was bad).

They spent almost an hour on the phone. The only thing that struck Aziraphale as slightly odd was that Crowley did not offer to pick him up but just told Aziraphale to meet him at the Globe tomorrow afternoon at 3pm. It was fine, he told himself. At least they were going to do something together again. Small steps. It would all be fine.

*

They did change a few things about Romeo and Juliet, mainly it was set in modern day England and featured two young humans of opposing religious and political views falling in love. They did not change nearly enough. Aziraphale could not even stomach the pastries and the wine that Crowley brought him during the intermission. He knew it was going to end just as horribly as always and was tensing up more and more during the second part.

“You alright?” Crowley whispered just before Juliet decided to take the drugs.

“Yes, yes, totally fine,” Aziraphale sniffed and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief.

“You want to leave?”

“Oh God, yes, please!”

He grabbed the pastries (wouldn’t do to waste perfectly good food just because of a stupid, miserable play) and, to the dismay of the humans seated around them, they hurried out of the theatre. They left just before Romeo discovered Juliet’s lifeless body.

“I really hate that one.” Aziraphale dabbed his eyes again. “I don’t see why a good writer like William Shakespeare would waste his talent on something like that.”

“You could’ve just said no, you know, didn’t have to come.”

Aziraphale decided not to point out that Crowley looked quite miserable, too, and did not ask why he had chosen to see that play in the first place. Instead he said, “Next time we go to the theatre, I pick the play.”

“Fine. As long as it’s not Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Aziraphale went on a rant to defend Winnie-the-Pooh and by the time they arrived at the Bentley, he had almost forgotten about the gloominess that was Romeo and Juliet.

“Alright.” Crowley hovered in front of the Bentley. “You want to head back or still do something else?”

“Maybe…maybe we could go for a picnic?” Aziraphale kept watching Crowley very closely. He did not want to make him uncomfortable again like with that disastrous suggestion of kissing.

“Uh, sure. St. James’s?”

“I was thinking more about heading out to the countryside.” Aziraphale would prefer some peace and quiet right now. Not the usual busy London places. No humans to worry about. “If – if that was alright with you.”

“You sure?”

“Well, yes, of course. I just suggested it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well, you sometimes say one thing and mean something else.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled in regret. It had been their way of communication for more than 6000 years. Saying one thing, meaning another. Over the centuries they had become rather good at navigating the silent conversations that took place simultaneously, had developed their own code. It seemed that that code did not work anymore and that there were new rules now that they were free from their respective head offices. Aziraphale was determined to figure out how this new communication between them worked. He would make it work. “You are right, I did not really want to see Romeo and Juliet,” he admitted. “But I thought it would be nice to meet up again. And I’d very much like to spend some more time with you aside from that wretched play. We could also go for a stroll at St. James’s or have tea or even go to the movies if you don’t want to go for a picnic. Or just go back to the bookshop or your place to have a drink.”

“Hm, suppose I owe you one for making you sit through that stupid play. A picnic it is then. Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, how about a picnic at the beach?” Aziraphale suggested enthusiastically. The weather was nice enough for early May and he had not been to the seaside for quite some time.

“Okay. Uh. You want me to drive us there?”

“Obviously. How else do you expect me to go there? By public transport?” Aziraphale grimaced in disgust and was relieved to see Crowley grin at that.

The drive to the seaside was relaxing (as far as being driven by Crowley could ever be. To his credit, he did not go over 80mph). They did a bit of small talk to avoid getting hung up in miserable thoughts about Romeo and Juliet, greatly enjoyed the fact that the Bentley was willing to play something else than Queen’s Greatest Hits, and stopped at a little supermarket to get a bit of food and several bottles of red wine for their picnic.

When they arrived at the little beach, the sun was already getting low and it was a bit chilly. Nevertheless, Aziraphale greatly enjoyed their picnic. The wine and cheese were surprisingly good. Maybe it had been a little demonic miracle or maybe it was just that everything tasted perfect when you were having a picnic at sunset with the demon you loved. He did not really mind the wind or the sand that was getting everywhere either. Everything here felt easy, and Aziraphale chuckled fondly when Crowley tried to chase a bunch of seagulls away, who weren’t really bothered by his demonic threats.

“It’s all your fault.” Crowley flopped dramatically down next to Aziraphale. “Feeding a seagull. Really, angel. You should know better.”

“It looked very hungry,” Aziraphale said in apology and smiled down at Crowley. His limbs were spread everywhere, his chest was lifting and falling quickly because he was still out of breath and his sunglasses reflected the clouds of the evening sky. Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to run his hands through Crowley’s hair. He thought he would like that. Or sit a bit closer (after all, it was a bit chilly), their shoulders and thighs touching, maybe even holding hands. That would be nice, too. Or a kiss. Because that was a thing, wasn’t it? When you were drinking red wine at a beach at sunset with the one you loved there was meant to be a kiss, right? But he was not sure anymore if that was something Crowley wanted.

“You alright? Something on your mind?” Crowley put down his sunglasses and squinted up at Aziraphale. Always looking out for him – making sure he was comfortable, getting him his favourite food, chasing away seagulls... Aziraphale swallowed. God, he was so in love.

“Are you happy, my dear?” he asked softly.

“Huh, I – yes?”

“If there’s anything you wanted…,” Aziraphale prompted cautiously.

Crowley scrambled into a more upright position. “More of that wine.”

Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly. “Ah, yes, of course.” He handed the bottle to Crowley. He liked sharing a bottle. It was oddly intimate to put his lips where Crowley’s had been just moments before. He liked the brief, casual touching of fingers when they exchanged the bottle.

Crowley chugged down a large part of the wine. “Why -” He glared at the bottle so hard that the label crumpled in nervousness. “Why would you ever think that I’d – that I’d enjoy… kissing you against your will?”

Aziraphale froze. “What…what do you mean?”

“That’s what you were offering. Wasn’t it?” Crowley finally directed his glare at Aziraphale.

“Er, I, what? Who said it was against my will?”

“Oh, come on, you were scared shitless.”

“I really wasn’t.” Aziraphale was a bit affronted because he had felt it had been a rather brave thing to do and now Crowley was belittling him for it.

“You were. You were – were fidgeting like you were talking to Gabriel or the other fuckers.”

Aziraphale huffed in indignation. “I most certainly did not offer Gabriel or any of the other angels to kiss me.”

“Pff. Thank – Someone. My point is, I’m not – I’m – I won’t kiss you. So. You don’t have to be scared.” Crowley glared at the bottle again and it burst in his hand.

Oh. Without thinking, Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s hand that was sticky with red wine (and maybe even blood) in his hands. “Crowley, no, I’m not scared of you. Never.” He sent a quick healing miracle, just in case. “My dear, please don’t ever think that. And I’m sorry to say so but you are the least scary demon I have ever met.”

Crowley chuckled weakly. “Wow, insulting me now, that’s real low, angel.”

“Ah, well. I suppose you managed to scare the seagulls away. Eventually.”

“God, you’re such a bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled, squeezed his hand and then let go a little regretfully. He found he rather liked touching Crowley like this. But communication first. “Now, you may be right in that I was maybe a little, tiny bit nervous. But I’ll have you know it’s perfectly normal to be nervous before your first kiss.”

“Says who?” Crowley put his sunglasses back on.

“Books.”

“Aaaah.”

“Yes. Basically every love story ever. Well, every love story that features a kiss.”

“There don’t have to be, ah, kisses. This,” Crowley made a vague gesture that encompassed himself, Aziraphale, the beach, the dusky sky, the sea, “is just fine.”

“Are you sure? I’ve made you wait for so long -”

“No, no, no. It’s not – it’s not waiting, like this. It’s… good. Urgh, did I really just say that? I meant – happy. I’m happy. And I’d be happy if it was always like this. You don’t have to do anything.”

Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly. He had never felt so free, so safe in his life. “I love you,” he said and the words came as easily and naturally as the waves rolling constantly onto the beach. He felt tears in his eyes, tears of relief and happiness, and he was glad it was almost dark by now so Crowley hopefully couldn’t see them and worry again.

“Y-Yeah?” Crowley croaked.

“Yes. I do. I absolutely do.” Oh, he had not known how much lighter he would feel when the weight of millennia of fear and guilt lifted from his chest! “I do, my dear,” he repeated, giddy with it that he was finally allowed to let it all out. And then, because he was feeling particularly daring, “I think I would like to try hand holding. What do you think?”

“Nmmm, yeah?”

Aziraphale offered his trembling hand, and just to be perfectly clear, he whispered, “I’m not scared.”

Crowley grabbed his hand and squeezed it so hard that Aziraphale was momentarily worried that he would break his fingers. Very slowly he rubbed little circles with his thumb on the back of Crowley’s hand to make him relax, trying to show him that he would not let go, never again.

No one said a word. They just stared into the dark sea and listened to the crashing of the waves, the cries of the seagulls and to each other’s breathing, which was eventually slowing down. Finally, Crowley’s hand in his unclenched a little. Aziraphale kept caressing circles onto it and savoured every minute. He liked that Crowley’s hand was still sticky with red wine and a little cold. In fact, now that the first excitement of the touch had worn off, Aziraphale noticed how cold it was. It was just spring and neither of them had thought to bring a coat.

“Are you cold?” Crowley asked. “You want to go back?”

“No! Absolutely not! Not cold at all!” Aziraphale said through clattering teeth. “Let’s stay.” He inched infinitesimally closer to Crowley but without actually touching. Huddling for warmth was probably a bit much as they were just figuring out hand holding. Maybe in a few months or years. Or even decades. They had all the time in the world. And hand holding was fine. In fact, it was so fine that Aziraphale never wanted to stop, no matter how much he trembled from the cold.

But then Crowley conjured up a little fire and it wasn’t only cosy and warm but also excitingly romantic. At night at the beach, hand holding in front of a fire! “Oh, that’s lovely,” Aziraphale sighed happily. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Nah. There’s a sign at the entrance of the beach that says that it’s forbidden to make camp fires here.”

“Ah, I see.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand gently. “Should I thwart you then?”

“You can try.”

“Maybe later.”

He did much later, in the next morning when the first humans came to the beach for jogging and walking their dogs. It was time for them to leave and go back to London. Aziraphale’s limbs were cold and stiff when he extinguished the fire, collected the empty wine bottles and leftover food (and he almost had a cramp in his left hand). But he couldn’t have been happier. The Bentley graciously played them piano preludes from Debussy when Crowley drove them almost slowly through the countryside.

They stopped at a little café to warm up with hot drinks. When Aziraphale put his hand on the table, Crowley’s own inched closer until their fingertips touched, like a silent question, and Aziraphale turned his hand open to welcome him.

[piracytheorist]

Reactions to this post hating on fanfic, that the original poster/hater will never read. Sadly.

(I'm doing this partly in a live-blog fashion, so keep that in mind.)

1) But I/we aren’t trying to make any money out of it!

Well, see, this is where “illegal” comes in. You can’t break into somebody’s house, even if you don’t mean to steal anything. You can’t camp in someone’s backyard without permission, even if you aren’t raising a marijuana crop back there. And you can’t use someone’s copyrighted characters for your own purposes, no matter what those purposes are.

That's bullshit. This is bullshit. And btw, the law isn't always right, let's not forget. You can't compare those things; you're practically saying every musician who ever played a variation/remix of an existing temporary music piece without asking for the rights to use them but also without demanding money to show their work, are criminals. I guess say goodbye to street musicians. You're saying anyone who paints themselves a copy (or a variation) of Picasso's Guernica and hangs it in a public space (say, a coffee shop) is a criminal. Bullshit.

Oddly enough, the notion of using someone else’s characters never occurred to me. I just tried to do it on my own. Surprise! It worked.

Oddly enough, not everyone's like you. Surprise! The world doesn't turn around you.

[...] are you getting positive feedback because some fans are so hooked on the characters that they’ll read anything involving those names (whether the writing accurately reflects those characters or not)? One real easy way to find out. Write anything you want, using Jamie Fraser, Edward Cullen, Harry Potter _and_ Dr. Who….and then change the characters’ names before you post it. Simple. Find All: “Jamie Fraser”. Replace with: “Joe Kerastopolous”. No problemo, all your own work, and any praise you get is duly earned.

How does this even make sense? The only thing this woman cares about are what names we use in fanfiction? If we don't then everything is solved?

4) But nobody would read stuff I wrote if it wasn’t about characters they already like!

Possibly true, possibly not. Depends on how good a writer you are, and how you go about displaying your work once you’ve written it. But—allowing for the moment that this argument holds water—what you’re saying is that a) you deserve an audience, no matter what, and b) you’d prefer to exploit someone else’s talent and hard work, rather than go to the trouble of making your own way.

Way to encourage newbie writers!

I already mentioned the shit she said about Donald Duck being created by Carl Barks. And she was paid by the Walt Disney Corporation, for crying out loud.

[...] if you want to write stories for the Silver Surfer or Superman, go talk to Marvel or DC, and see if they’re taking new submissions or would let you write a sample script.

You know, not everyone wants to be a full-time writer. Some only want to do it in their free time after a work that has nothing to do with writing. What she's saying is to either dedicate yourself fully to writing or not at all. Again, way to encourage newbie writers.

This is, btw, one reason why fan-fic versions of popular characters so often seem superficial; they lack the depth that the Real Thing has—the writer has merely grabbed at the broadest impression of the character, not built them in complex layers.

Did she just ditch the entirety of fanfiction on the basis that they aren't as DEEP as the Real Thing? Even if in a lot of cases the opposite applies?

I understand the urge to take a story that’s fired your imagination and carry it on or explore other avenues that it might have taken. ¬_Everybody_ does this, when they’ve seen a movie or read a book that captured their imagination [...] Giving people intriguing possibilities is one of the hallmarks of good fiction. But what you do in the privacy of your own imagination is a matter of total freedom; what you do in public is not.

So... we have no freedom of speech then? I mean, I get calling out someone who is talking rude in public, but that's still this asshole's right, as it is my right to call them out.

Beyond the specific arguments against the concept remains the unfortunate fact that a terrible lot of fan-fic is outright cringe-worthy and ought to be suppressed on purely aesthetic grounds.

So are so, so many published books that had no connection to fanfiction whatsoever. Didn't see you going against publishing in general.

Now, I don’t go looking for fan-fiction written about my characters; in fact, I try _not¬_ to see it. But now and then someone sends me a link to a site displaying it [...]

See, if the writer didn't send you the link themselves, you shouldn't blame them for you getting exposed to it! There's a reason the majority of fanfiction writers don't want to send their writings to the original content creators. But you would’ve known that, had you asked the fanfiction community first before you tried to paint us as horrible people.

Now, look. Human beings are hardwired to be interested in sex. We just _are_. Any kind of sex, performed by anyone, anytime, anywhere. Bad sex, good sex, poorly depicted sex, elegantly drawn sex…it doesn’t matter. We have a genetic compulsion to _look_. We’ll look at _anything_ having sex, human or not.

And on your right side, you can see erasure of asexuality.

But…imagine opening your daily mail and finding a letter detailing an explicit sexual encounter between, say, your twenty-one-year-old daughter and your forty-eight-year-old male neighbor---written by the neighbor. At the bottom it says, “Fiction! Just my imagination. All cool, right?” This would perhaps prevent your calling the police, but I repeat…ick. I wouldn’t like people writing sex fantasies for public consumption about me or members of my family—why would I be all right with them doing it to the intimate creations of my imagination and personality?

Is she actually comparing her protective feelings to her fictional characters with the protective feelings to her own family? Is this woman mentally okay?

And personally, I would have called the police.

[...] Emmett someone (who I _think_ is from Twilight; I sort of hope it’s not the willowy young “bottom” from the TV show “Queer as Folk”…)

I'm treading carefully here since I haven't watched the show... but I do get an air of homophobia and discrimination against people who are into BDSM. Wouldn't surprise me, tbh, but I can't be sure.

I also mentioned the fact that she was angry someone wanted to write a fanfiction with her character in order to raise money for a charity. Hm. And then tried to cover it. Of course she would.

People in the book end of the trade watch these developments with a lot of interest—and some apprehension, knowing what happened to the music industry with the advent of Napster and file-sharing. The music industry still exists, of course, but it’s a lot harder for the creative people who _make_ music to make a living from it.

Dude, file-sharing harms the music industry because they take the original content and give it to the world for free. Writing fanfiction isn't copying the entirety of your book and giving it to the world for free. That's still file-sharing, blame the pirates. Fanfiction can fucking promote your work without you having to offer a single penny.

People who read my books tend to be both intelligent (not just because they like _my_ books, but by and large, it takes a fair amount of intellectual resilience to want to take on 1000-page books of any kind), and creative.

LOL honey, get over yourself already. Also, the Twilight series consist, overall, of over 2k pages. Does that mean anything for the people who read it? I read three of those books. Am I intelligent and creative too?

Characters—good characters, “real” characters—derive their reality from the person who created them. They _are_ the person who created them, refracted through the lens of that writer’s experience, imagination, love, fear, and craft. Another writer seeking to duplicate that character might equal—or conceivably surpass--the craft; they can’t touch the essence.

When you mess with my stuff, you’re not messing with my characters—you’re messing with _me_.

Who are the writers of the Outlander TV series again? Oh that's okay because you're making money out of it?

readers occasionally _do_ stumble over bits of fan-fiction, and—while they realize they’re reading fan-fiction at the time— still incorporate these _faux_ stories into their comprehension and memory of the real series.

I wonder if the script for the Outlander TV series is exactly, word-for-word the same as the script in the book series. Has she complained about that? (I’m actually asking this, though, I’ve no clue) Why should she complain about fanfiction? Because she doesn't make money out of the latter?

There is also the issue of a fan at some point writing a piece that inadvertently picks up a plotline that I have myself written, but that hasn’t yet appeared in print—and then turning around and claiming that I’ve stolen it from him/her [...].

*them. Also, that's one problematic behaviour. She's literally judging all fanfiction writers based on one problematic behaviour, what a grown-up.

Anyway, yeah, even if at some point I would have wanted to give her books a try... now I know I never will, purely out of spite. 

[gukyi]

the millionaire and his lover | jjk

⇒ summary: over the course of your lifelong friendship with jungkook, you can’t say that you’ve ever had the greatest ideas, and a fake relationship with the boy you’ve been in love with for years is no exception. 

⇒ self-gratuitous ceo au, friends-to-lovers, and fake relationship trope rolled into one big shitstorm of a jungkook fic

⇒ pairing: jungkook x female reader

⇒ word count: 18k

⇒ genre: fluff, angst, and light smut

⇒ warnings: alcohol mentions, smut

⇒ a/n: hello all! i wanted to kickoff my writing on this blog with a bang, so here’s a longish fic on my wildest dreams. 

When you first tell people that you happen to know CEO and multimillionaire Jeon Jungkook, they tell you one of three things:

1: You’re so lucky! Could you introduce me?

2: You must have saved an entire country in your past life.

3: Is he as much of an asshole as the news outlets make him out to be?

What you don’t say, though, is this: You and Jungkook have had history for as long as you could remember. As not only neighbors, but also childhood friends, you happen to know quite a lot about the man who made a name of himself before he even graduated from university. You would also very much like to keep quiet the fact that you’ve harbored a crush on the boy for quite some time now, obvious to everyone whose name isn’t Jeon Jungkook.

Jeon Jungkook is, in one word, brilliant. He is brilliantly intelligent, brilliantly talented, brilliantly beautiful. He is suave and smooth and gets what he wants and if he didn’t possess such a disdain for the tabloids that do nothing but stretch the truth, he would have them wrapped around his finger. Sure, he’s no actor or singer, but he is a celebrity, and a skilled one at that. The media know no boundaries when it comes to a man like Jungkook, painting him as stunning yet rude, rich yet selfish, smart but cold. You know they blow his brief affairs out of proportion, and you know they will never know the boy who fell off of his bicycle in the second grade.

Jungkook is not powerful enough to replace the stars in your sky, but he is powerful enough to rearrange them right in front of your eyes, creating endless constellations that all remind you of him. He is the boy you have cherished since your elementary school days, when he would accidentally drool on your shoulder and throw sand into your mouth, and you are the girl who, despite all class differences, has stuck by him through thick and thin. It is not enough, but perhaps to him, it is.

“Do you ever try to mooch off of his wealth?” People ask you. “I would.”

And sure, every now and then you will ask him for money and he will give it to you, but your intentions are pure and you do not, will not, ever take his generosity for granted. Not when he has so much and you so little. You know what life is like when the world keeps trying to trip you, and a bit of smooth ground is not enough to keep you from forgetting the struggle.

That is, until you get laid off your job due to an influx of new workers, and your next student debt payment is due in roughly, a week.

“What?”

You glare at the email on the screen of the laptop you’ve had ever since your third year of secondary school. On the screen, in big, bold, black letters, are the words DISMISSAL NOTICE. Under them, your name.

This is the worst timing you’ve had in a long while. Not that your job was dreamy or anything, but it paid and it paid well enough for you to keep on top of your rent and your student debt payments. The rent’s been taken care of, especially since your eccentric roommate has a hell of a job and is pretty generous herself, offering to pay for more of the rent when she knows you can’t make it up to quota, in return for completing some of her schoolwork or whatever. It’s a good system, really, but this has thrown you for so many loops that you don’t know which way is up anymore.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Both elbows are on the desk in front of you as you rub your eyes, tired of this job and this room and this life. Days like this are the days you can’t stand to see Jungkook’s face on the cover of a magazine or his name in the headline of an article, flaunting his wealth with his Armani suits and Rolex watches and slicked-back hair. Envious isn’t a characteristic you’d like to describe yourself with, but when it comes to him, the feeling can’t help but creep up.

You have no idea how you’re going to be able to afford the last several hundred thousand won of debt payment without a job. Sure, Jungkook is only a mere few phone taps away, but even this is too big of a favor for you to ask him. You don’t think you’ve ever asked for more than fifty thousand won from him, and to Jungkook, that’s pocket change.

So, in perhaps more of a desperation than a determination, you start cruising the online bulletin boards and local stores’ websites for a job, one that you are vying to keep.

A day passes, and then another, and nothing.

“No luck?” Your roommate asks as she walks into your bedroom, seeing you hunched over your laptop with red eyes and messy hair.

“No,” you sigh. “No one’s hiring. Probably because the graduating university class this year was so big. Everyone wants young employees, or they’ve already got them.”

“You’ll get it,” your roommate assures you. You’re doubtful, but her encouraging words lift up your spirit ever so slightly. “I believe in you.”

“Thanks, Wendy.”

She smiles before leaving your room, shutting the door behind her like a true best friend. You really appreciate Wendy, and her uncanny brightness and constant friendliness.

The job hunt continues.

Three days before the deadline and you’ve only been able to make a couple thousand won for helping an old lady with her groceries up several flights of stairs. Like a true procrastinator, you are somewhat stretching out your search — which you know you shouldn’t be doing — but it’s not like a new job offer will just pop out of thin air. They’re all taken, all of them. You knew not going directly into a career after graduating was a shitty move, but you did it anyway, and here you are. Besides, what can you do with a history degree anyway when history teachers are a dime a dozen?

Wendy is making no mention of Jungkook, which you are very thankful for. She knows how you feel about borrowing money from him, so he is, essentially, out of the picture. Or, so you hoped he was.

As you’re lounging around on your sofa, lazily scrolling the forums for any more job popups, your phone rings.

It’s Jungkook, because of course it’s Jungkook, and the very fact that he’s calling you rather than texting you makes you know that this is serious business.

“Hello?”

“Y/N! How are you?” Jungkook exclaims on the other end.

“Busy,” you reply, sort of telling the truth but also sort of lying. Yes, you technically are busy with your job hunt, but you are also not busy with your job hunt thanks to your superior procrastination skills.

“Busy? Is now a bad time?” You can practically see the concern on Jungkook’s face.

“No, you’re good. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could meet me at the company? I have a favor to ask you,” Jungkook asks.

“A favor?” You sputter, clearly surprised. A favor? Since when was he the asker of favors? For as long as you’ve known him, it’s almost always been the other way around. Now you really know this is something serious.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. We could go out for lunch too, if you’d like. There’s this great Italian place that just opened up in Gangnam that we could try—”

“So soon?” You ask, looking down at yourself. You most certainly do not have your Gangnam style on, thank you very much.

“If you’re cool with that. I’d like to meet up sometime today, though,” says Jungkook.

Wendy walks into the living room where you sit, having your conversation. She can tell immediately from your furrowed brows that it’s Jungkook you’re talking to.

What’s he want? She mouths.

He wants a favor, you mouth back. And lunch.

Go! Wendy motions as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She may know a thing or two about your harbored and quite frankly, unsurprising crush on Jungkook.

You look back at her like she has fifteen heads, surprised that she’s so adamant about you going on this outing with the boy. She merely glares at you in response, a single eyebrow raised. You know you’ve lost this debate.

“Sure,” you say into the phone at the same time that Wendy pumps a fist in support. “Give me fifteen minutes to get ready and I’ll be over soon.”

“Great!” Jungkook exclaims into the phone. “See you!”

The second you turn the phone off, you’re about to argue with Wendy about her decisions made throughout the entire conversation, but she cuts you off, shoving you into your room and in front of your closet.

“Scream at me later, you have a date!”

“It’s not a date!” You whine from behind the closed door. “It’s just… an outing!” You mentally facepalm. Yes, this is a date. You know you can hear Wendy snickering from the hallway as you shuffle through your closet for the nicest dress you own.

The ‘company’ Jungkook was talking about is his skyscraper of an office building smack dab in the middle of Seoul, his name plastered in big metal letters across the top reading, JEON CORPORATIONS. It’s hard to mistake it for anything else, really, and as you step off of the bus right in front of his building, you’re as intimidated as always. Every time you come to this building you tell yourself not to look up, and every time, you do.

You feel so out of place walking into the pristine building, the floors marbled and the walls gleaming. The lobby, as per usual, is sparkling, likely a result of Jungkook’s need for everything to be as neat and tidy as possible. Even when you were little, his room was always spotless and his schoolbooks ordered by height, then color.

You swear you’ve been to Jungkook enough times while he’s at work for the staff in the lobby to stop questioning you, but protocol, you guess. It’s not very often a young, lost girl stumbles into the building without a product to sell or a camera crew behind her.

“Hi,” you say to the lady at the front desk. She has an earpiece in and her hair is tied tightly back to reveal the crisp collar of her blazer. “I’m here to see Jeon Jungkook.”

“Name?”

You give her your name and she shuffles through her computer, clicking away before she shakes her head, friendly but professional.

“You’re not on his list.”

You roll your eyes and sigh. You’re never on his list. His list is for businessmen and authorized interviews and people who have a meeting with him in his big meeting room with those leather chairs that are surprisingly uncomfortable, not you. Surely his staff should recognize you by now. You show up a the building once every week or two.

“He asked me to come here,” you say through clenched teeth. Like he always does is on the tip of your tongue, but you keep your mouth shut so you don’t get confronted by those terrifying security guards of his.

“Oh,” the lady says, disregarding your comment completely. “You’ll just have to wait until he’s free, I guess.”

Lord knows when that will be. You know you can’t necessarily stomp up to his office without any sort of authorization, but you assume that if you’ve done it before, you can do it again.

“Thanks,” you say, not thankful at all. You walk up to the elevators before the lady can say anything to stop you, and get in before she can get out of her seat to kick you out of the building. His office is on the top floor — surprise, surprise —so you hit the button and wait in silence. Luckily, Jungkook isn’t awful enough to force you to listen to that shitty elevator music. You spend the brief ride thinking on what you might say to the big men guarding the door to his office, but before you can come up with anything plausible, you reach the top floor.

As expected, once you approach his door one of the big men places his hand in front of the handle, preventing you from going inside.

“Name?”

“Ugh,” you reply, tired. “Y/N. Can’t I just go in?” These guards can’t be as dense as his staff downstairs.

“Sorry, Miss, but Mr. Jeon is busy right now. Is it urgent?”

“He invited me here,” you tell them, as though that will change anything.

“Mr. Jeon made no mention of that to us, so unfortunately, I cannot let you inside,” the other big man says.

You stretch over the hand covering the door and knock on the wood roughly and loudly. The guards are affronted, you can tell, but you really don’t care. They both step in front of the door now, their heavy bodies blocking the entire thing from view.

“Jungkook! It’s me!” You shout over them, hoping your voice pierces through the mass of wall and big men.

Not long after, the door opens.

“Y/N? Here already?” Jungkook asks, forcing the two big men to step aside. “I didn’t think you’d get here for another ten minutes.”

“I got an earlier bus,” you reply.

“Mr. Jeon?” One of the men interrupt. “Do you know her?”

Jungkook looks to his guard before he glances towards you, eyes wide with fear. You’re glaring at him, your eyes squinted and arms crossed. “Yes, she’s a good friend.” He grabs your arm and pulls you inside. “Thanks!”

The moment the door is closed, Jungkook braces himself.

“You know how much of a pain your staff was to me today?” You shout at him. “I swear, they made me lose five years of my life. Why am I not on your fucking list?” You push his chest, but he is strong as hell and doesn’t even move.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Jungkook says, shrugging. “I’ll try to remember to remind my staff that you’re authorized to be here at any time.”

“Yeah, you punk,” you reply, collapsing on the couch he keeps in his office. It is, for the most part, untouched, your body normally the only thing that ever sits on it. Jungkook doesn’t let very many people into his office, let alone allows them to sit on his couch as crassly as you.

“I’m glad you got here. I could ask you for the favor now, while we’re at lunch, or after,” Jungkook says, leaning back in his office chair. Sometimes, when he runs out to go settle some deal or simply use the bathroom, you spin yourself around in it. It’s a rule that when you are met with a wheely office chair, you must spin.

“Tell it to me now, because I have a feeling I’m not going to like it, and then the lunch can compensate me,” You advise, not even looking at him as you lie on your back.

Jungkook chuckles. “How do you know you won’t like it? I haven’t even told you.”

“You never ask me for favors, Jungkook,” you remind him. “I think the last time you asked me for a favor, YG was still a thriving entertainment company.”

That comment elicits a laugh out of Jungkook. “Listen, you have to trust me, Y/N.”

“I never trust you, Jungkook.” You smile as you sit up on his couch, beaming at him.

“Well,” Jungkook begins, and you’re already shaking your head. “My family is coming from Busan to visit next week, and within the next couple weeks I have a ton of business parties and get-togethers, so—”

“I am not going to iron your fucking suits, Jungkook. You should know how to iron things by now,” you immediately say, sternly. If Jungkook asks you to come over to his extravagant penthouse just so you can do his laundry one more time, you’re going to explode.

“No, no, that’s not what I was saying,” Jungkook laughs. “Let me finish, you get too ahead of yourself.”

You sit back, mildly intrigued as to what his favor might be.

“You know that my family’s pretty adamant about me having a relationship, and at the business parties I keep getting asked about a girlfriend, so I was wondering if you could accompany me as a pretend girlfriend, almost?” He asks, wincing.

He should be wincing. This is definitely the weirdest thing someone has asked you in forever.

“A pretend girlfriend?” You ask, confused.

“Yeah, like, you would walk around with me and we’d pretend to be dating and stuff. I was going to just find some other girl, but you’re the one I, uh, trust the most.” Jungkook scratches at the nape of his neck, nervous. “Like, you know the most about me anyway, and it’s practically like we’re dating already, except we’re not.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll pay you. And buy you nice things.”

That gets your attention. Payment? To hang around Jungkook? Normally, you’d be declining in almost an instant, refusing to accept money in return for your company. But now, in a situation like yours, with your debt payment creeping up on the horizon and a futile job search, it actually doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

“For how long?” You ask, intrigued.

“Um, a few weeks, I guess. You could move in for that time period too, if you want. It makes it seem more realistic,” he offers.

If Wendy was with you right now, she’d be making an elaborate display behind Jungkook that spells out one thing, which is no way. You know it’s a bad idea; the ghost of Wendy is hissing it in your ear. You’ve seen the movies, you know how all fake relationships end up, and still, you are genuinely considering taking the offer. If Jungkook is offering you a couple of weeks where you can finally experience what you’ve been dreaming of doing for years, then perhaps it might not be such a terrible idea after all.

“I could?”

“Sure, I have tons of space,” Jungkook says without a shadow of a doubt. He seems pleased. “It’s so lonely up there. I could use some of your company.”

“Really? Never pegged you as a people person, you know,” you tease him. “You’re always so aloof and distant.”

“Don’t tell me you’re believing what the media says about me now,” Jungkook says, exasperated by you. Tiring him out happens to be a favorite hobby of yours.

“Oh, don’t worry, you big oaf. I just don’t know if this fake dating thing might be a good idea,” you say.

“It’ll be fine,” Jungkook says reassuringly. “We’re already best friends, so it’s not like anything will change. We’re just friends.”

“Just friends.”

“Just friends,” Jungkook states. “With a bit of kissing on the side.”

“What?”

Jungkook laughs at your reaction, your eyes blown wide in surprise at the notion of kissing him. You’re in shock at the idea of kissing him, the boy you can’t help but love, but also in shock with how calmly he brought it up. Hasn’t he seen the movies? Doesn’t he worry about what might happen to your relationship?

“We have to kiss, we’re dating,” Jungkook chuckles.

You open your mouth, about to respond when Jungkook’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and jumps up from where he was leaning back on his desk, grabbing your hand and his suit jacket as he pulls you towards the door. “Our reservation!”

“What! You made a reservation?” You exclaim as he nods to his security guard and tugs you into the elevator.

“Yeah. We’re going out, aren’t we?”

“But won’t this seem kind of… I don’t know, scandalous? Reporters wait outside your building every day. They’ll see us!” You worry.

Jungkook looks down in between the two of you and holds your hand, interlocking your fingers. It’s not unusual for you to hold hands often — it’s become a symbol of friendship — but this time, it feels different.

“Yeah, and you’re my girlfriend now, so I don’t care.”

The first thing Jungkook wants you to do is move in for the next few weeks.

You don’t have to bring too much stuff, just enough for you to live at my place. I can buy you new clothes if you want, he texts you as you are stuffing your suitcases with all of the clothes you deem necessary to survive in a new environment. It doesn’t matter that Jungkook is rich beyond belief and could probably accommodate you like a king, you want your goddamn pajamas.

“It’s going to be so lonely,” Wendy laments as you pull your suitcase towards the door to your apartment.

You laugh, amused. “You’ll be fine. I’ll keep you updated, no worries.”

“Damn straight you will,” Wendy says back, eyeing you with such a ferocity that you know you can’t back down from your unofficial promise. “Are you only taking one suitcase?”

“It’s got all my shit, my clothes, my laptop, my toiletries,” you say, shrugging. You know you’re forgetting something, you just can’t exactly pinpoint what it is.

“Alright, if you say so. When’s your bus?”

“In like, ten minutes, I think? I’ll probably go outside and wait there,” you say, slipping into your sneakers.

Wendy’s gazing out the window, appearing particularly confused at what she’s looking at. “I don’t think you’ll need to take the bus, Y/N.”

“Huh?”

You walk up to where she stands, eyeing the landscape outside. Below your apartment, you can see half of a gleaming black limousine, waiting. Without thinking twice, you know it’s from Jungkook. Of course.

“I hate this boy,” you sigh. You didn’t even tell him what time you’d be leaving your apartment, and still, he does this.

“Better go, don’t want to keep that limo driver waiting for too long,” Wendy says, pushing you towards the door before you’ve even got both sneakers on.

“What?”

“See you in three weeks!”

You find yourself just outside the door to your apartment, and when you turn around, you are met with Wendy’s beaming face right before it shuts in front of you, signifying that you are no longer allowed to be in the apartment.

Once you’ve migrated downstairs, the driver greets you politely before ushering you inside the limo. Only the best for you, is what’s written on a notecard on the table inside. Fucking Jungkook.

You have to say, Jungkook really does spare no expense for your comfort, evidenced by the expensive mini-fridge stuffed to the brim with sodas and brownies and the pristine leather seating. It makes you feel out of place, really, your worn-in clothes sitting in such fine seats. Then again, you normally feel out of place whenever you’re surrounded by Jungkook’s expensive belongings.

The drive finally comes to a halt in front of Jungkook’s building, yet another skyscraper that hurts your eyes to look up at. You offer to tip the driver on your way out, holding twenty-thousand won out for him to grab, but he declines, telling you that he’s already been paid plenty, courtesy of Mr. Jeon, obviously.

At least the security guards at Jungkook’s own penthouse know who you are. You have no issue trying to coax them into letting you inside, them having already been notified of your arrival. You merely bow towards them as they let you inside.

Much like his office building, every time you visit his home you are taken aback by how extravagant yet stunning it is. The place is fucking immaculate, from the walls to the floors to the little turtle figurine sitting on his coffee table, likely worth more than several of your student debt payments. His house looks practically untouched, but you know that under the first impression lies a lived-in and loved abode. You can see it in the faint wear in the couches and the dullness of an otherwise brand-new refrigerator.

Jungkook isn’t there to greet you, probably too busy having some aggravating conference call or with his headphones in, playing Overwatch, but his stuff is. Normally, you’d flop onto his couch and stare at his built in television until he came out of his room, but with a suitcase in hand, you don’t really know what to do.

I’m here, you text him. He gets the notification instantly, and no more than a few seconds later, emerges from his cave.

“Oh! You are here,” Jungkook says, surprised to see you. “I thought you meant you were outside my building, or something.”

“Nope, they let me in. Nice place,” you comment.

“Oh yeah, like you haven’t seen it before,” Jungkook laughs. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” you breathe in relief. Even though his penthouse is triple the size of your own apartment, it feels cozier. Perhaps that’s just Jungkook. “I feel like it’s been awhile since I came over.”

“Yeah, we’re always going out and shit instead,” Jungkook agrees. He gazes down to the suitcase by your legs. “Do you want me to take that for you?”

Before you have a chance to tell him no, you’re fine, you’re a big girl, he’s reaching down and picking up your suitcase with both hands, the muscles of his biceps peeking out of his white t-shirt. It makes your breath catch in your throat, but you pass it off as a hiccup as he leads you down the hallway. The two of you walk straight past the guest bedroom you slept in whenever you would stay over for a night, much to your confusion, as he brings you into his massive master bedroom.

“Uh, Jungkook?”

“Mmm?” He hums back, leaning down to place your suitcase on the ottoman in front of his bed. It drops onto the cushiony seat with a great thud, and he dusts his hands off before turning around to face you. “What’s up?”

“Aren’t I staying in the guest bedroom?” You question him, unsure of what he may be hinting at.

Jungkook chuckles. “No, silly. If my family’s coming over to stay for a few days, then you need to stay with me. They think we’re dating, remember?” He taps his head, as though he considers this ‘thinking ahead’.

“So we’re sleeping together?”

That makes Jungkook crack up. “No! Unless you want to, of course. I’m not opposed.”

You glare at him as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “In your dreams, babe.”

You suppose sharing a bed with Jungkook won’t be too bad. You used to do it all the time as children, so other than age, what’s the difference? His room is gorgeous anyway, probably bigger than your entire apartment back in the outskirts of Seoul. Sleek and monochrome, which could be considered boring if it weren’t for the splashes of color in his red t-shirts and blue beanbag chairs.

You’ve reached the point with Jungkook where neither of you have very definitive boundaries. The second you open your suitcase to fish out your slippers, he’s digging in there with you, picking through your clothes and shoes and observing every single piece.

“You’re the fake girlfriend of a young multimillionaire and you bring this to my place?” He asks, holding up your ratty sweatpants that you’ve owned since secondary school.

“They’re comfortable, leave me alone,” you snap, snatching them back and placing them inside your suitcase. “Not all of us have money to drop on Gucci sweats.”

“I’m staging a fashion intervention,” Jungkook declares, standing up straight.

You look up at him, a single eyebrow raised, as he grabs his sunglasses from the table next to where you’re sitting and tries to put them on in one fluid motion. Unfortunately, he misses completely and ends up poking himself in the eye, making you laugh.

“Yes, very suave, babe,” you say, rubbing his arm soothingly.

“Don’t talk about it. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“I’m taking you shopping.”

You can’t even open your mouth to protest — Jungkook has done enough for you already — because he’s dragging you and all of your unprepared glory out of his shimmering penthouse and into one of his very many pricey cars, gleaming just like the rest of his belongings.

“Jungkook I really—”

“Oh shush, Y/N. I want to treat you,” Jungkook replies, zooming out of the complex’s garage and into the busy streets of Seoul. “My family’s coming over tomorrow. They’ll skin me if they see that I don’t buy you nice things with the money I have.”

“Wow, way to give me a nice image,” you joke.

“Trust me,” Jungkook pleads, shooting down the road. “I’m in the spotlight. I know what looks good.”

He finally stops in a parking garage that leads to the most high-end mall in the area (thank God, Jungkook was always a terrifying person to be in a car with. Every time you get in a car with him, you hold onto anything he can. He’s ruthless.), making your eyes widen. You slowly tilt your head down and look at your clothes in comparison to the boy’s pristine tee and skintight black jeans. He never lets you get ready for anything.

“Jungkook, I look like a trash bag,” you hiss as you walk inside. The mall is decently empty, save for the two of you and a couple other couples with heavy wallets. Jungkook is hardly paying attention to you, his focus drawn to the extravagant window displays of the stores you never dreamed of walking into.

“We can just buy something for you change into,” he says, waving off your concern. Your brows furrow as he stops in front of a store before cruising in. The ladies waiting by the doorway bow respectfully towards the two of you. Your eyes widen at the sight of the gold lining and expensive clothes. You feel like you can’t even touch this shit.

You take a seat on one of the couches in the main room as Jungkook peruses around, pointing at different articles of clothing without a care in the world as the attendant following him rushes to pull them from the racks. After several painstaking minutes, Jungkook returns with a hefty pile of clothes and a hefty price tag.

“Try these on, Y/N. There must be something you’ll like. I tried picking out the most comfortable things. We can get a dress at another store.”

A dress? You mouth to him as the attendant opens up a fitting room for you. Just then, it dawns on you that a nice dress is exactly what you were forgetting when you left your apartment, and Jungkook must have noticed. Jungkook sends you into the room with a wink as the door shuts.

“Don’t forget to show me each piece!”

And so, the process begins. Jungkook went way overboard, you think as you stare at the pile of clothes on the bench. It’s like the kid didn’t know where to stop. Eventually, after what must have been an hour of change, show Jungkook, criticize the article, repeat, you leave the store with a decent sized bag, worth much more than a mere student debt payment.

“Jungkook, next store we go into, don’t pick so much fucking shit,” you order, shoving him gently.

Jungkook chuckles. “But I like seeing you twirl around for me. ‘S cute.”

“Shut up,” you say, your cheeks heating up. You, if possible, stuff yourself further into the pricey hoodie Jungkook bought for you.

The next store you head into is much more posh. Somewhere along the way from the first store to the second, Jungkook had grabbed hold of your hand, the two of you interlocking your fingers together, and you hadn’t even noticed until he let go when you sat down on yet another couch.

“Do you see anything you like?” Jungkook asked, sitting next to you. “I won’t pick out stuff for you this time.”

“All of it,” you say jokingly, gazing around. Jungkook looks about ready to ask the attendant for everything, but you stop him. “I’m kidding.”

You get up to wander the racks, wondering if your hand is rich enough to feather through the silk and satin. Eventually, you stumble upon a white dress hidden in the corner of the store. It’s gorgeous, stunning and exquisite. Flower petals decorate the bottom hem of the dress and fade out as they move inward, with colors ranging from purple to blue to a pastel green.

You’re so enraptured by the dress you don’t even notice Jungkook walk up behind you. “Do you like this one?” He asks.

You, at a loss for words, nod. With a single wave of a hand, an attendant is taking one off of the rack in your size and shuffling you into a fitting room. If the dress looks ethereal, it feels divine.

When you emerge from the fitting room, the dress cinching at the waist before poofing out like a waterfall, Jungkook isn’t paying attention. He’s having one of his angry phone calls, probably with some business partner, lecturing into the phone with his brows furrowed. You cough to get his attention, and his mouth practically drops open.

“I’m gonna call you back,” he says into the phone before dropping it on the cushion of the couch.

“I take it that you like it?” You ask, twirling.

“Is it that obvious?”

“I dunno,” you laugh. “You seem pretty starstruck to me.”

“I’m speechless, babe,” Jungkook admits, scratching the nape of his neck. “You look great.”

You beam at him, taking in the luxury of it all. You, standing in the middle of an expensive store in a high-end mall, spinning around in a dress that feels like wearing a cloud, with Jungkook staring at you in his Armani goodness, lost for words. If this is a dream, then may the Sandman never leave your side.

“Good. I think so, too,” you smile, your hands brushing over the fabric.

You change out of the dress as Jungkook hands over his seemingly limitless credit card to the attendant, who rings you up as you come out of the fitting room with the dress draped over your arm, practically drowning it.

Jungkook immediately holds your hand, as though it’s almost second nature at this point, and the two of you walk out with yet another large bag, the high-end brand stapled all over it.

The rest of the afternoon is spent bouncing around the mall, divulging into shared macarons and ogling the window displays for all of the upcoming trends. Jungkook offers to buy you anything your eye catches, though you constantly decline, telling him that the new clothes are enough to keep you satiated. He eventually does coax you into buying some new shoes “to go with that new dress of yours”, cute pumps you already know you’ll abandon three hours into wearing them. You never really had time to shop before this, since you were always busy with your job and your work towards a master’s, but now, dancing around the marbled floors with Jungkook grinning fondly by your side, you feel like you could do it forever. Sometimes, Jungkook’s company is all you need.

(The facade shatters when you return home, laughing with glee at some hilarious story you brought up from when you were both mere children, and Jungkook writes you a check for suspiciously just enough money to get your upcoming student debt payment off of your back. Right, you think. None of this is real.)

“I think it’s been months since I last saw your parents,” you say the next morning, making your side of the bed as Jungkook does his. God, all of this is so domestic, it makes you want to hurl. Or grin.

“They miss you,” Jungkook replies. “I haven’t exactly… told them that you’re my girlfriend. I just said that I had a girlfriend.”

“Surely they must have recognized me from the tabloids,” you say. Those reporters have really been milking your one outing to that lunch place.

“Probably not, since I forced you to put on sunglasses in the car ride there,” chuckles Jungkook. “They’ll be pleased. It’ll get them off of my back for a while so I don’t have to deal with their constant whining to ‘get a girlfriend’, ‘get a girlfriend’.”

You leave your side of the bed to fish around in the dressers Jungkook is forcing you to use, because “if your suitcase is here, then this will seem really sudden”. You pull out your socks — Jungkook’s floor is damn cold — and tug them on as you make your way outside his carpeted room. You’ve slept in, the sun high in the sky by the time you’re making breakfast.

“Shit, my parents are getting here in an hour,” Jungkook swears as he checks the time on his phone. “This place looks like a shitstorm.”

You roll your eyes. Even in Jungkook’s definition of a shitstorm, his abode is more immaculate than yours could ever be.

“You clean, I’ll make breakfast,” you say.

“Just give me some cereal, please,” Jungkook asks as he shuffles around, getting the empty crisps packets and straightening out the blankets strewn over the arms of his couches.

“All you fucking have is cornflakes,” you observe, severely disappointed.

“They’re all I eat,” Jungkook says, shrugging.

“You’re a bland man, you know that, Jeon? Bland,” you comment, shaking your head as you pour two bowls of cornflakes for yourselves. Jungkook is intent on keeping his glass dining table sparking, which keeps you limited to his breakfast bar stools.

You eat your breakfast in relative silence and fairly quickly, allowing you more time to rush around and make things perfect before his parents arrive, much like when you and Wendy would clean up right before your landlord came for an inspection. Jungkook’s giving you instructions for when they arrive, telling you to not walk in until after he’s started talking about his mystery girlfriend to add an element of surprise.

“They have to think it’s cheesy and realistic as hell,” Jungkook reminds you as the minutes tick down.

“Stop telling me what to do, you little piece of shit,” you sneer back. “I can handle your parents.”

He shrugs. “If you say so.”

Barely five minutes later there’s a buzz that sounds throughout the penthouse, alerting the both of you of his parents’ arrival. Jungkook’s eyes widen as he stares at you from across the guest bedroom, where the two of you currently are, fixing up any last minute items. He bolts out of the room, leaving you flustered as you walk behind him. He’s already at the front door before you reach the end of the hallway, evidenced by the cries from the doorway of “Jungkook-ah!” and his muffled voice, likely a result of his father’s bone-crushing hugs.

“Where’s this girlfriend at?” A gruff voice asks, and you assume that must be his older brother, whom you did not know would be joining you. You and Jeonghyun never really got along.

To fit in with the perfect timing that Jungkook wanted, you walk out of the hallway at that exact moment, rendering his family members speechless.

“Jungkookie, did you see where I left my lip balm?” You ask as cutely as possible before immediately deciding in your head that everything about that sentence and the way you uttered it was unnatural. You haven’t called Jungkook ‘Jungkookie’ in literal years.

“Y/N?” Jeonghyun immediately asks, eyes wide. “Is that you?”

“Jeonghyun?” You ask in response. The boy doesn’t look like he’s changed one bit.

“You’re dating Y/N?” His mother realizes, clearly elated. “As in, little Y/N who teased you for falling into the mud as children?”

“Eomma,” Jungkook whines.

“Nice to see you,” you greet, holding out a hand. Jungkook’s mother completely disregards it and pulls you in for a hug. When she finally lets go, his father does the same.

“It’s been so long, Y/N! Look how grown-up you look! Very pretty,” his mother compliments.

His father lightly slaps Jeongguk on the shoulder. “You should have told us you started dating! We would’ve come down sooner.”

Jungkook meets eyes with you, and you know that that’s exactly why he didn’t bring it up. Jungkook loves his parents, he really does, but sometimes they can be a bit overbearing.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Jeonghyun says, his outstretched hand as stiff as the rest of his body. “Should we let bygones be bygones?”

“It’s been years, Jeonghyun,” you reply, shaking his hand firmly. “You and I have no reason to hate each other anymore.”

“Oh!” His mother exclaims, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and leading you from the doorway. “Tell me, Y/N, is Jungkook treating you well? He’s very picky, sometimes. He won’t eat zucchini, did you know that?”

Jungkook looks helpless as he watches you get dragged away by his mother, and you shrug, letting him know that you’re fine.

“Jungkook is treating me perfectly,” you assure his mother. “It’s almost as though it’s not even real.”

Sometimes, you’re glad Jungkook can’t hear what you have to say. He won’t be able to hear the heartbreak in your voice, waiting to happen.

Jungkook’s family has long settled into their respective rooms within the next hour, and Jungkook’s finally gotten you away from the watch of his mother. The two of you are lounging around in his room, on his ottoman.

“Are you okay?” He asks, rubbing your shoulders. “You look tense.”

“I’m fine,” you promise. “No worries.”

“I’m worried about you, Y/N. You’re normally never this silent,” he says, concern lacing his eyes.He grabs your hand and rubs your thumb with his own. It’s so soothing, you almost forget the aura of falseness surrounding your every move.

“I’m okay, Jungkook. I’m just busy thinking, that’s all,” you swear, looking up into his deep brown eyes. They are beautiful and rich, and you can’t help but let yourself drown in them.

Just then, Jungkook pulls you towards him, his hand resting on your cheek, and presses his lips to yours.

The first thing you notice is that they’re chapped. The second thing you notice is this tingling feeling that tickles you as it dances across your skin. The third thing you notice is how your heartbeat has gotten unmistakably faster. This is no fireworks display, no electrifying spark. You had always imagined kissing Jungkook would feel like a supernova, a dramatic burst of stars within the galaxy, illuminating the night, but it’s far from it. Kissing Jungkook is like returning to your bed after months abroad, like revisiting your favorite childhood locations, like taking a bite of your most beloved dish. Kissing Jungkook feels like home in every sense of the word, because he is everything you love and everything you wish to come back to.

You break away before you allow yourself to become too consumed, because a single taste of his lips is all you need to become addicted. With burning cheeks and heavy breaths, the two of you gaze into each other’s eyes, like neither one of you were expecting that.

“Is this a bad time?” Jeonghyun’s voice asks from the doorway to Jungkook’s room, red in the face after interrupting what he thought was a moment. Only then do you realize that the kiss was nothing more than a show, a purposefully done act just to convince Jungkook’s family even further.

With the ghost of the feeling of his lips on yours, you break into the saddest smile you swear you’ve ever given and shake your head. “No, you haven’t disrupted anything.”

Dinner that night is a ruckus, to say the least. Between Jungkook, his mother, and his father scrambling around his kitchen to cook the meal and you and Jeonghyun fishing around the cabinets and closets in his dining room to set the table. It’s a group effort, really, and once dinner and all of its side dishes are on the table, it finally feels worth it.

You and Jungkook sit next to each other at his monster of a dining table, and even though no one’s watching the two of you, he holds your hand under the table.

“So, Jungkook,” his father begins heartily, his voice booming without even trying. “When did you start dating Y/N?”

“Um,” Jungkook says, looking towards you. Your eyes are wide, since neither of you discussed beforehand what your backstory would be. “A couple of months ago. I wanted to keep her out of the spotlight so I didn’t really say anything.”

“How’d you even fall for her anyway, Jungkook-ah? You kept telling us you’d never date someone while you were still in your prime,” Jeonghyun asks, his mouth full of seaweed.

You remember those days. Since Jungkook turned twenty, he’s refused to engage in a committed relationship. You’d often ask him why, and his simple answer was that he didn’t want to deal with the media nor did he want to be tied down. What made him change his mind?

It’s your turn to look towards him, see what he might say. He meets your eyes and takes a breath.

“I-I don’t know,” he stutters, the hand grasping yours getting tighter. “Y/N’s always been there for me. It wasn’t some noticeable event or anything, nothing I can recall. One day I just realized that I was irrevocably in love with her. I never knew why I didn’t see it before.”

You thought hearing the words coming out of his mouth might get you out of your facade, remind you that none of this is real and Jungkook’s just saying these things for his family, but when the words meet your ears, you can’t help but hear sincerity in them instead. You’re probably dreaming it, hoping for the words to be true so much that you’ve tricked your mind into thinking they are. But when he meets your eyes, looks into your eyes with those bright round moons of his, you can’t help but fall even harder.

“And you, Y/N?” His father notions towards towards you.

Oh God, where do you draw the line between what’s real and what’s fake?

“I don’t think I realized it until recently, but I’ve always been in love with Jungkook, from the moment we met as kids. I don’t think I could imagine a life without him by my side,” you say, hoping that the rawness that bleeds into your words filters out before Jungkook can think about them too hard. You place a hand on his soft cheek, rubbing it as his hands come up to meet yours. “He is my everything, my nebula and my supernova.”

Perhaps it’s better this way, if you’re honest now and a liar later. They say the best actors are the ones who feel like their character, because then you can’t tell where the actor ends and the character begins.

“I want to barf up this nice meal,” Jeonghyun says. “You two are disgusting.”

“Yah!” His mother chides. “They’re adorable. I’m so thrilled you finally worked up the nerve to start dating Y/N, Jungkook-ah.”

“Yeah,” he says, letting go of your hand. “It was a long time coming.”

You spend the rest of the dinner talking about other things, like Jungkook’s work and your education and things happening back home, in Busan. Jeonghyun is married now, the honeymoon phase having long worn off and left mutual respect and trust in its place. He says his wife is beautiful, smart, and demanding, but doesn’t look like he’s complaining.

It’s nice to hear what the Jeons are up to, what you’ve missed out on after not contacting them for so long. It feels like old times, when you would stay at Jungkook’s for dinner during secondary school and discuss his family affairs as though you were a part of them. Jungkook never held your hand back then. You wonder why he’s only starting now, if no one can see your interlocked fingers anyway.

Late at night, after his parents and brother have migrated to their respective guest rooms for the evening, you and Jungkook cruise around his penthouse before eventually coming to a stop in his room, where he closes the door. The moon is high in the sky at this hour, the light filtering in through the slits in his blinds and making patterns on his carpet.

“Good job today,” Jungkook congratulates you like an actor would congratulate a costar after a long day of working.

“Thanks,” you reply, indifferent, changing into your pajamas. “You too.”

“You really won them over with that galaxy shit,” Jungkook comments, as if you need further reminding that this entire setup is in fact, pretend. “I don’t think I’ve seen my mother swoon so hard since she met my dad.”

“Oh?” You ask, glad at least one person found sincerity in your sappy speech. “That’s good.”

“It was good. Even I wanted to shed a couple tears,” Jungkook chuckles, sliding out of his tee. “It sounded straight out of a movie.”

“What about yours?” You change the topic. If you have to keep listening to Jungkook applaud your entirely genuine confession as though it was some kind of act, you don’t know what you’ll do.  “Yours was nice, too. Artsy for a boy who speaks the language of business.”

“You thought so? I made it up on the spot, I was under a lot of pressure,” Jungkook smiles, climbing into bed. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“You seemed fine to me,” you say truthfully. “Seemed pretty legit.”

“God, I hope so. I’m sorry about kissing you, earlier. Jeonghyun just seemed skeptical at first,” Jungkook apologizes, and you don’t know why your heart still falls from its cage in in your chest if you already knew the kiss was nothing more than for show.

“It’s fine. Feel free to do it again whenever necessary,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re a good kisser, you know. I could get used to it.”

“I’ll start kissing you more often, then. All the more for the act, right?”

“Yes, the act,” you agree, nodding your head. “It’s all an act.”

Once you return from his bathroom after washing up, you climb into the bed with him, the sheets warm from his body. His bed is large, too big for two people, let alone one, and even with the both of your bodies in it, you feel too far from him, like one more move and you’ll drift away. You slide in a little closer to him, hoping he won’t say anything. If he could just let you have this, this peace and quiet in a bed that feels like home because he’s here, then it’s enough.

Jungkook is facing away from you as he lies on his side, shirt off and back muscles visible. Before you know it, your eyes are falling shut, the day tiring on your mind and body. The last thing you see is Jungkook turning around to look you in your sleepy eyes, a fond smile growing on his lips as you lose consciousness.

You don’t know it, but Jungkook watches you after you fall asleep. Your hair falls in front of your face with a quick shake of your head, and he feels a compelling urge to move it from your cheek, his fingers brushing your skin. You look so innocent when you’re asleep, like your mind isn’t racing from one thing to another like it does when you’re awake. A small smile dances on your lips as you dream, and dream you may.

“I want you to know my confession today was real, Y/N,” Jungkook says softly, admiring your peaceful features. The words he utters are words he’s been hoping to tell you for years, but perhaps it’s better if you’re not awake to listen to them. Maybe they are words you shouldn’t hear. “I want you to know I love you, but sometimes we shouldn’t always get what we want.”

You could get used to waking up like this.

The light of the rising sun filters through the windows of Jungkook’s bedroom, shining on the bed where the two of you lie. It is quiet in his grand room, the only noise being the rustling of the sheets as Jungkook milks the last few minutes of his sleep cycle. Other than the sun, it is dark in the room, providing just the right amount of light for Jungkook to look ethereal, though it’s not as though he doesn’t look golden any other hour of the day.

You could get used to waking up like this, next to the boy you love in a bed that you could technically call yours. Jungkook’s still facing away towards you, his eyes barely closed and a dried path of drool marking his skin. At this hour, he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted.

You simply wait for him to get up, and for all you know, it could be hours later, but you lose track of time following the strands of his hair that hang over his eyes and the curve of his lips as he snores ever so lightly.

Eventually his eyes open, still hazy from sleep, and he smiles when he sees you gazing at him.

“Creep,” he says, but you can only pinpoint fondness in his words. “Staring at me sleeping.”

“It’s the one time I can catch you not saying any sort of dumb shit,” you joke back, ruffling his hair.

Jungkook pretends to be affronted as he sits up in his bed, wiping the spit from the side of his mouth. “I’m insulted. Sometimes I can be intelligent.”

“Sometimes,” you say, getting out of bed. “What are we doing today?”

“Lounging around at home, I guess?” The boy shrugs. “I don’t have anything planned, but count on my parents to drag us out somewhere.”

“That’d be cute,” you say, not opposed to the idea.

“I know, I just hope it’s somewhere inside. My rhinitis gets aggravated when I spend too much time around flowers,” Jungkook says.

You beam at him, blinking your eyes innocently as you lean over his bed towards him. “Is that why you’re always sniffling around me?”

He scrunches up his nose in response, pushing you away as you burst into laughter. “Don’t flatter yourself, Y/N.”

“Oh, you love me and my flowery ways,” you tease.

“That I do,” Jungkook agrees as he shuffles through his walk-in closet for something to wear. A single glimpse and you can see the wall of white tees that he hoards, something you will never fucking understand. “We’d be so domestic if we stayed in today, like a true millennial couple.”

“Truly.”

The both of you pull on things that aren’t pajamas before emerging from your cozy cave. No one else is awake yet, meaning the two of you get first dibs on breakfast.

“Corn flakes again, you boring piece of shit?” You ask as you make your way to his designated cereal cupboard.

Jungkook sneers at you from across the room, where he’s made quite the dent in the cushions of his pristine couch. “Very funny.”

He gets up to join you in the kitchen as the two of you hunt for something to eat.

“Pancakes?”

“I don’t have any eggs,” he admits, making you scoff.

“What kind of multimillionaire doesn’t have any eggs?” You ask rhetorically, in disbelief. How does this boy sustain himself?

“I haven’t been shopping in a while!” He exclaims defensively. “There! That can be what we do today. Let’s go shopping.”

“Like a true domestic couple,” you say as you pick up the most bruised banana you have ever seen, and take a bite of it anyway. Jungkook truly has no breakfast food, other than the leftover sticky rice from last night.

The rice seems to be on Jungkook’s mind as well, as he fishes through his industrial-sized fridge for the pot with the plastic wrap over it.

“Here, let’s finish this,” he suggests, placing the pot on the counter and grabbing two dishes. “Then we can go shopping.”

Jungkook eats his rice quickly, encouraging you to do the same so the both of you can go shopping before his mother chides him for having no food in his expensive penthouse. The both of you are out on the streets of Seoul by nine, where the sidewalks have emptied after the school and work morning rush. Jungkook keeps your hand firmly in his as he speeds down the pavement to the nearest grocery store, a simple market on the corner of a road, unaffiliated with the wealthy people who live in the buildings nearby.

“Those reporters are going to have an aneurysm,” Jungkook comments as a flash of light goes off to his left. “Jeon Jungkook, millionaire, goes grocery shopping with girlfriend. Has the world ended?”

Once you’re inside the quaint place, the two of you walk around, holding up different food and asking the other if it’s necessary.

“You can get whatever you want, you know,” Jungkook reminds you as he stares at the shelves lined with cereal. “I don’t have much of a budget.”

“But we can’t just lie around eating corn flakes and chips all day,” you whine as you pluck your favorite, interesting cereal from the shelf and place it in the cart.

“You sound like my mother,” Jungkook complains.

The two of you spend a good five minutes arguing about brown sugar versus white sugar, because Jungkook doesn’t seem to know the difference, and doesn’t understand why you can’t just use white sugar for everything.

“Brown sugar has health benefits! It’s not as bad for you,” you insist, shaking the bag of brown sugar in front of Jungkook’s face.

“But all sugar’s bad for you! You’re just telling me that brown sugar has less bang for your buck. Who wants that?” He criticizes. “If we’re going to be unhealthy, we might as well just go all the way!”

“The point of brown sugar is its health, you dumbass!” You exclaim.

“Why don’t we just get both, then?” He sighs as he grabs the packet from your hand and places it, along with the packet he holds in his, in the cart. “Problem solved.”

An old lady passes by the two of you as you both sneer at each other, still disagreeing. She chuckles as she walks by, stopping her cart beside yours.

“The both of you are so sweet,” she comments. “You remind me of my husband and I, when we were young like you. How long have you been together?”

“Oh, we’re not—” You begin, but Jungkook cuts you off.

“A couple of months,” he says, pecking your cheek. The faint touch of his lips leave a tingling sensation behind as you shiver.

“You seem very infatuated, the two of you,” she says, smiling. “Young love is inspiring to the world.”

She keeps going, nodding her head goodbye as she leaves the two of you and your sugar debate.

“What was that for?” You hiss as the two of you make your way down the next aisle. “She doesn’t need to know that we’re dating.”

“Sure she does,” Jungkook says, shrugging. “What’s wrong with showing the world how happy I am with you?”

Jungkook’s family leave the following afternoon, bidding farewell to the two of you as they usher their suitcases out of his doorway.

“You did well, kid,” you hear his father say as he pulls Jungkook in for a side-hug. “You keep doing well.”

“Yes, appa,” Jungkook says.

“Don’t let that girl go,” he advises as you wave an amicable goodbye to Jeonghyun, whom you hope you can get closer. “She loves you, Jungkook.”

“I know,” Jungkook says, and you don’t think he really does.

“Y/N?” His mother asks, placing a soft hand on your shoulder. You turn around to see her small frame, and hum in interest. “Can I speak to you?”

“Sure,” you say, letting her walk you away from the herd at the door.

“I want to thank you,” his mother says.

“Really? It wasn’t a problem, hosting you—”

“No,” she interrupts. “Not for that. I want to thank you for teaching Jungkook what it’s like to fall in love.”

“Oh,” you say, embarrassed. With every word uttered from his parents’ mouths, you feel worse and worse about lying to them.

“Ever since he was little, it was his education first, then his business, and I was so worried that all he would ever be was a businessman, but you’ve changed him. I’ve never seen him so absorbed in someone before,” his mother says, and you wonder how good Jungkook’s acting skills really are if his mother was fooled that badly. “He really loves you, Y/N. I’m sure you already know that, but I don’t want you to forget it. One day you might fall out of love, but cherish these moments that you have with him.”

“I will,” you nod, smiling. You do cherish these moments, these brief few weeks in the span of your lifetimes where for once, you don’t have to pretend like you’re not in love with the boy.

The next week is when Jungkook’s infamous business parties begin, the ones that require you to look your absolute finest as you walk around in pinchy heels with thin glasses of champagne that you won’t drink.

Jungkook seems noticeably more stressed about these gathering than when his family came over, getting more tense as he goes through his countless suits to find the right one, stretching out his ties from the pressure.

“You okay, babe?” you ask as you come up behind him as he’s squeezing the life out of some dress pants. Tonight is the first one, and you’ve just emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel.

Jungkook turns around to meet you, taking in a sharp inhale when he sees you in nothing but a towel. Of course. “Yeah, I’m fine, why?”

“You seem uptight,” you say. “Nervous?”

“A little,” he admits. “I’m worried people will see right through us. The people at these parties have status, wealth, connections. If we look fake, then they’ll be able to tell.”

“We had your parents fooled,” you assure him, rubbing his back to relax his muscles. “Come on, big guy. You know you got it. You play around with the media once every week. This should be no different.”

“You’re right,” he finally says, feeling a bit better. “I’m gonna go get ready.”

“Look at you go,” you cheer him on.

If Jungkook looks good in a bland, white tee, he looks breathtaking in a sleek black suit, hair brushed messily in front of his forehead and a gleaming silver watch on his wrist. He looks so unbelievably professional, the sight making your breath hitch in your throat as you open the door to the bathroom and see him pacing up and down the hallway.

“Are you ready? I don’t want to be too late,” Jungkook asks, getting a bit antsy.

“Almost, I just need to grab my bag and put on my shoes,” you say, looking down at your dress. You have a slight stain from an orange that you were snacking on earlier, but it’s hardly noticeable and nothing the Tide-to-go pen can’t fix.

You open the door all the way, decked out in the dress you fell in love with in the store a week or so ago, and Jungkook stops in his tracks.

“Can you see the stain?” You ask, eyes widening as you fumble around the dress for a way to disguise it.

“You look beautiful,” Jungkook says, making you pause. “Mind-blowingly beautiful.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything after that, waiting for you to step out of the bathroom completely before grabbing a hold of your waist and pressing you against the wall, making you gasp in surprise.

“Jungkook?”

“You are stunning,” he mutters, pressing in closer. “Gorgeous.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply as he leans in to kiss you. It takes you aback but you gladly welcome his touch, relishing in the feeling of his lips on yours. He smiles against your lips, his cheeks warm and his eyes bright, and your heart bursts at the sight of him, against you, loving you.

“You’re really milking this whole fake relationship thing, aren’t you, Jeon?” You ask as you push him away before the stain sets in your dress.

“You’re beautiful,” Jungkook repeats, like a mantra. “The fake relationship thing just lets me show that I think that through kissing instead of insults.”

“I’m touched,” you say as you place a hand over your heart.

“We should go,” he says, “Whenever you’re ready?”

“I’ll be good in like two minutes, relax, hey babe?” You raise your eyebrows, rubbing his shoulders. You shuffle around his penthouse one last time, grabbing your bag and rubbing your to-go pen on that little spot before meeting him at the door, where you slide into the heels he bought.

Jungkook is the talk of the fucking town, him and his millionaire status, and the limo he’s rented to take the both of you to whatever high-end country club you’re visiting is simply evidence of that. When you pull up to the joint and he emerges from the shining black car, people whisper, but when he opens the door for you to step out, people talk.

“They love you,” he whispers as you link arms. He guides you towards the center of the room. Around you are stars, business moguls, celebrities, people you see in magazines and in the headlines of articles. Jungkook can see your hesitance to be so close to people like him, rich and famous and beautiful. “Stay close to me, alright?”

You nod as he leads you around, saying hello to old business partners and friends of his as they talk like buddies, hugging and patting each other on the back. You keep quiet, under immense pressure to look as fabulous as the rest of the people there, graciously accepting the little sandwiches and champagne the waiters scurrying around offer you on silver trays. You feel so out of place at an event like this, where you can’t make jokes at your own expense or spill things on yourself.

Everywhere you go, you notice people talking about you, whispering to their friends and their partners as they point to the both of you, and it freaks you out.

“Why do they keep talking about us?” You hiss into Jungkook’s ear as he takes an elaborate fruit skewer from a caterer.

“You’re the most beautiful girl here,” he says back. “Why wouldn’t they?”

At one point, you lose Jungkook in the crowd that just seems to get bigger, getting left alone at a table as you let your poor feet rest. You eventually spot the tuft of his familiar black hair as he filters around, jumping from person to person. It seems like he knows everyone here, or at least, everyone here knows him.

A man sits across from you at the round table, holding up his half-full champagne glass in your direction.

“You came here with Jungkook, correct?” The man asks.

You nod.

“I’m Taehyung, a friend of his. You are?”

“Y/N,” you say quickly, the conversation stressing you out. You hate feeling so out of place.

“It’s nice to meet you. Are you looking for Jungkook?”

“No, I know where he is,” you assure him. “I just wanted to sit down.”

“It’s tiring, walking around and trying to fit in, isn’t it?” Taehyung says, making you turn your head sharply towards him. He chuckles. “Trust me, I know how you feel. You did look a bit lost.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Not when everyone’s looking at your dress and not at you,” Taehyung says, offering some sort of consolation. “These people can smell fear, but they’re addicted to beauty, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m just on edge, you know?” You say, exhaling as you take a sip of your champagne, the taste burning your throat as you down it.

“No one’s going to do anything. They can all see how infatuated the two of you are with each other, clinging to each other like koalas,” Taehyung says, making you sigh a breath of relief. At least the people here believe the act as well. “It’s nice to see Jungkook like this. It keeps him grounded, you being here. He has someone to hold onto, someone to love.”

Just then is when Jungkook approaches you, sitting down in the seat next to you and chugging his champagne in a single shot. “Taehyung?”

“Nice to see you again, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung smiles towards the boy.

Jungkook smiles back. “You too, hyung.”

“I was just talking with Y/N, here. She was worried without you.” Taehyung motions his head towards you and Jungkook turns, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“Sorry, babe,” he says, lightly pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll bring you around next time.”

“These heels are fucking murder,” you mutter, tugging the back edge of them off your feet for some relief. “How do people stand in them all day?”

“You’re just not used to the heels life,” Jungkook jokes. “You live in sneakers.”

“This is reminding me why I do,” you groan.

Taehyung bows out, waving goodbye to the two of you as he goes off to mingle elsewhere. Jungkook lets go of your shoulder.

“What was that all about?”

“I dunno, he just started talking to me,” you say, shrugging. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is, he’s just normally not so upfront like that. Did he pull anything on you?”

You laugh at Jungkook’s concern, shaking your head. “No, he didn’t. You don’t need to be so stressed about that. Taehyung was telling me, everyone knows that we’re dating.”

“Of course they do, the media says it all. I’m just worried they think it’s all for show,” Jungkook says.

“We had Taehyung fooled,” you assure the boy, smoothing out the wrinkles beginning to form in his suit jacket.

“One down, dozens to go,” he beams towards you, standing up from his seat and holding out a hand for you to take. You interlock fingers with him, and he pulls you up, ready to face whoever else wants to speak with the both of you.

Eventually, as the night turns into early morning, you make your way onto some sort of balcony, gazing into the stars.

“Did you enjoy this?” He asks without looking at you, his shoulder leaning against yours.

“The food was nice,” you reply, distant.

“But did you like walking around and talking to people?”

“It was fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?”

“My feet are killing me, but the people here aren’t bad people. Just not for me,” you say, shrugging. “I much prefer looking out into the stars than being inside, listening to rich people complain about rich people things.”

“It’s peaceful out here, isn’t it? Just us and the stars,” Jungkook asks. “You did great today, though, if it’s any consolation. Remind me to pay you when we get home.”

Right, the payment. The foundation to your fake relationship. It was the reason you accepted this in the first place, right?

“No need for payment,” you say, shaking your head.

“But surely there must be something you want, eh? A new dress for the next event, concert tickets, the like? I can get you anything you want,” Jungkook asks, adamant on rewarding you for your work. All of this feels like such bullshit.

The champagne buzzes in your system. The glass door to the balcony opens, and you know someone’s watching you now. You turn to Jungkook, who’s looking at you lost and confused, like he doesn’t know why you won’t accept a gift from him in return for your fucking presence, but he is better than any gift you could get.

“I just want you,” you breathe, the alcohol making you sound more desperate than you want to appear. You’re not drunk, just buzzed, and Jungkook is the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. “You are all I need.”

Those words are all it takes for your reserve to break and you meet his surprised eyes with a kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. He parts his lips, allowing you entrance, pressing deeper, deeper, pulling him in closer, closer.

“I don’t want to look at the stars anymore, Jungkook,” you whisper into his open mouth as he catches his breath. There’s no need to wish on things so far away when there are stars decorating his pupils instead. “I want to go home.”

Home you go. Jungkook barely has enough time to shut the door behind you before you’re pressing into him again, desperate for another kiss. You know you’ll never be brave enough to do this again, so you take the chance that he’s giving you, holding on for dear life.

He begins to take over, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip to gain access to your mouth. He’s leaning into you with his whole body, not just his lips, running his hands along the sides of your figure as he sighs over and over again. Jungkook leaves your parted lips with a heavy breath before moving onto your ear, nibbling at the edge playfully, making you laugh, then your chin, neck, collarbones, pressing kisses onto every peek of skin he sees, like he can’t get enough.

You inevitably stumble into his bedroom, still fully clothed, but fall onto his bed with a soft thud, making you jump before you pull him in closer, your back to the sheets with him looming over you, lips still tugging at a spot right below your neck.

“This wasn’t in the deal,” you joke, though now isn’t the best time to remind him that your entire relationship is a game of make-believe.

“Do you want to stop?” He breathes back.

“Never,” you whisper, and it’s all he needs for him to dive right back in.

You yank on his suit jacket, not-so-subtly hinting to him that you want it off, and off it goes as Jungkook removes it in a fluid motion and flings it across the room, wasting no time away from your soft lips or warm skin. He can’t help but move his hands all around your body, your thighs, hips, waist, shoulders. He drags his fingers over them lightly, making you giggle from the ticklish sensation as he presses his lips everywhere he can, everywhere he wants to.

“Are you sure you’re sober enough for this?” He asks, just to double check as the two of you sit up and you begin to unzip yourself out of this fabric prison. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

“How could I ever regret you?” You counter, letting the straps of the dress fall from your shoulders to reveal your relatively drab bra. You can’t say you were very prepared for this. “I want you, hey? Do you want me?”

Jungkook’s mouth drops as the top half of your dress falls from your body, piling at your hips. “Ever since this evening, I’ve wanted you. Please.”

He whispers his desires into your skin and breathes his lust into your parted lips, hopes that you can hear the way he wants you from the sound of his fingers as they dance along your body, from head to toe. There is no tomorrow, no yesterday. There is only now, and now is right here, his body pressed against yours. 

He may not love you but he may love the feeling of you, and in your hazy, desperate state, that is all you need. That even just a toe in the water is better than nothing at all. 

When you’re all cleaned up and tired out a few minutes later, he wraps his arms around your own and tugs you in for a post-sex cuddle in his bed, the sheets cold but his body warm.

“How was that?” He whispers, the sleep evident in his voice.

“Like a dream,” you reply, hazy.

“I promise that it wasn’t,” he says before rolling over, a marker that he’s about to crash.

Some days, like today, you wish that it was. Maybe that way, you won’t be as heartbroken when it ends.

It seems like Jungkook’s business parties never stop. They are endless, a new one to attend to every day. Each morning, when you are awake but he is not, his phone will buzz with a new notification, a reminder from his calendar that he has So-and-So’s gala tonight, or What’s-His-Face’s celebration. You royally underestimated how many events Jungkook had planned for the duration of your stay with him, assuming you would spend the several days in between each one doing fun couple-y things. Instead, every day is a rinse and repeat cycle of getting ready to go out for the evening.

Jungkook takes you shopping on the one free day he has in between gatherings, his reasoning being ‘Rich people and their significant others don’t wear the same thing twice’, easily one of the most pretentious things you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. You feel like you’re constantly about to attend an awards ceremony with the dresses the two of you pick out together, fancy clothes by fancy designers that people will judge you for wearing. If this were a movie, you’d be thrilled, flaunting the fifteen shopping bags hanging from your arms, but this is no movie, and these bags are heavier than they look.

“God, why is being a rich person so tiring?” You sigh as you collapse onto the couch when you finally return to his penthouse, letting the bags drop from your arms onto the floor beside you.

Jungkook is in the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. “Now you know it’s not all cameras and money.”

“It still is, don’t you think? It’s just, cameras and money but more in-depth. There’s a lot of shit that goes behind the cameras and money.”

“Fair point,” he reasons, joining you on the opposing couch, letting his feet rest on the glass coffee table in front of him.

“Do you ever get sick of this life?” You wonder aloud.

“Sometimes. Some days, when the cameras and money are too much for my mere twenty-year-old self to handle, I wish we could go back in time. To high school, maybe. When my only responsibilities were maintaining my schoolwork and I had time to lounge around in unpresentable clothing and play videogames.”

“High school you was the worst,” you joke. “You were so unbearable.”

“I wish we could go back time just so I could stop being ‘the worst’,” Jungkook laughs. “Seriously, I wish we could go back. That nostalgic shit, you know? It’s meaningful. High school was my first time for a lot of things. First fight, first kiss, first love.”

“First love?” You ask, curious. You sit up from where you lie on the couch, meeting Jungkook’s eyes. They are wide when they gaze into yours, as if Jungkook said something he didn’t mean to say. “Who?”

“Oh, um, just some girl from chem,” he says, scratching the nape of his neck.

“We were in the same chem class, who was it?”

“Dahyun,” Jungkook spits out, like he’s on edge. “Remember Dahyun?”

“Oh, the one with the dyed ends. Yeah, I remember her,” you say, recalling the bubbly girl that sat in the front of the class. She was always talking, but never in an annoying way. “You fell in love with her?”

Jungkook’s expression softens as he moves his eyes from yours to his hands, thumbs twiddling in his lap. “Yeah, I fell in love.”

To say that you and Jungkook stopped having sex after that first business party would be a complete lie. It appears to be a ritual now, by the fourth business gala, for the two of you to end up leaving early, pressing each other against the wall with breathy moans in each other’s ears. You can’t say it’s the most healthy of options for your emotional state, but how can you resist him?

Every night, you find yourself getting closer and closer to confessing, to revealing everything felt for him, feel for him, will feel for him. But you bite your lip each time, keeping the words from spilling out as the two of you fuck, because it’s not really making love if only one of you is in love.

Jungkook’s a heavy sleeper, but even heavier after a hearty night of sex, and it’s the perfect time for you to tell him, when he can’t hear you.

“I love you,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his bare torso and pulling yourself closer to his body. “I love all of you, every piece of you.”

This is how it is, this is how your life is. The two of you will bounce around his apartment when you’re getting ready, grabbing his kitchenware and playing knights and princesses, like you did when you were little. That nostalgia truly is meaningful, you realize, wishing to remain in it without having to return to the troubles of the present.

His final business party rolls around on a gloomy Saturday evening, the clouds covering the stars you can barely see from the city of Seoul anyway. The weather knows you, you think as you prepare yourself for the last night you will ever spend with the boy in his penthouse as a girlfriend, as a lover.

Jungkook knows this too, but his resolve is strong and words even stronger.

“Don’t forget, I’m driving you back home tomorrow,” he says as you pluck the final dress you will wear from the rack. He’s walking around his bedroom, picking up any clothes on the floor that belong to you and placing them into your suitcase. “What time do you need to be home?”

“Wendy’s welcoming me back for dinner, so anytime before then,” you answer, indifferent. Jungkook always does such a good job of reminding you that what you have with him isn’t real.

The night begins just like every other one. As per usual, the two of you are leaving things until the last minute, especially your packing. You’re resisting the need to pack your belongings into your lone suitcase so you’re ready to leave tomorrow, acting as though you’ve forgotten about it entirely as you scurry around his apartment trying to get ready. Every time you pop into your bedroom to grab something, Jungkook is moving around, picking up any clothing items that belong to you and placing them gently in your suitcase. You don’t want to leave, but he wants nothing more than that.

The dress you’re wearing tonight is black. You joke that it’s to mourn the end of your fake relationship, but it’s the closing screen to this three week period of nothing more than a facade, a facade you fell for anyway. Somehow, throughout these weeks, all you’ve managed to do is fall for Jungkook harder, even though you knew the affections he displayed towards you were fake. A royal fuckup, in your opinion.

Jungkook looks like a damn prince in his getup today, a white suit accented with black to complement your own outfit, and it’s both a blessing and a curse that he looks so fucking good on the last night you will spend together like this.

“Ready to put on one final show?” He asks, holding out his arm for you to link yours with as you emerge in your silky black dress and kitten heels.

Lights,

Camera,

Action.

The sole thing that distinguishes this particular gala from the dozen others you attended is its location, a primo hotel with a ballroom, something reminiscent of a castle. You have to admit, it’s the nicest one you’ve attended so far, elegant and fancy without being over-the-top.

At this point, you’re used to walking around with Jungkook, used to people saying your name and greeting you like old friends. You’re known now, thanks to Jungkook and his many parties, top stars and business moguls recognizing you from prior engagements or even magazine articles.

“Look at you go, queen of the night,” Jungkook beams as he drags you away from another company acquaintance, one you had a nice conversation with. Namjoon, his name was.

“Please, you’re the royal one here,” you say back.

Jungkook shrugs, taking a sip of his champagne, still sparkling in its glass. “Guess that makes us the king and queen, eh?”

King and queen is right. Halfway through the night, the ballroom opens, leaving the floor empty and free for anybody who wishes to let loose. Neither you nor Jungkook are the dancing type, but the two of you suppose that on your last night, you can afford to have a little fun, scooting into the edge of the open space and lightly dancing. Jungkook might be flawless when it comes to business offers, but he is less-than-flawless when it comes to unchoreographed dance. The two of you stick to the side, allowing more confident, better dancers to occupy the center.

A slow song comes on. You feel like you’re in high school, only it’s no sappy love song, no, it’s the waltz. The fucking waltz. And it just so happens that during this waltz, you and Jungkook are pushed into the center of the crowd, forced to dance.

“I’ve never waltzed before,” you chuckle as Jungkook places a hand on your waist.

“Me neither,” he replies, taking your hand in his and holding it out like everyone else is. “Let’s wing it.”

It’s as if time stops completely. Suddenly, you forget that you’re in a crowded hotel ballroom, surrounded by people who will be earn more money in a day than you will in your entire life. Suddenly the herd phases out, turning into a blur, and all you can see clearly is Jungkook in front of you. Jungkook, who is holding your hand and your waist and gazing at you and fucking waltzing with you. The night is upon the ballroom, the light of the moon barely illuminating the room. One more step and Jungkook is in perfect alignment with a window, glowing in the moonlight.

It’s your last night, isn’t it? Last night of this, of looking at Jungkook like this and failing miserably at your plan to try and not fall in love with him, and so you do what you feel like you must.

At first, Jungkook doesn’t react. Perhaps he’s too absorbed in the placement of your feet, or your position in the crowd, but he soon comes to when he realizes your lips are on his, humming delightedly in response as he presses back.

As cheesy as it sounds, this kiss is nothing like your other ones. There is nobody watching, nothing to prove anything to. In this moment, you are simply in love, and that’s the feeling that the kiss delivers.

Love.

It’s a silent confession, almost.

No heavy breaths after this kiss. The two of you break apart, barely noticed by anyone around you, your bodies dancing without the two of you thinking about it. You’ve moved just enough to be in front of the window, the moonlight making your eyes glossy. Jungkook’s eyes are blown wide, his mouth red but not swollen.

“What was that for?” He whispers, leaning in to your ear.

In that moment, you respond with the only words that come into your mind. “You are kissable always, but especially so in the light of the moon.”

The waltz ends, and Jungkook leads the two of you away from the center of the ballroom hastily.

It’s a silent confession, but almost is never enough.

Jungkook is silent the entire limo ride home, and you wish he would tell you why. He isn’t necessarily annoyed or angry with you, but he is distant, cold, exactly the man the media paints him to be. You bombard him with sentences that demand a response the entire way home, until the two of you end up in his penthouse once again.

“Jungkook, listen, if this is about the kiss then I can explain—” you begin, following him after he storms off the second the two of you walk in the door.

Jungkook stays mute, making a beeline for where his wallet and checkbook lie, strewn over the kitchen counter.

“I still need to pay you for your work,” he spits out quickly. You catch up to him just as he’s scribbling out a hefty check for you. “We’re finished here.”

“Jungkook—”

“I do hope this check is satisfactory — I tried to stay consistent with the other payments I’ve—”

“Enough with the fucking payments!”

Jungkook finally makes eye contact with you, a little jarred after hearing you shout so crassly. “Then… how about a car? Or clothes? Jewelry? What else would you want?”

“You!” You shriek, breaking the dead silence as the word resonates around you. Your voice is softer, now. Sadder. “I want you, Jungkook. Can’t you tell? I don’t want a house, or a car, or clothes, just you. I just want you.”

Admittedly, this is not the confession you were hoping for.

Jungkook is floored. His checkbook has dropped from his hands to the counter, empty checks crinkled. He’s looking at you like he’s desperate for you to say something else. “Me?”

“I have to admit, I never really imagined that I’d tell you like this, but I guess I am,” you try to joke, your eyes getting increasingly watery. “I’m in love with you, Jungkook. I’m so fucking in love with you.”

You see the panic as it grows on Jungkook’s face, how his expression morphs from surprise to worry, and this, this is exactly why you should have just kept your goddamn mouth shut.

“But how can you be, Y/N? That wasn’t part of the deal. What we have, what this is,” he says, motioning between the two of you, “isn’t real. You and I, we’re just pretenders. We aren’t real.”

“But I was hoping we could be!” You exclaim, letting your tears fall freely down your cheeks, leaving ugly patches in your makeup. Perhaps, if Jungkook has seen you at your best, he should also see you at your worst. “Can’t you see? Everything I did with you, the kissing and the hand holding and that fucking confession with your parents, it was real, my love for you is real, and I thought maybe we could be real too, but I-I guess not.”

You make to wipe the tears from your eyes, hoping to sooth yourself through this conversation, but you change your mind at the last second, leaving the tears dripping from your cheeks to your dress.

“Y/N,” Jungkook begins, wary of what to say. You already know what’s about to come out of his mouth. “You don’t understand. I just—”

“You just what, Jungkook? You just what?” You ask, your sobs nearly turning into laughter in some sickeningly sad sort of way. “You don’t need to tell me twice, Jungkook. I know how you feel about me. We’re just friends, that sex we had, it was just for these few weeks, it didn’t mean anything. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you never forgot to pay me, always reminded me that what we were doing was fake, make-believe. I know you Jungkook, I know you don’t love me and I don’t know why I expected otherwise, but I did. And here we are.”

“Y/N, that’s not what I meant,” Jungkook says, desperate for your to hear him out. “I didn’t know—”

“I know you didn’t, Jungkook, but you didn’t need to. I have all of the information I need,” you say. “I don’t blame you for not loving me, Jungkook. I just… I wish you would have told me, so I wouldn’t have had to play this fucking game with you.”

The light in his hallway isn’t turned on but it doesn’t need to be, not as you walk through it, hiccuping down your sobs as you come to your room, his room. Anything within eyesight that you know belongs to you you pack, carelessly throwing it in your suitcase as you begin to remove yourself from his apartment. You’re almost out of his room once and for all when you eye the dresses laid out on his comforter, each of them gently placed over the previous.

You leave his room in pajamas.

Jungkook hasn’t budged. He’s glued to the floor by the kitchen counter, his checkbook still astray, and he’s looking down. When he hears your suitcase hit the hardwood, he looks up.

“I know we said tomorrow morning, but I don’t think I can stay here for one more night,” you tell him. “I’m sorry, Jungkook.”

The boy is silent.

As you reach the door, you turn around a final time, at exactly the same moment he looks up at you. Is that sadness you see? Regret?

Your hand lingers over the doorknob, hesitant. Perhaps he will say something, anything. If he could just… say something, you’d stay. If.

If.

If he says nothing, you will leave.

A tear rolls down Jungkook’s cheek.

You open the door.

You say that Jungkook needs a few days to calm down, but Wendy says that Jungkook is a “piece of shit who, if he really loved you, would try to get you back the second he lost you”, and perhaps the worst part of that is the fact that both are probably correct. You’ve cried already, let your tears out in the comfort of your own pillow as Wendy pops in every hour with a new bucket of ice cream or frosting and the like, and Jungkook has made no attempt to bridge the ever-growing gap between the two of you. Wendy, the most fiercely loyal friend you have, will, at times, snoop the media for any news on him. All she can find are question marks on your relationship.

A month drags by, duller without Jungkook’s beautifully wispy smile lighting it up, but not emptier. The local museum has employed you, finding great use for your historical expertise with its artifacts and paintings. You never realized it, but staring at ancient pots and fading paintings, trying to make sense of them, is your favorite pastime. The memories of your time with him, shopping bags and movie tickets and name cards, they are hidden in a shoebox at the bottom of your closet, merely a touch away.

“Don’t you miss him?” Wendy asks one day as the two of you eat dinner.

“Miss him?”

Every day, you think.

“Sometimes,” you reply. “It’s hard to think about him these days.”

“It’s been a month.”

“A month too long.”

Wendy reaches a hand out, holding onto your wrist as she rub it with her thumb.

“I can’t look at him without the memories of that final night, the checkbook falling to the counter, his eyes blown wide. Bad memories always outweigh the good ones.”

“But surely, that could be considered a good memory?”

You laugh out loud. “How on earth could that be a good memory? He rejected me.”

“You confessed that night,” Wendy reminds you softly. “He knows, now.”

“But does he care?”

Wendy slides an envelope over to you, her name neatly printed on the back. At the top corner lies the return stamp, JEON JUNGKOOK lining the top row. “You tell me.”

You wonder if you’re on the list this time. You walk into his building, people in suits and pencil skirts scurrying around with books and folders and papers, bustling like worker bees. There’s a different lady at the front desk, but her hair slicked back and her collar sharp, all the same.

“Name?”

“Y/N,” you reply, leaning over the desk to get a glimpse of what she’s searching up.

“You’re on the list. Is it urgent?” She responds swiftly. This feels different.

“Is he busy?”

“His lunch break is in a few minutes,” the lady informs you.

“Can I go up?”

“Sure. I’ll tell his security personnel.”

As you make your way to the elevator, the lady picks up the phone and balances it on her shoulder as she types.

Jungkook doesn’t know you’re coming this time, and you’re hoping the element of surprise will be beneficial to your cause. It’s been a month, and Jungkook’s not only disappeared from the media, he’s disappeared from your life. If he won’t make a move, then you have to.

“Name?” The security guard grunts when he sees you approaching. There’s only one next to his door this time.

“Y/N,” you respond.

“There’s no Y/N on our list, Miss, so unfortunately—”

The other one comes jogging around the corner, slightly out of breath despite the fact that he’s incredibly buff. “They just let a girl up,” he says before making eye contact with you. “Oh. Well, she’s on the list now.”

“Really?” The first guard asks, eyebrows raised. “Alright Miss, go on in.”

The man opens the sleek wooden door, allowing you to slowly step in. Jungkook’s facing away from the door, his office chair spun around as he lectures somebody on the phone while staring out the window. You don’t know how to get his attention. Perhaps, if you run now, he’ll never even notice you were in here.

You continue to move forwards, trying to keep your footsteps quiet as you approach the couch you’ve collapsed on so many times. As Jungkook speaks, you can hear the exhaustion, the tension in his voice. He never used to sound like that.

This time, when you sit down, you sit up straight and on the edge of the seat, anxious for what will happen when Jungkook turns around.

It’s strange, being in here again, reminiscing of when you came for him to ask you the favor that began this mess. So many things are the same, yet so many things are different.

“Hold on, I’m getting another call,” Jungkook sighs, and you tense up, thinking he’s going to turn around. He doesn’t, merely takes the phone away from his ear for a few seconds before returning it. “Hello? Wait, another client? Right now? God, alright.”

You wonder who Jungkook may be talking about when the office chair rotates, leaving you face-to-face with Jungkook himself, the phone still held up to his ear.

It drops to the floor. “Y/N?”

“Hi, Jungkook,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

“What-What are you doing here?”

“Why do you think I’m here, Jungkook?” You ask sadly.

Jungkook purses his lips. “I have things to say, too.”

“Would you like to say them to me now or should we go out for lunch first?” You joke, smiling nostalgically.

Jungkook chuckles as he stands up, grabbing his suit jacket from where it’s draped over his chair. “Let’s go out to eat. There’s this great Italian place that opened up a while ago in Gangnam.”

“Sounds great.”

Once there, it seems that neither of you know exactly what you’d like to say, keeping the conversation limited to the menu and the weather. The tension is thick in between the two of you, settling on the table like dust.

“I finished the brown sugar,” Jungkook blurts midway through your meal. “I used it all up in my tea.”

“Did you like it?”

“I felt healthier,” he says.

“That was the goal,” you say. “You know, when we bought it.”

“I know.”

Silence falls.

Jungkook coughs, clearing his throat as he swallows down another mouthful of pasta before continuing. “You know why I told that lady that we were dating?”

“To be a nice person, I guess?” You suggest.

“No,” Jungkook says, placing his fork down with a clang. “I told her, a woman who would never know who we were, never need to know our stunt, because I was hoping that maybe, if I said it to her, it would be real.”

“Jungkook—”

“You scare me generally, Y/N, but you especially scared me when you told me you loved me.” Jungkook exhales. The both of you have stopped eating, at this point. “I thought — I thought maybe you were acting on feelings that were fake, that you has simply fallen in love with the idea of me, a rich guy who could pay for your wildest hopes and dreams. I didn’t trust your feelings, but more importantly, I didn’t trust my own.”

You open your mouth to say something, to explain yourself, but Jungkook beats you to it.

“You’re not supposed to fall in love with your best friend. I’ve seen you at your best and your worst and vice versa, they are moments not worth romanticizing because we are loud, messy people. But those few weeks we had as a couple, fake or not, it was a taste into a dream I didn’t know I had and I never wanted to wake up. You’re not supposed to fall in love with your best friend, but I did, anyway.”

“You’re such a sap, Jeon,” you say playfully, nudging his shoulder. “That was so cheesy.”

“The cheesiest confession for my cheesiest best friend,” he beams in return. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize my feelings in time for you to stay. I’m sorry that it took a month for me to finally come to terms with them. I’m sorry that you loved me before I knew I loved you.”

His hand is on yours now, your fingers touching in the middle of the table as he draws mindless designs on the back on your hand.

“Saying yes to your proposal was the hardest thing I’ve had to do in a long while,” you admit. “I knew what would happen and yet I still gave in, desperate for a chance to know what it’s like to have you. I’ve watched you, cheered you on from the sidelines for so long that I decided I wanted to try. It was a mistake,” you say, meeting Jungkook’s eyes as his expression falls. “I only fell in love with you harder.”

A smile creeps across Jungkook’s face.

“You’re right, you’re not supposed to fall in love with your best friend, but neither of us have ever been very good at following the rules. I love you, Jungkook.”

“Is that a confession I hear?” Jungkook asks, bringing a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry, I think I missed it.”

“I already confessed to you a month ago, you little shit,” you say, scrunching up your nose. “Don’t push it.”

“For what it’s worth, I love you too, you know.”

“I know.”

Jungkook lets go of your hand, shoving it off the table. “Do you want to try this dating thing? Like, for real?”

“Hmm,” you say, pretending to ponder the offer. “I don’t know. What do I get out of it?”

“My unconditional love and affection,” Jungkook says as you roll your eyes. “And some nice things, every now and then.”

“I guess I’ll take it,” you say, letting the grin on your lips burst into a full-on smile.

Jungkook giggles, all of his teeth showing in that beautiful bunny-like smile of his. “If we weren’t sitting across each other in a booth, I would so kiss you right now.”

“Damn, cockblocked by a piece of wood,” you sigh, shaking your head.

“Fuck you, wood,” Jungkook swears, making you laugh. In exchange for a real kiss, he takes your hand in his, pressing his lips to your fingers.

On the way back, Jungkook decides to take you the long way, weaving through the side streets of Gangnam as he points out different landmarks.

“Is this some elaborate ruse to avoid the reporters? You know you’re not very inconspicuous, right?” You ask as he guides you from the main street, taking you down a back alley littered with trash that probably costs more than your rent.

“Why would I need to avoid the paps?”

“Um, I’m here. A girl. Next to you. Holding your hand,” you say, motioning to your interlocked fingers.

A camera flash goes off.

“Are you my girlfriend, or are you my girlfriend?”

“Woah, woah, when did we cross that line? We haven’t even had our first date yet,” you say defensively.

“Count this one as number one, then,” Jungkook says before he’s running, cameras flashing as he bolts, his hand still interlocked with yours.

⇒ leave any feedback/requests here and check out my masterlist here!

[sesamestreep]

and never ever watch the ten o’clock news

(Read on AO3)

Summary: Bodhi never expected to be sitting in an interrogation room with his best friend while she lied to the police about being a psychic. In retrospect, he probably should have. [AKA the Psych AU Literally No One Asked For]

I wrote this Psych AU for my dearest @taxicabsandcupcakes as an EXTREMELY belated birthday/decently belated Winter Solstice/slightly belated New Year’s/aggressively early Friend-iversary present, which means I’ve had this idea since your birthday but didn’t actually find the inspiration to write it until Psych the Movie happened and then had to invent an occasion for giving it to you. This is my way of saying thanks for your sage writing advice, endless encouragement, and for yelling about Jane Austen on twitter with me. Hope you like it!

There’s additional notes on the fic itself if you follow the AO3 link above, which I recommend reading if you’re the type who enjoys that sort of thing.

“I need you to drive me to the police station.”

Bodhi, to his eternal embarrassment, actually pulls the phone away from his face and stares at it in disbelief, despite the fact that he’s alone in his office and no one is around to appreciate what he assumes is some excellent physical comedy.

“Pardon?” he asks, after a moment.

Jyn sighs on the other end of the phone. “I need you to drive me to the police station. Please,” she adds as an afterthought.

“Doesn’t that honor belong to the cop who’s arresting you?”

“Very funny,” Jyn says flatly. “My bike won’t start, will you please drive me?”

“You’re still not telling me the most important part,” Bodhi says, already starting to feel his exasperation growing. “Why do you need to go to the police station? Did something happen?”

“Something is always happening, Bodhi. Something is happening right now. And right now. And also now--”

“Jyn, come on...”

“Okay, fine. You remember that thing we talked about? The one you said I shouldn’t do anymore?”

“I told you to stop wearing white after Labor Day, advice which you have consistently ignored…”

“I keep telling you, Labor Day is a holiday invented by greeting card corporations to sell product!”

“All those Labor Day cards that everyone buys and sends out to their loved ones,” Bodhi says, playing along with Jyn’s nonsense.

“Exactly!” Jyn practically shouts. “Also, if you think about it, it’s always after Labor Day. You know what I mean?”

“I don’t. Did you get fined for committing a crime of fashion? Is that why you have to go the police station?”

“No, it has to do with the other thing you told me to stop doing.”

“Do I really have to guess? I tell you to stop doing a lot of things,” Bodhi says. His initial worry has already subsided and he’s tired of this conversation. He needs Jyn to tell him what’s going on so he can get back to work.

“Bodhi, don’t be the dollar sign in Ke$ha’s name!” she says, clearly frustrated with him as well.

“She got rid of that, you know. It’s just an ‘s’ now.”

“Precisely.”

“Jyn, honestly…”

“I called in another tip to the police,” Jyn says, suddenly giving up the game. “And before you get upset, that one tip helped them solve, like, ten open armed robbery cases.  So now the chief of police wants me to come down and they’re gonna give me a check, or an award, or something. I can't remember what it was, I wasn't listening. What’s a purple heart for?”

“Injured in battle.”

“Okay, so maybe not that. Whatever. It’s a big deal. The queen will probably be there.”

“Jyn, we live in America. There is no queen here,” Bodhi says, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Agree to disagree. What do you say? Will you take me?”

“I…” Bodhi begins to say before something occurs to him. “Wait a minute. You told me you were calling in those tips anonymously.”

“I was.”

“So how could they give you a reward, if they don’t even know who you are?” He asks.

“Okay, so,” Jyn begins to say in her best bullshitting voice. It's one that Bodhi is very familiar with. “I might have made a very tiny, laughably insignificant mistake when I called in this particular tip.”

“You told them your name,” Bodhi supplies.

“In my defense, I was a little drunk and I really wanted to impress this girl I was on a date with.”

“Neither of those are good excuses!”

“If it makes you feel better, my date wasn’t pleased either,” Jyn admits. “She was actually kind of insulted that I was paying so much attention to the news when we were making out.”

“As she should be.”

“You know I can’t help it! It’s just the way my brain works!”

“You’re telling me you actually picked up your clue just from the news?” Bodhi asks. “That’s honestly kind of impressive.”

“Tell that to her! She stormed off before I could tell her my whole ‘eidetic memory, trained in observation by my tough cop mother’ tragic backstory,” Jyn says.

“Great. What restaurant are we not going to be able to get a table at from now on?”

“She’s the hostess at Cilantro, that tiny place on Elm.”

“They have the best brunch in the city, Jyn!”

“Yeah. It’s a real loss,” Jyn agrees. “So, you’ll come get me on your lunch?”

***

The first time Bodhi spoke to Jyn was in fourth grade and he and his family had just moved to the country for his dad’s job.  He was a scrawny, brown kid with a funny accent and, to make it worse, he transferred right in the middle of the year. All the kids in his class had already made their friends and they thought he was weird. Everyone except Jyn.

She’d dropped her lunch tray on the table across from him on his first day and said, without preamble, “I like your voice, it sounds like mine. Also, your watch is cool. Have you seen the movie Flubber? It’s my favorite.”

And just like that they were friends. Looking back on it, Bodhi’s not sure he ever really had a choice. Jyn had decided she liked him, and once she liked someone, that was it. They belonged to her.  She was always between him and the meanest kids in school, distracting them, talking in circles until they gave up and left her best friend alone.  You couldn’t mess with Jyn; she had something clever or weird to say to any of your threats or insults and she never cared what other people thought of her.  That, and the fact that her mom was a cop and everyone knew it, meant that people generally left her--and, by extension, Bodhi--alone.

After high school, they went their separate ways: Bodhi went to college to try to make something of himself and Jyn left Santa Barbara on her motorcycle to get away from her mother and see the world.  She sent postcards from every new city she landed in, and the two of them kept in touch even as Bodhi started working as a pharmaceuticals sales rep and Jyn continued to work whatever odd jobs she could find in whatever part of the country she was living in at that moment. In complete defiance of logic and the predictions of their families, the two of them stayed close despite the distance and their wildly different lifestyles. Still, no one was more surprised than Bodhi when Jyn reappeared in Santa Barbara.

He has tried in ways both subtle and obvious to get Jyn to tell him what made her come home, but with no success.  Bodhi assumes it had something to do with her mother retiring and moving to Miami, but he doesn’t think that’s the whole reason.  He’d worry about her, but Jyn seems the same as ever.  She’s got the same mercurial temper--upbeat and joking one minute, put out and snarky the next--and she still flirts with every waitress, bartender, and barista they come across.  Which, of course, means there are several fine establishments in Santa Barbara that Bodhi can no longer visit without someone asking about when his cute friend is going to call them back, or just telling him off in Jyn’s place.

The only thing different about Jyn is her newfound obsession with calling in anonymous tips to the police.  She’s always been highly observant, but Bodhi has never seen her so preoccupied with using her skills to help people.  He told her to be careful about it and he actually thought she would listen, given her distaste for the police, but, instead, he finds himself walking up the steps of the Santa Barbara Police Station with Jyn during his lunch hour to collect her reward.

Once they’re inside, Jyn goes to the desk to let the officer there know that she’s arrived and Bodhi takes a seat on one of the benches in the lobby.  Within seconds, another officer drops off an enormous man in handcuffs, depositing him on the bench next to Bodhi with a muttered, “Wait here!” and then departing.  Now, Bodhi’s come a long way from his terrified, scrawny, fourth grade self, but he is also, in no way, shape, or form, an intimidating person, so he does his best not to make eye contact.

After a few minutes, Jyn joins Bodhi and, as is her custom, puts herself directly between him and danger, this time in the form of their large, handcuffed companion. “What are you in for?” Jyn asks pleasantly. Bodhi elbows her in the ribs.

“They say I jacked my ex-wife’s car, but I’m innocent!” the man shouts.

“Ugh, cops, am I right?” Jyn says, in a tone that sounds more like they’re at happy hour than a police precinct. The man grunts in agreement and the conversation seems to be over, until Jyn adds, more quietly, “Hey, I don’t want to sound like I don’t believe you--because I totally do--but, if I were you, I’d brush that broken glass off your sleeve. To the untrained eye, it looks like maybe you broke a window or something.”

The man glances at Jyn and then at his sleeve, before sweeping his hand over the latter. The same officer from before returns to collect him as soon as he’s finished.

“Thanks,” the man says gruffly as he stands up and then winks at her over his shoulder as he’s lead away.

“No problem,” Jyn says and turns to Bodhi, at whom she rolls her eyes. “Idiot,” she adds, under her breath. “He just knocked all the glass into his boot.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Bodhi says, keeping his voice low.

“I know. What’s the point of helping criminals if they’re too incompetent to help themselves?”

“That’s obviously not what I meant,” Bodhi huffs. “Did they tell you how long this was going to take?”

“They said someone would be with me shortly. Please, try to relax.”

“They can’t just give you a check? It has to be a whole production?”

“Bodhi, don’t be the Brave Little Toaster’s less brave little cousin!”

“I just have a bad feeling about this,” Bodhi says, ignoring her.

“Noted. Now, be quiet and I might let you be in the picture with me, the mayor, and what I hope is one of those giant novelty checks,” Jyn says.

“I do love giant novelty checks,” Bodhi admits.

“You know that’s right,” Jyn says, and offers her fist for him to bump.

At that moment, another cop appears in front of them. “Jyn Erso?” he asks, sounding uninterested in a response.

Jyn stands up to greet him. “That’s me. And this is my associate, DJ Deathstar,” she says, motioning at Bodhi, who just rolls his eyes at her. Jyn’s been making up fake names for him since they were kids and it’s probably better the police don’t know his actual name anyway.

The officer looks perplexed but all he does is nod and say, “If both of you would follow me,” before leading them out of the lobby and through the bullpen.

They go through a door at the far side of the room, which leads them to a long cinderblock hallway with several doors on either side.  The officer opens the last one on the right, and motions for them to go in ahead of him.  Once Bodhi and Jyn have both crossed the threshold, he closes the door behind them suddenly and they both turn in surprise.

All at once, Bodhi realizes where they are.

“Shit,” he says, taking in the bleak room with the large table in the middle and the mirror on the wall. “Why are we in an interrogation room?” he asks Jyn.

Jyn, for her part, is glaring at the other figures in the room.  Seated at the table are two more cops, but they’re in plain clothes, which must mean they’re detectives. They stand as soon as Bodhi speaks.

“Why don’t you both take a seat?” the shorter of the two of them says.  He’s soft spoken with a slight accent and he looks absolutely exhausted.

Bodhi nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels Jyn’s hand on his elbow.  When he looks over, she gives him a reassuring smile. If he didn't know her as well as he does, he could totally miss the anger behind that smile, but they've been friends for twenty years and he’s perfected the art of reading Jyn’s moods. These detectives have no idea what they've gotten themselves into. She cocks her head towards the chairs in invitation and he gets the message loud and clear without her saying anything. Do what they tell you and let me do the talking.

“They didn’t mention anything on the phone about a vetting process before they gave me the key to the city,” Jyn says, nice and light, once she and Bodhi have sat down on the other side of the table.

“You are not getting a key to the city, Miss Erso,” the other cop says, his tone clipped.  He has an expressionless face and is frankly too tall to be an actual human being, as far as Bodhi is concerned.

“No…?” Jyn asks innocently.

“No,” he says, sounding even less amused than before.

“Listen, Mr. ...?”

“Detective,” he corrects. “Head Detective Kay Tuesso.”

“Your mother must be very proud,” Jyn says, and Bodhi has to hold back a snort. “And who’s this?” she asks, her eyes training on the other detective.

“My partner, Detective Andor,” Detective Tuesso says, obviously growing impatient with Jyn’s antics.

“Charmed,” Jyn says and actually extends her hand for Detective Andor to shake. He gives her a puzzled look in return.

Nonplussed by any of the annoyance she seems to be causing, Jyn pulls her hand back and leans forward conspiratorially on the table.  “Now that we’re all on such friendly terms, why don’t you tell me what exactly is going on?” she asks.

“I’m sorry, Miss Erso,” Detective Andor says, “but we’re not all acquainted. Who is this?” he asks, gesturing at Bodhi.

Jyn turns and gives Bodhi a searching look.  For his part, Bodhi would rather not tell the police his name, given he has no idea what sort of trouble Jyn has unintentionally mixed herself up in, but he’s pretty sure they can figure it out who he is whether she tells them or not. He knows better than to actually shrug at her, when everything about her demeanor is screaming be careful at him, so he just looks back at her as calmly as he can. They’ve been in enough crazy situations together over the years that he trusts her to get them out of this one.  He sees her small smile of comprehension before she turns back to the detectives.

“This is Bodhi,” she says evenly. “He drove me here.”

“What, like a Lyft driver?” Detective Andor asks.

“Yes!” Jyn replies, snapping her fingers like they're all just brainstorming together and she loves what the detectives are bringing to the table. Which, knowing Jyn, might be what she actually thinks.

“And you brought him in with you because…?”

“I'm just quirky, I guess,” Jyn says with an easy shrug and barrels on before the detectives can question her any further on Bodhi’s presence. “Now that we’re finally all acquainted, can you get to the point? The meter’s running.”

Neither of the detectives look particularly convinced by any of this, but Detective Andor continues anyway. “You recently called in a tip about several armed robberies that occurred in the last few weeks. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thanks to that information you gave us, we’ve apprehended a suspect.”

“Good for you,” Jyn says, with forced cheer. Bodhi can practically see her patience wearing thin before his eyes.

“I'm glad you feel that way,” Detective Andor replies, tightly, and Bodhi thinks that Jyn probably isn't the only one who's running out of patience. “But, you see, we have a problem.  Our suspect claims he had a partner, somebody who masterminded the whole thing, and he’ll only tell us their name if we give him immunity.”

“Huh. That’s a real pickle,” Jyn says, flatly, as if the subject doesn't interest her at all.

“As you can imagine, we don't want to give in to our suspect’s demands, not when we can just arrest both of the people responsible,” Detective Andor continues, adopting a tone one would normally use when explaining a difficult subject to a child. “So, we’re trying to figure out who this accomplice is on our own. And that's why we’ve brought you here today.”

There's a full minute where Jyn just blinks at the detectives in confusion and Bodhi starts to worry that she's actually stopped functioning. He's about to grab her by the shoulder and shake her out of it when she blurts out, “I'm sorry, just so we’re clear, you want me to figure out the guy’s accomplice too?”  When they say nothing in response, Jyn continues, disbelieving, “I'm just curious, when do you two start chipping in?”

The detectives exchange a look at that, and Bodhi suddenly understands what is going on.

“Jyn,” he says as a warning.

“What?” Jyn snaps, turning on him.

Bodhi heaves a deep sigh before speaking. “They think you did it,” he says.

“I--” Jyn begins to say before turning to look at the detectives.  She must see the same thing in their faces that Bodhi did, because she suddenly freezes. “You think I'm the accomplice?” she asks, incredulity and anger making her voice go quiet.

The scariest thing about Jyn, in Bodhi’s opinion, is how calm she gets when she's really and truly angry.  The detectives in front of them might be well trained in reading people and analyzing evidence, but he's pretty sure they are in no way prepared for Jyn when she's actually furious.

“The evidence you gave to our tip line could only have come from someone with inside knowledge of the crimes,” Detective Tuesso says.

“That is not true.”

“What other explanation is there?” Detective Andor asks, sounding at least open to the possibility.

“Maybe I'm just a better detective than you are,” Jyn says, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest, her tone casual but filled with malice. Bodhi does his best not to wince.

“Or, perhaps,” Detective Tuesso begins, “you realized your good luck was running out, that you and your partner would not be able to evade the police forever, and you decided it was time to cut your losses and turn him in.”

“And gave my name to an anonymous tip line while I was at it, just in the interest of fairness,” Jyn says, mockingly.  “Oh, and I also trusted that my partner--who I had just betrayed--wouldn't rat me out to the police!  You're right, I'm a criminal mastermind!”

“Jyn,” Bodhi says again, hoping she’ll actually heed the warning in his voice this time.

“You aren't offering us any other plausible explanations for your having such detailed information, Miss Erso,” Detective Andor says. “And if you can't do that, we’ll have to arrest you.”

It might just be that the precarious nature of their situation puts Bodhi in a dramatic mood, but he swears, in that moment in the interrogation room, that time actually stops, allowing him to see the exact second that Jyn comes up with a plan. There’s no mistaking the expression that comes over her face for anything other than pure, mischievous inspiration.

“Alright, alright, you got me!” Jyn says, and Bodhi thinks he might actually be having a heart attack. “I haven't been honest with you. But it's only because I--” Jyn breaks off and looks downward, the picture of innocence. “I didn't think you'd believe the truth.”

“And what exactly would that be?” Detective Tuesso asks, not looking convinced in the slightest.

“I'm psychic,” Jyn says and, yep, Bodhi is definitely having a heart attack. “I have the Gift. The Sight, if you will. That’s how I knew about those robberies. I saw them, with my third eye.”

The entire room seems to be holding its breath after Jyn’s “confession”.  No one seems to know what to do with themselves and Bodhi doesn't dare to even look at Jyn. He’s pretty sure if he so much as exhales, all hell will actually break loose.

The two detectives, recovering from their shock, both move at the exact same time.  Detective Tuesso stands abruptly and says, “If you're done wasting our time--”, while Detective Andor reaches across the table for the case file and says, “You mean to tell us--” before they're both interrupted.

Jyn, in a split second, leans forward and captures Detective Andor’s wrist in her hand.  She closes her eyes, as if trying to remember some long lost memory, and takes a deep breath. When she's finished, she looks Detective Andor directly in the eye and says, “You have to stop blaming yourself.  It wasn't your fault.”

“Excuse me?” He says, utterly bewildered.

“I hear screaming. Sirens,” Jyn says, waving her hands around her head in a way that Bodhi imagines is supposed to convey spirituality. “I smell...gunpowder? There was a shooting. You did...everything you could. Everything by the book.” Jyn pauses, then adds, “As always.”

Detective Andor looks petrified by this outburst. “How did you--” he begins to ask, his voice even quieter than usual.

“As I've told you, I have...abilities. Of the supernatural variety,” Jyn says. She seems to realize she's still holding his wrist and looks at it intently. “This is your first case back on active duty, am I correct?”

“Don't answer that,” Detective Tuesso cuts in.

Detective Andor looks at his partner like he had completely forgotten there was anyone else in the room, then looks back at Jyn.  He pulls his arm away from her like he's been scalded.  Jyn, for her part, looks back at him serenely.

“This is highly entertaining, Miss Erso,” Detective Tuesso begins to say, “but this proves absolutely nothing.  And moreover--”

“Ah, fuck!” Jyn yells, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her temples, as though she's got the world’s worst brain freeze. “That feels like…glass.  Broken glass. I can see it shattering. And there's a tall man there. He's very angry, and heartbroken. A lover’s spat, perhaps?”

“What are you--”

“Yes, definitely, an argument between lovers.  I see...a heart…and an arrow...and the letter S.  Does this mean anything to you?”

When the detectives say nothing in response, Jyn winces again. “Yes, of course. I see it clearly now. You have a man in custody here, about this tall,” Jyn says, gesturing well above both her and Bodhi’s heads. “The answers you seek are in his left boot.”

Both of the detectives are staring at her, completely mystified, and Detective Tuesso looks like he's about to make another attempt at bringing Jyn to order when there's three taps in quick succession on the one-way mirror.

“Excuse us a moment,” Detective Tuesso says, looking none too pleased with the interruption. “Come on,” he  says to his partner, who seems to be having more trouble tearing himself away.

They both depart, leaving Jyn and Bodhi alone in the interrogation room.  This would be a wonderful moment to confront Jyn about what the hell she thinks she's doing but unfortunately, they're not actually alone.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Jyn says quietly.

“We’re not talking about this now. We can't,” Bodhi whispers urgently.

“I need you to relax,” Jyn responds. “Everything is fine, as far as you and I are concerned. Just, trust me. When have I ever lead you wrong?”

“Would you like that list in chronological order?”

Jyn makes a tsk sound in the back of her throat. “You can suck it,” she says petulantly.

“You suck it,” Bodhi fires back.

“No, you.”

“You.”

He and Jyn actually look at each other after that. “Suck it,” they both sing-song in harmony, like they're still teenagers and not the full-grown adults they're supposed to be acting like. Maybe there are worse people to be stuck in an interrogation room with, Bodhi thinks, at the exact moment Detectives Tuesso and Andor return.

“You're free to go,” Detective Tuesso says, looking pained.

Jyn rises immediately, grabbing Bodhi’s elbow to drag him up with her as she goes and giving him a kick in the ankle to get him moving towards the door.

“Not you,” Detective Tuesso says, pointing at Jyn.

“What?” Jyn cries. “But you just said--”

“We’re not arresting you,” Detective Andor says. “But Interim Chief Mothma would like to speak with you.  Alone,” he adds, when he sees Jyn and Bodhi exchange a look.

Bodhi is about to object when he feels Jyn give his elbow a reassuring squeeze. He turns to look at her and she's smiling like she always does when faced with a challenge. Go ahead, that smile is meant to say, I've got this.

“I think they're finally going to give me my giant novelty check,” she says before she breezes past him out the door.

***

Twenty minutes later, Jyn finds Bodhi pacing on the steps outside the precinct.  The look on his face must be more anguished than he realized because when he turns and sees her, she immediately throws both of her hands up in a don’t shoot gesture.

“Alright, before you yell at me—”

“What in the absolute fuck did you just do?!” he shouts.

“I said before you yell at me, dude! Come on!” Jyn practically whines.  “And what I just did was save our asses, so you’re welcome.”

“You wouldn’t have had to save my ass in the first place if you had just driven yourself to the precinct and left me out of it.”

Jyn opens her mouth to argue with him, but Bodhi continues before she can get a word in.  “And, furthermore, you just lied. To the police. About being a psychic. I mean, have you lost your damn mind?!”

“Hey, say it a little louder, why don’t you?” Jyn shouts back, and Bodhi sobers. “Feel better now?” She asks, when she’s given him a moment to collect himself. When he nods, she says, “I can’t believe you just furthermore’d me, man. You’re starting to sound like your mother.”

“Shut up,” Bodhi says, without heat. Jyn cracks a smile, which he finds himself returning tentatively. “What did the chief want to talk to you about?”

“Interim chief,” Jyn corrects, and Bodhi rolls his eyes at her. “She’s pregnant.”

“She wanted to tell you she’s pregnant?”

“No. I’m just telling you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s badass,” Jyn says, gesticulating wildly. “A pregnant cop? How cool is that?”

“Jyn…”

“Sorry for trying to paint you a picture with my words, Bodhi! I thought maybe you felt left out!”

“I was deeply hurt,” Bodhi says, gravely. “Now, will you please tell me why you got called into a meeting with the chief of police?!”

“Interim chief! And she wants my help with a case,” Jyn says casually. She even has the audacity to shrug.

Bodhi’s pretty sure he’s actually gaping at her now. Like, his jaw is actually hanging open in shock. He’d be embarrassed, but he just doesn’t have the capacity for any other emotions at the moment.

“Why?” He finally manages to ask, after an embarrassingly long pause.

“Haven’t you heard?” Jyn says with a mischievous smile. “I’m Santa Barbara’s most preeminent psychic detective!”

Bodhi groans and puts his head on Jyn’s shoulder. She pats at him in a halfhearted consoling gesture.

“Can you be the ‘most preeminent’ something? Does that work grammatically?” She asks, nonchalantly.

“Don’t you dare try to distract me with grammar, Jyn,” Bodhi warns. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know for a fact you listened to all of R. Kelly’s ‘Trapped in a Closet’, so there’s no way that’s true.”

“It was before he got weird!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I don’t even know how you did that back there,” Bodhi cries, getting them back to the subject at hand.

“What?”

“All that stuff you said in the interrogation room! How did you do it?”

“You know about my observation thing,” Jyn says, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah, but that stuff with the detective. How did you know all that?”

Jyn sighs, as if explaining her skills is a huge burden. “I saw in the paper a few weeks ago that there’d been a shooting and the police had been involved.”

“They wouldn’t have published the officer’s name,” Bodhi interjects.

“No,” Jyn concedes. “But the officer at the front desk was asking about how the new guy was doing, being back from administrative leave. The cop he was talking to was the one who brought us into the interrogation room, so clearly he had been working with our detectives on the robbery case.  And most of the cops in the SBPD are still left over from my mom’s time there—at least the ones that are old enough to make detective—and I didn’t recognize Detective Andor, so I figured it could have been him. Standard administrative leave is two weeks, the shooting happened roughly that long ago, and I noticed the bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. So, I took a stab in the dark. So to speak.”

“Jyn, all of that is totally circumstantial. What if you’d been wrong?” Bodhi says, even though he’s a little in awe of what he’s just heard.

“Luckily, I wasn’t,” Jyn says simply.

“What about all that stuff with the heart and the shapes and the letter?” Bodhi asks.

“Oh,” Jyn says, as if she’s already forgotten. “Our carjacker from the lobby had a tattoo on his ankle. One of those hearts that’s been shot through with an arrow. And it had the name ‘Susan’ wrapped around it, on a banner. Figured if Susan was his wife, she probably filed the charges against him and the letter would jog their memory if nothing else did.”

“This is unbelievable,” Bodhi says, shaking his head. “And what does the Chief want from you?”

“Interim chief. And she wants me to help them with a kidnapping case.”

“I’m a little nervous about the strength of our police force if they have to hire you to solve a kidnapping.”

“I know, right?” Jyn says. “Apparently, it’s the heir to some hoity-toity family’s fortune that’s gone missing. The family is close with the governor and Interim Chief Mothma is under a lot of pressure to solve this thing quickly.”

“They think this guy is still alive?”

“I guess so.”

“Huh,” Bodhi says. “Are they paying you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So, that’s a no.”

“It’s more that they’re paying me by not arresting me,” Jyn says. “And only if I deliver.”

“And what happens if you don’t?” Bodhi asks, not totally convinced he wants to know the answer.

“They’ll arrest me for obstruction of justice,” Jyn says simply.

“Damn it, Jyn.”

“I don’t know why you’re so worried. This is like my two greatest strengths: observation and bullshitting. My whole life has been preparation for this!”

“Only you would see having to prove to the police that you’re psychic by solving a high profile missing persons case as a fun challenge.  Do I need to remind you you’re not actually psychic, or are you at least still mildly self-aware?” Bodhi asks.

“Bodhi, don’t be an under-whipped meringue! I know what I’m doing!” Jyn says, and he has to admit, he can’t remember the last time she was this excited about anything. “Now, do you want to go interrogate some fancy white people with me, or not? I bet they own some Baroque art or whatever that you can nerd out about while I investigate.”

“Jyn, I can’t,” Bodhi says, and he thinks he sees Jyn’s face fall, just for a second, before she quickly hides her reaction. “I have to get back to office, I have a million calls to return. I can’t get involved with one of your crazy schemes today, I’ve lost enough time already.”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. He and Jyn don’t fight, not really, and any spats they do have are over as quickly as they begin, usually because they start punching each other and get it out of their systems. What does happen occasionally, though, is that Jyn will shut him out—when she feels rejected in any way, or when she’s going through her own stuff that she doesn’t want to talk about. Bodhi sees the neutral mask that immediately goes over her features and he knows she’s upset by what he’s just said.

“Jyn—” he starts to say, reaching for her.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jyn interrupts, already looking around for her exit, instead of looking at him. “I’m gonna get a cab. I’ll talk to you later.”

As she passes by, she claps Bodhi on the shoulder and then she’s gone.

***

Just like they don’t fight, he and Jyn also don’t apologize. It took some getting used to in the beginning for Bodhi, a naturally nervous person for whom apologizing—even when nothing is his fault—is just a reflex.  Jyn, on the other hand, never apologizes for anything. If the phrase “I’m sorry” comes out of her mouth, it’s always a transitional phrase at best, and sarcastic at worst. Over the years, Bodhi has warmed to Jyn’s way of dealing with things. On the rare occasions they do actually fight, Jyn will disappear for a few days and then resume contact as if nothing ever happened. She just needs time and space to get over herself sometimes.  And once she has, she doesn’t hold a grudge, at least not when it comes to him. Old issues don’t come back up in arguments years later with her, the way they do in Bodhi’s other relationships. It’s a fault he’ll readily admit he has as well, never letting old grievances go, so it’s probably just as well Jyn isn’t like that with him. Maybe, every once in a while, they actually do bring out the best in each other.

All of this is to say, when Bodhi doesn’t hear from Jyn for three days after their conversation outside of the police station, he’s not actually worried. It’s pretty standard behavior from her, and, even without their weird conflict, they don’t always talk everyday anyway. There’s the niggling concern in the back of his mind that she’s working on a case, and she could actually be in danger and that’s why he hasn’t heard from her, but it’s not enough to really drive him to distraction.

Still, his relief when he gets a call from her on that third day is immediate and a little overwhelming. It’s short-lived, however, when he hears how tired she sounds on the phone and when she asks, tentatively, if he’ll come pick her up because her bike broke down on some isolated back road. His keys are in his hand before he even hangs up and the next thing he knows he’s calling over his shoulder to the woman at the front desk that he’ll be out all afternoon with a family emergency.

It’s nearly forty minutes later that Bodhi actually finds her, because, while Jyn did her best to explain where she was, she is stranded on a truly deserted back road and there’s no landmarks nearby for reference. When he arrives, Jyn is still trying to get her bike to start, with no success. Her jeans are covered in mud, her hands are coated with black grease from working on the motorcycle, and Bodhi is pretty sure she hasn’t brushed her hair since he saw her last. She looks a complete mess, and worry bubbles up in Bodhi’s throat just seeing her.

He pulls over, throws the car in park, and gets out in something of a daze, but he can’t actually bring himself to say a word. Anything he says will betray his concern, and there’s nothing that raises Jyn’s hackles more than being fretted over. When she makes eye contact with him, he says, “You look great,” because he can’t come up with anything else and Jyn’s face breaks into a relieved smile.

“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” she responds, gesturing at herself with one hand. “Dress for the job you want.”

“You want to be Farmer Hoggett?”

“Danny Zuko, actually,” Jyn says, waving her motor oil-stained hands at him. She follows up the gesture with a heavy sigh, and all the energy seems to drain out of her at once.

“You’ve only been a fake psychic detective for three days, Jyn,” Bodhi jokes. “You can’t be tired of it already.”

“Watch me,” she says through a yawn. “And I may be a fake psychic, but I’m a real detective, thank you very much.”

“You have the bags under your eyes to prove it,” Bodhi says, the only way he can think of to bring up her disheveled state.

“Thanks, they’re vintage.”

“I thought so,” Bodhi replies, and then he decides they’ve goofed around enough, given the situation. “Seriously, Jyn, what happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she says, reflexively. “I hurt my knee when the bike crapped out, but that’s that worst of it. I just need a ride home, so I can change my clothes and keep working on the case.”

Bodhi wants to ask more questions, but he knows Jyn is probably frustrated enough as it is and she’ll probably be more inclined to talk once they’re on their way.

“Okay,” he says, inclining his head towards his car. When Jyn starts to move towards him, he asks, “What are you going to do about your bike?”

“I got a guy coming to pick it up. He’ll bring it home for me,” Jyn says, as Bodhi holds open the passenger side door for her.

“You should bring it to a mechanic.”

“You should suck it,” Jyn counters. “I can fix my own bike.”

“Clearly,” Bodhi says, gesturing at the dejected looking motorcycle behind them. Jyn scowls at him from her seat as he closes the car door.

Once he’s back in the driver’s seat and they’re on their way back to Santa Barbara, Bodhi looks over at Jyn. Up close, she looks even more exhausted than he initially thought.

“When was the last time you slept?” He wonders aloud.

Jyn gives the appearance of thinking it over before saying, “When did we last see each other?”

“Three days ago.”

“Sometime before that, then.”

“Good grief,” Bodhi mutters. “How are you even alive right now?”

“I’m not. I’m a ghost. I’ve been a ghost this whole time,” Jyn says, drily.

“How dare I care about your well being,” he says, shaking his head bitterly.

For once, the guilt trip actually seems to have an effect on Jyn, because she sobers a little and says, “You’d be amazed what a great motivator the threat of jail time can be.”

“I honestly forgot all about that,” Bodhi says, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Really? You?”

“I guess I just had no doubt you’d solve the damn thing,” he replies, with a shrug. “You’re Jyn. You’ve never met a crazy situation you couldn’t get yourself out of.”

When he chances another look in her direction, she’s looking back at him with a serious expression. “Your faith in me is undeserved,” she says. “But appreciated.”

“Anything for you,” Bodhi says, and he means it. They’re always going to be there for each other; it’s what best friends are for.

They drive in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Bodhi wonders how he’s going to get her to tell him about the case. He doesn’t have long to worry about it, though, because the next thing he knows, he sees flashing lights in his rear view mirror and hears a siren blaring.

“Jyn,” Bodhi says warningly as he pulls over. “What did you do?”

When he looks over at her, however, she looks just as confused as Bodhi feels. This must be a surprise to her as well.

Still, Bodhi can’t help but add, “You better tell me now, so we can get our stories straight.”

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Jyn says, shrugging. She reaches over and gives his arm a squeeze, then adds, “But I’m glad to have you on my side.”

The cop who’s just pulled them over taps on the window, and Bodhi does his best not to jump. He rolls down the window.

“Good afternoon, officer. What can I do for you?” Bodhi asks, trying to sound casual and definitely failing.

“License and registration,” the cop says, and Bodhi hurries to oblige. He hands over the items, but the cop is looking at Jyn very intently.

“You look familiar,” he says to her.

“I was the model for the Morton’s Salt Girl,” Jyn says immediately, and Bodhi has to suppress the urge to smack her.

The officer looks up from Bodhi’s license when she speaks. “Hey, that’s it. You’re Lyra’s kid, aren’t you?” He asks, finally cracking a smile.

“Guilty as charged,” Jyn says with a rueful smile, and Bodhi has to resist the urge to smack her again. He settles for glaring at her instead.

“I worked with your mom for a long time, right up until she retired,” the officer says, his whole demeanor changed to one of friendliness. “How’s she doing?”

“Oh, you know. She’s in Miami. Livin la vida loca, and all that,” Jyn says, casually, as if she’s spoken to her mother mother recently, which Bodhi knows for a fact she hasn’t.

The officer, for his part, looks confused. “Is that so?” He asks. “Because I saw her at the Safeway just last month.”

“She was just visiting,” Jyn lies, automatically.

“She told me she was moving back to the old house,” the cop says.

“Well, you’re just remarkably well informed, aren’t you?” Jyn says, feigning sweetness.

“Uh, is there a problem here, officer?” Bodhi asks, trying to distract the cop from asking Jyn any more questions.

“One of your tail lights is out,” the officer says, turning his attention back to Bodhi reluctantly. “You need to get that fixed,” he adds, handing Bodhi back his license and registration.

“Absolutely, sir. I will. Right away,” Bodhi says eagerly.

The officer nods. “Alright, then. You two have a good rest of your day, now. And tell your mom Officer Macklin says hello,” he adds to Jyn.

“You got it,” Jyn says, already turning away from him.

The cop heads back to his own car and Bodhi pulls away carefully. It isn’t until the cop car is a tiny, retreating speck in the rear view mirror that Bodhi chances speaking to Jyn.

“Your mom is back in Santa Barbara?” He asks carefully.

“Apparently,” Jyn says with an unconvincing shrug. She’s looking down at her phone instead of meeting his eye.

“You want me to bring you to her house instead?” Bodhi asks, looking back and forth between her and the road.

“No need. Liverpool has a match today,” Jyn says, looking up from her phone. “And there’s only one bar in town that will put football on the TV. Take your next right.”

***

If anyone were to ask him, Bodhi would say he loves Jyn’s parents like they’re his own, but he’s also pretty glad that they’re not. Growing up, he spent a lot of time at Jyn’s house and he got to know Galen and Lyra Erso fairly well. He’d always been closer to Jyn’s dad, who was always interested in Bodhi’s school projects and honors classes. They had a lot of similar interests, which couldn’t be said of Bodhi and his father. Bodhi loves his dad, and he knows his dad loves him, but they don’t always have a lot to talk about. So it was nice to talk to Galen, every now and then, and imagine what it would be like.

Jyn, for her part, was always closer with her dad too, but, because his job had him traveling a lot, she spent a lot more time with her mother, whose odd hours as a cop meant she could be around for her kid more often than her husband could. Lyra is hard to describe; she’s not a particularly warm person, but she is undeniably generous and invested in others. That’s always been Bodhi’s experience, at least. For the longest time, he assumed Jyn’s mother hated him, as she never seemed happy to see him. It took time for him to realize that she showed affection more practically than that. She has never forgotten a single thing Bodhi has ever told her, he’s pretty sure, which is how she remembers things like his mom’s birthday and her favorite kind of flowers to send every year, and how, all through his high school years, she knew his top choice colleges—in order—by heart after he mentioned them to her once.  Much like he came around to Jyn’s unique personality, Bodhi eventually realized that Lyra’s intense questions and no-nonsense attitude were the product of her caring very deeply, rather than not caring at all. It was easier for him, though. She wasn’t his actual mother and if she ever got to be too much for him, he could just go home. Jyn didn’t have that option.

For as long as he can remember, Jyn and her mother have been like oil and water; they just do not mix. It would be easy to blame the animosity on Jyn’s parents’ divorce when she and Bodhi were in high school, but the conflicts between Jyn and Lyra were going on long before that. Jyn has always resented her mother for raising her basically from birth to become a cop, without taking her daughter’s personality or interests into account. When her parents separated, things only got worse, especially when her parents agreed, without consulting her, that she would live full time with her mother. From there, Jyn’s rebellious streak only got worse and as soon as she turned eighteen, she was out of her mother’s house.

About a year ago, Lyra retired early from the police force and moved all the way to Miami. Bodhi

never expected Jyn to come back to Santa Barbara permanently, but if there was one thing that didn’t surprise him about her return, it was that she waited until her mother was gone to do so.  

But Lyra was back now too. The proof was right in front of them as they entered the pub. Jyn’s mother was sitting alone at a table near the bar with a full beer in front of her, her eyes on the television that was set to the football match.

Jyn makes an annoyed noise in the back of her throat, which brings Bodhi’s attention back to her. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just—” Jyn pauses to roll her eyes. “She’s such a cop, that’s all. I mean, she can see every possible exit from her seat. Does she ever take a day off?”

“She’s retired,” Bodhi points out.

“You can’t retire from being a pain in the ass.”

“That’s lovely, Jyn,” Bodhi says. “You ought to cross-stitch that on a pillow.”

“And you ought to suck it,” Jyn shoots back, pleasantly.

“No, I insist. You suck it,” he replies, and throws his arm out in an after you gesture.

Jyn shakes her head at him. “Here we go,” she says, like she’s approaching an executioner, and not her mother.

As they cross from the door to where Jyn’s mother is sitting, something occurs to Bodhi. “Wait, what do I call her?” He asks suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” Jyn asks under her breath.

“I normally call her Mrs. Erso, but your parents are divorced now, yeah?”

“Funny story,” Jyn says, though the grim look on her face says otherwise. “They’re actually not.”

“Wait, what? It’s been, like, 10 years!”

“Believe me, I know.”

“So, what are they, if not divorced?”

“Hella estranged,” Jyn says with a shrug.

“Is that the legal term?” Bodhi asks, unamused.

“Yes.”

“Seriously, what do I call her, Jyn?”

“I don’t know, dude. Call her Deputy Dog, for all I care,” Jyn whisper-shouts at him. By then, they’ve reached her mother’s table, and Jyn says, “Hey, Mom!” as if she’s surprised to see her there. In her mother’s favorite pub. Where they specifically came looking for her.

“Jyn,” her mom says with a nod. Bodhi’s fairly certain she saw them come in. Hell, she might have spotted them before they got to the door. She’s that good. “Hello, Bodhi. How are you?” she says, turning her attention to him and offering her hand to shake.

“Hello, Mrs. Erso,” he responds. She has the strongest handshake of anyone he knows. It’s like she took a seminar or something. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Are you still working in pharmaceuticals?” she asks, taking a sip of her beer.

“Yes.”

“Good for you. It’s nice to see some young people are able to hold down a job for more than six months.”

Jyn rolls her eyes at the obvious dig in her direction. Bodhi coughs to mask his discomfort and mumbles a response.

“Bodhi would ask about how Miami is treating you, but, unfortunately, you’re not in Miami. You’re here,” Jyn says, her voice pitchy with annoyance.

“I didn’t care for Miami,” Lyra says simply. “Too humid. Too many nightclubs. I got bored.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me you were coming back because…?”

“You would have to call me on occasion to know anything about my life, dear,” Lyra says. “Or return my calls. But you don’t. Besides, if I had told you, I’m sure you would have scurried off to some new town to get away from me as soon as you found out.” When Jyn doesn’t say anything in response, Lyra asks, ���Am I wrong?”

Jyn only shrugs in return. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?” She says, after a long pause.

“Indeed,” Lyra says, giving her daughter’s appearance an unimpressed glance. “What happened to you?” She asks.

Jyn looks down at her clothes, which are still covered in mud from earlier. “Oh, this? This is the fashion, Mom. All the kids are doing it.” When Lyra continues to look at her expectantly, Jyn relents and says, “My bike broke down on this muddy back road. I was trying to fix it, but Bodhi had to come get me.”

“I hate that stupid bike,” Lyra says. “You should get a reliable car. Like Bodhi has.”

“Bodhi has a company car, Mom,” Jyn says, exasperated. “And it looks like a blueberry.”

“Hey,” Bodhi interjects. “My car is nice.”

Jyn waves him off as her mother asks, “And you have nothing better to do on a weekday than drive around on your motorcycle? Do you even have a job?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Jyn says, as she pulls out the seat across from her mother and drops into it, “I happen to be working for the SBPD. On a case. And an important one at that!”

Bodhi doesn’t point out that the police aren’t paying her and that she’ll go to jail if she fails, mostly because he knows that Jyn just said it to get a reaction out of her mother. And she certainly gets it. Lyra’s face drops and she asks, astonished, “You? Working for the police?”

“Just like you always wanted,” Jyn says, leaning back in her seat triumphantly.

“I wanted you to become a cop. A real police officer,” Lyra says sharply. “Am I right in assuming that’s not what happened?”

“I’m consulting,” Jyn says, which is being awfully generous, Bodhi thinks to himself.

“And why would they want you to consult on a case?”

“Because,” Jyn begins, and Bodhi can see her trying to figure out what to tell her mother that will be easier than the truth. She sighs, closing her eyes, bracing herself. “Because I told them I was psychic.”

Lyra blinks a few times, very quickly, but otherwise shows no signs of shock. “You did what now?” She finally asks.

“I’ve been calling in tips to the police, stuff I’ve noticed from the news or the paper, using the skills you taught me,” Jyn explains. “But the last time, I gave them my name, by accident. And they kind of thought I was responsible for the crime. I told them I was psychic so they wouldn’t arrest me.”

“And then they just hired you to work on a case?” Lyra asks, disbelieving. “No questions asked?”

“Basically,” Jyn says with a shrug. Once again, she conveniently leaves out the part where she’ll be arrested if she doesn’t solve the case, but Bodhi still thinks it’s better not to mention it.

Lyra, for her part, seems to know Jyn isn’t telling her the whole story and she’s clearly weighing whether it’s worth interrogating her daughter further. “That department has really gone downhill since I left,” she says instead.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“So why are you here?”

“What do you mean?” Jyn asks. “I heard from Officer Macklemore—”

“Macklin,” Bodhi corrects.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Jyn says to him, before looking back at her mother. “Anyway, I heard from Officer Macbook that you were back in town, and I came to confront you about it.”

“How is Macklin, anyway? Last time I saw him, his arthritis was acting up and giving him a lot of trouble,” Lyra says.

“How would I know anything about his arthritis?” Jyn asks impatiently. “All he said was to tell you hi from him.”

“Well, that’s very nice of him,” Lyra says pleasantly.

“Mom!”

“What, Jyn?” Lyra suddenly snaps. “You expect me to believe that you actually came here because you were so upset that I hadn’t told you I was back in town. Do you think I’m stupid? I know you don’t care! So, you can either tell me what you really want from me, or we can keep talking about my old coworker’s joint problems. Either way suits me fine.”

The silence that follows Lyra’s outburst is excruciatingly awkward. Jyn has a look on her face that Bodhi has never seen before, and he’s pretty sure it’s because she’s about to burst into tears. In their time as friends, Bodhi has seen Jyn go through some shit, including some truly awful arguments with her mother, but he’s never once seen her cry. He has no idea what to do in this situation—will reaching out for her make it worse? Should they just leave? Before he can do anything, though, Jyn drops her head into her hands and sighs.

“I can’t figure it out,” she says, shakily. “I cannot figure this damn case out. I mean, I found the bodies and everything, but it still doesn’t make sense. The cops think it’s a murder-suicide, open and shut. But it doesn’t feel right and I can’t prove otherwise.”

Lyra is looking at Jyn intently, waiting for her to say more, but she doesn’t. She just sits there, head in hands, looking small and exhausted. After what feels like an eternity, Lyra speaks. “How many hats?” She asks quietly.

Jyn takes her hands away from her face to glare at her mother. “What?”

“How many hats are there in the room?” Lyra asks again, even more calmly.

“I heard you. I just can’t believe you want me to do this right now!”

“You’re out of practice, and you’ve gotten soft. That’s why you can’t solve the case,” Lyra suggests with a shrug. “Now, tell me how many hats.”

“Mom, this is a stupid game from when I was a kid. I’m not gonna—”

“If you can’t do it, just say so.”

“Ten,” Jyn says, not breaking eye contact.

“Go on, then. And don’t cheat.”

Jyn sighs, a deep, frustrated noise, and closes her eyes. “Four baseball caps on the guys at the bar,” she says. “The couple in the booth at the back are both wearing cowboy hats; his is leather, hers is straw. The family at the table in the corner have a baby in a sun hat and a boy in one of those rainbow beanies with the spinner on top, which I didn’t even know existed in real life, so that’s interesting. There’s a captain’s hat hanging on the wall with all of the other junk that counts as decor in this godforsaken place. And when we came in, the chef was out talking to the bartender and he was wearing a hat. I assume we were going from when we walked in, yeah?” Jyn asks smugly.

Lyra nods and smiles. “You missed one,” she says.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. The woman at the bar.”

Jyn doesn’t even look. “She’s wearing a visor. A visor isn’t a hat.”

“What is it, then?”

“Ugly,” Jyn says, simply. “And it’s red, because I know that’s what you’re going to ask next.”

“Not bad,” Lyra admits.

“I’m not out of practice,” Jyn says fiercely. “I’m as sharp as I’ve ever been.”

“You just needed to focus on something else, instead of the case,” Lyra says. “You were getting so bogged down in the particulars that you couldn’t think straight. Happened to me all the time, when I was on the force. I’ll bet your mind feels clearer now, doesn’t it?”

Jyn blinks at her mother in disbelief. “Were you actually being helpful just now?” She asks.

“Believe it or not, I’m usually trying to help you, Jyn. Even when you think I’m not.”

Jyn looks at her mother for a long moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly, she slaps her palm on the table and turns to Bodhi. “I need you to bring me to the police station,” she says, urgently.

“Did you figure it out?” He asks.

“No, but I’m going to. I just need to look at the case file again.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I know a guy,” Jyn says vaguely.

“Alright. Do you want to go home and change first?” Bodhi asks, gesturing at her still-muddy clothing.

“What? No! Honestly, I think I might be onto something. This is a Look, right here,” Jyn says, standing up.

“If you say so,” Bodhi says, as she starts pulling him towards the door.

They don’t make it far, however, before Jyn stops suddenly. She turns halfway back to her mother, looking completely lost. A moment of deliberation passes before Jyn says, “Thanks, Mom.”

Lyra looks up at her daughter and surprise flashes across her face, briefly. She raises her beer in salute and Jyn smiles.

“To the blueberry!” She shouts at Bodhi, and links their arms together.

“We’re not calling it that,” he says, only to be ignored. “Jyn, I’m serious!”

Jyn pushes the door open and drags him out into the night, still paying his complaints no mind.

***

“Sorry, I’m still not clear on why he’d be willing to help us,” Bodhi says, keeping his voice low so as not to attract any further notice from the other cops at the precinct.

“Quid pro quo,” Jyn says, kicking her feet up on the desk in front of her. “I helped him, he’ll help me.”

“He said that?”

“His eyes did.”

“What did his mouth say?” Bodhi asks, suppressing an eye roll.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening. I was too busy staring longingly into his eyes.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head. “How exactly did you help him?”

“I solved that stupid armed robbery case for him,” Jyn says.

“You did?” Bodhi asks. “That’s amazing. Doesn’t that mean they can’t arrest you for it now?”

“They can’t arrest me for that, but they can arrest me for obstruction still.”

“Damn. So who was the guy’s partner?”

“Ah, that’s the thing,” Jyn says, relishing her Poirot moment a little too much. “He didn’t have one.”

“What?”

“He made it up, to get the immunity deal. Created this whole shadowy figure who masterminded all the robberies to stall the police and he took a gamble that they’d believe him. It was complete bullshit.”

“How did you figure that out?” Bodhi asks, astonished.

“Miss Erso is extremely well-versed in the art of bullshit,” a voice says from behind him. He turns to see Detective Andor approaching them with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Oh, Detective. I’ve asked you to call me Jyn, and I meant it,” Jyn says, her face lighting up with mischief.

“And I’ve never asked you for anything, so I don’t really understand what you’re doing here,” he shoots back. “And with your feet on my desk, no less!”

Jyn swings her feet off the desk and onto the floor in one graceful motion. “You need to lighten up, Detective, or you’re gonna go gray prematurely,” she says. “Then again, you’d look distinguished, so maybe it’s worth it.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Erso?” He asks, looking tired.

“Jyn. And I need to see the file for the McCallum case.”

“Can’t you see it with your third eye?”

“Would you look at that?” Jyn says to Bodhi, gesturing at Detective Andor. “He’s handsome and funny! If he has a good job, I’m putting a ring on it.”

Bodhi is about to roll his eyes at Jyn’s antics, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Detective Andor crack a smile. Maybe Jyn’s antics aren’t as unwelcome as he thought after all.

“As flattered as I am, how do you know I’m not spoken for?” Detective Andor asks.

“I saw it with my third eye,” Jyn says, and he laughs.

“Mm. Good one. No, really. Do your,” he gestures at her with his coffee mug, “psychic thing. On me.”

Jyn’s eyebrows shoot up at that and Bodhi can see her resisting the urge to turn the detective’s statement into a dirty joke. “I don’t have to,” she says, finally.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t have to ‘do my psychic thing’,” Jyn says, using air quotes. “Anyone with eyes could see that you're single.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. First of all, you’re a cop, just like my mother. It didn’t help her in the romance department, either,” Jyn says, like she’s letting him in on a secret. “You lot work all the time, hence the bags under your eyes and the fact that you’re here right now, on a Friday night.”

“I could be leaving,” he suggests.

“You have coffee. At 8 PM.”

“Could be decaf.”

“It isn’t,” Jyn says with certainty. “You’re about to pull an all nighter to work on a case. And then you’ll eventually go home to your lonely bachelor pad and eat a meal for one you picked up in the freezer section because you’re ‘too busy’ to cook for yourself. How am I doing?”

“You’re close,” Detective Andor says, trying to be evasive. “But I could have a spouse who’s okay with me working Friday nights.”

“You could,” Jyn allows. “But you also don’t wear a ring.”

“Maybe I just don’t wear it at work.”

“That’s a possibility. But I don’t think so.” Jyn pauses for a second, watching the detective. “Come on, how’d I do?”

“Devastatingly accurate,” Detective Andor concedes. “Except for one part.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m a really good cook,” he says, sitting on his desk in the spot recently vacated by Jyn’s feet. She smiles up at him, delighted, and Bodhi’s pretty sure if he doesn’t do something they could be here all night. He clears his throat awkwardly.

Both of them startle, like they’d forgotten about him entirely. Detective Andor takes a sip of his coffee and places the mug on the desk. “What do you need the file for?” He asks, not quite looking at Jyn.

“Sometimes I do get random visions,” Jyn lies with ease. “But most of the time, my gift requires inspiration. I’m hoping something in the file will trigger it.”

“That case is basically wrapped up, though. I heard it was a murder-suicide between the McCallum kid and the guy he hired to fake his kidnapping,” Detective Andor says.

“I’m not convinced,” Jyn says seriously.

“Hey, from what I hear, they wouldn’t have found that cabin without you,” Detective Andor says, adopting a soothing tone. “Your work here is done. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m thinking it just the right amount, thank you,” she replies. Detective Andor looks as if he is about to say something else, so she adds, quickly, “You have two options here, as I see it. You can get me that file now, or you can spend the whole night talking in circles with me, finishing none of your own work, and then you can get me the file.”

“Sounds like I’m getting you the file either way.”

“It’s just a matter of whether you have your dignity intact when you do,” Jyn says, throwing in a shrug for good measure. “Choose your own adventure, Detective,”

Detective Andor makes a big show of looking around, and then stands up. “I’ll be right back,” he says, needlessly, and walks away.

Jyn and Bodhi watch him go in silence for a few seconds, before Bodhi asks, “What’s going on there?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re flirting with cops now?”

“I was not flirting with him,” Jyn says, scandalized.

“Jyn, please.”

“I wasn’t,” she says, and she actually stamps her foot, like a child. “I can’t stand cops, you know that.”

“Right. You can’t stand that guy. You can’t stand him so much you just spent ten minutes pestering him about his marital status,” Bodhi says, unimpressed.

“He asked me to!”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He can’t stand you either. He can’t stand the idea of making you dinner in his tiny, sad apartment and he can’t stand the idea of having beautiful, hyper-observant children with you someday.”

“Bodhi,” Jyn says, slapping at him ineffectually. She’s laughing too hard to do so accurately.

“It’s one thing to seduce and abandon half the food service professionals in Santa Barbara, Jyn, but please don’t start sleeping with cops and never calling them again. My heart can’t take it,” Bodhi says, only half joking.

“I’m not gonna sleep with him,” Jyn replies, looking offended.

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not! Jesus!”

“You, Jyn Erso, are a bisexual menace to society,” he says gravely.

“I’m a bisexual philanthropist, thank you very much, and you, Bodhi Rook, can suck it,” she shoots back easily and lands a solid slap on his arm.

They’re still scuffling like that when Detective Andor returns and drops a file on the desk in front of Jyn. Her face lights up and she tears into the folder with enthusiasm. In addition to Jyn’s many other gifts, she’s also a very fast reader, so she makes short work of scanning through the entire file on the McCallum case. She flops back in the chair once she’s done with the last page, and Bodhi is pretty sure that’s not a good sign.

“Nothing?” He asks.

“Nothing,” Jyn confirms. She rubs her eyes. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. It’s just that...something doesn’t feel right.”

“How so?” Detective Andor asks.

“It’s just a vibe I have.”

“This is some sort of psychic thing? Vibes?”

“You don’t get vibes? I thought everybody got those,” Jyn says.

“I’ve always thought of it more as intuition,” Detective Andor says with a shrug. “It’s not really a spiritual thing.”

“Well, the spirits are telling me there’s more to this case than meets the eye.”

“Your spirits can’t be more specific?”

“Apparently not,” Jyn says, closing the case file with more force than is really necessary. She tosses it gently back to Detective Andor. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Look, if you don’t mind me saying so, this could all be in your head,” he says. When Jyn gives him an annoyed look, he continues, “Hear me out. This probably isn’t the way you saw this case shaking out. Maybe it’s not that you missed something, or that there’s some cosmic imbalance afoot. Maybe you’re just disappointed. But that’s the work. You’ll have to get used to it if you want to keep doing this.”

“Keep doing what?”

“Consulting. You lead us right to the bodies. It might not be the way anyone wanted the case to end up, but you helped solve it. I wouldn’t be surprised if Interim Chief Mothma wanted to use you again.”

Jyn shakes her head. “You know what I still can’t wrap my head around?” She asks, rather than address what Detective Andor has said.

“How to accept a compliment?” Detective Andor suggests.

“Technically, everything you just said was a fact. None of it was actual praise,” Jyn says. Detective Andor gives her a half-smile and motions for her to continue. “What I don’t understand is why everyone thought this McCallum kid had finally turned his life around. From what I hear, this wasn’t his first try at it. He’d screwed it up before. And you even have a report in there of an incident between him and his father that got so heated the neighbors called the cops to intervene. Why was everyone in that family so surprised that this guy was still up to his old bullshit?”

“People can change,” Detective Andor says simply.

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” Jyn asks. When he just shrugs in response, she says, “But you’re a cop!”

“And I wouldn’t be one if I didn’t think this work could make a difference in someone’s life,” he says. “The McCallums didn’t think their son had changed. They hoped he had.”

“Lot of good that did them.”

“Better than the alternative, right? I’d rather hope for the best, than anticipate the worst all the time.”

“That’s a terrible way for a cop to think!”

“I didn’t say that’s the way I actually think,” he says. “Just that it’s how I would rather think.”

“You’re full of shit,” Jyn says, but she looks amused. Fond, even.

“See if I ever help you again,” Detective Andor says, gesturing at her with the case file. “I’m going to put this back before someone misses it,” he adds, and takes off, leaving Jyn and Bodhi alone again.

“That was a very tender moment between you two. I’m glad I got to be here for it,” Bodhi says, for lack of anything better to contribute.

Jyn snorts. “Shut up,” she says, but the expression on her face says her thoughts are still far off.

“Did it help?” Bodhi asks, nudging her with his foot.

“What?” Jyn says, turning her attention to him.

“Anything Detective Andor just said.”

“Oh, no.” Jyn responds, then winces. “I mean, it’s not bad advice, but I just can’t get over this feeling that I’m missing something. I just don’t believe it, you know? That this rich kid botched his own kidnapping so badly that his dirtbag partner turned on him, killed him, and then killed himself because he couldn’t live with the guilt. Oh, and speaking of guilt, this kid’s strict father felt so badly about his son’s disappearance that he apparently tried to kill himself too? Even though he tried to write his son out of his will for being a fuck up? Like, none of it adds up. It doesn’t feel right at all.”

“Wait, what happened with his father?”

“He had this will drawn up—”

“No, you told me about that. You didn’t mention his suicide attempt.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know that for sure,” Jyn says. “When I visited the McCallum house, Mr. McCallum had a bandage on his wrist and he got antsy when I asked him about it. But I overheard some of the help talking and they were saying he tried to kill himself after his son disappeared.”

“So that’s all speculation,” Bodhi says.

“Well, yeah.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“I mean, it could be anything, really. I tried to look through their medicine cabinets to see if I saw anything that would suggest what kind of injury it was, but it was mostly generic stuff, like ibuprofen and allergy medicine. The only name I didn’t recognize was Zin...Zinfandel?”

“That’s a wine, Jyn.”

“Damn it. Uh, Zin… zinacef? Is that something?”

“Yeah. Zinacef is a brand name for cefuroxime. It’s an antibiotic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, for people who are allergic to penicillin.”

“And why would they prescribe it?”

“Like most antibiotics, to treat an infection,” Bodhi says. “And if he had an injury to his wrist, it’s probably because the doctor was worried that the source of the cut could have infected him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, if he cut himself on, I don’t know, a rusted nail or something. Although you’d be more worried about Tetanus in that situation. Maybe an animal bite? Like a cat or a—”

“A dog?” Jyn suggests, interrupting him. Her eyes are wide and she’s leaning forward in her seat.

“Sure,” Bodhi says, shrugging. “Why? Does that mean something?”

“Yeah, it does! McCallum Jr.’s friend who helped him fake the kidnapping had a dog. I saw it at the cabin. It all makes sense now!” Jyn practically shouts.

“It does?”

“Yes! Bodhi, you’re a genius!” She says, grabbing his face in both her hands.

“I am?” Bodhi says.

“Yes, you are!”

“That’s nice. But please don’t kiss me. Your cop boyfriend is coming back and I don’t want him to tase me in a jealous rage.”

Jyn lets him go. “I wasn’t going to kiss you, and Detective Andor is definitely not going to tase you,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I notice you didn’t deny that he was your boyfriend, though.”

“You’re a child!”

“Takes one to know one!” Bodhi shoots back. Jyn reaches out as if to slap him, but he quickly says, “Look alive, he’s on his way over.”

“Shit, I gotta make up a vision,” Jyn says. “This fake psychic thing is way harder than it looks on TV.”

“Yeah, we all feel real sorry for you.”

Jyn glares at him in response as she raises her hand to her forehead in what’s becoming her default faking-a-vision pose. “Help me out,” she says, under her breath, as Detective Andor reappears.

“Oh, Detective Andor, thank goodness you’re back,” Bodhi says, hoping he sounds genuine. He’s doesn’t consider himself to be the world’s best liar. “I think she’s having a vision.”

Detective Andor, for his part, still looks utterly bewildered by the whole thing, so it’s Jyn who actually has to speak up. “I’ve seen our killer,” she says, completely serious.

“You’ve seen their face?” Detective Andor asks.

“No, their wrist,” Jyn replies.

“Their wrist? What good does that do us?”

“I can see it so clearly now,” Jyn says, covering her forehead with her hands. “They found McCallum in his cabin hideout. They figured out the kidnapping was staged before we did and they went to confront him about it. There was a scuffle, between McCallum and our killer. It was an accident, they didn’t mean to kill him, it just happened!”

As Jyn speaks, she keeps her eyes closed, as if she’s actually watching this all happen behind her eyelids. Bodhi can’t help but be impressed. She’s very convincing. For all the trouble it’s caused them, maybe this fake psychic thing is truly her calling. It’s such a ridiculous idea that he’s honestly surprised it didn’t occur to her sooner.

“After McCallum died, his partner came back to the cabin with his dog to find the killer still there. Our killer shoots him and stages it to look like a suicide, effectively pinning McCallum’s death on him instead, but not before the dog bites them and gets a piece of their wrist.” Jyn suddenly opens her eyes and sits back, her face clear of the anguish of her “vision”. She looks at Detective Andor and asks, “Do you know anyone with a mysterious wrist injury?”

Detective Andor blinks at her in disbelief for a few seconds before realization dawns. Then, he quickly reaches for his keys on the desk. “We have to get to the McCallum residence. I’ll call for backup on the way,” he says, and he’s already heading for the exit.

“Are we supposed to follow you?” Jyn shouts after him.

“Yes, let’s go.”

“Alright,” Jyn says, standing up and smacking Bodhi on the knee. “You heard the man. Let’s go catch a murderer.”

“Today has been the weirdest day of my life,” Bodhi says, shaking his head but following after Jyn anyway.

“And it’s not even over yet,” Jyn says with excitement. She loops their arms together once more as they leave the precinct.

***

There’s a light drizzle falling from the sky as Bodhi stands on the front yard of the McCallum residence. Just like Jyn said at the beginning of the case, the house is beautiful and large and absolutely full to the brim with great art and other things that Bodhi would normally nerd out about. Standing there, though, on a rainy Friday night, surrounded by cop cars whose lights are making the whole place glow red and then blue on a constant loop, Bodhi can’t honestly enjoy himself too much.

Mr. McCallum Sr. had been put into a car by an astonished looking Detective Tuesso nearly twenty minutes ago, after admitting to killing his son and his accomplice. The rest of the cops on the scene are still inside taking statements from the other people in the house and getting other relevant details so that they can finally close the case. The atmosphere in there became too much for Bodhi eventually and he excused himself to wait for Jyn outside.

When she finally finds him, he’s looking up at the sky for no particular reason other than the flashing lights from the cars are starting to hurt his eyes.

“You look very emo,” Jyn says, taking in his pose as she approaches.

“You just solved a murder,” Bodhi replies.

“Yeah,” she says, with no small amount of pride in her voice.

“That guy killed his own son.”

“Yeah,” Jyn says, this time sounding somber.

“That’s…” Bodhi starts to say, but he can’t really find the words. “That’s a lot,” he finally settles on, even though it’s nonsense. Jyn will understand, he thinks.

She, of course, nods in response, before also looking up at the sky. “It is. A whole fucking lot,” she says, and he’s glad she gets it.

They stand there in silence for a moment, just listening to the rainfall and the buzz of activity coming from the house behind them. It feels like the first time in hours he’s actually relaxed, ever since he got that call from Jyn this afternoon. He can’t even imagine how she feels.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Jyn says, suddenly. Bodhi looks over at her only to find her already looking at him.

“Yeah, you could’ve,” he says.

Jyn shakes her head. “No. You saved the day.”

“We’re a good team,” Bodhi responds, trying to deflect her praise.

“That we are,” she agrees. “But I’ve always known that.”

“Yeah, no surprise there.”

At that moment, another police car pulls up and a few people get out. One of them, a woman, spots Jyn and walks in her direction.

“Miss Erso,” the woman calls as she approaches.

“Interim Chief Mothma,” Jyn greets her in return. “Good to see you again.”

“I believe we have you to thank for solving this case,” the Chief says.

“Oh, well, I suppose,” Jyn says. “But I had lots of help.”

Interim Chief Mothma’s eyebrows raise in surprise at that. “You did?” She asks.

“From the spirits, of course,” Jyn says, gesturing vaguely upwards.

“Of course,” the Chief echoes. “Well, thank you for your assistance,” she says, offering her hand to Jyn.

“Happy to help,” Jyn replies, shaking the other woman’s hand

“Oh, that reminds me,” Interim Chief Mothma says. “I spoke to your mother on the phone earlier.”

“You did?”

“Yes. As she’s a former member of the department, I wanted to get her take on your value as a consultant and ask her about your abilities. I have to say, you two need to get your stories straight.”

“We do?” Jyn says, and Bodhi can hear the nervousness in her voice. As for himself, he’s pretty sure he’s having a heart attack.

“Yes, you do. Your mother says that your gift didn’t present itself until you were eleven, but when you and I spoke the other day, you said you’d had your psychic abilities since birth,” the Chief says.

“That’s my mother for you,” Jyn says, easily, even though Bodhi can still see the tension in her shoulders. “She always has to undermine me! Just because she didn’t notice my abilities before I was eleven, doesn’t mean I didn’t have them. I’ve told her this a thousand times!”

“Well, I appreciated her insight,” Interim Chief Mothma says. “And I appreciate your work on this case.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t have done it without Bodhi,” Jyn says, gesturing at him. “My chauffeur,” Jyn elaborates, for the Chief’s benefit.

“Ah, of course,” she says, looking bemused. She shakes Bodhi’s hand anyway, which gives him something to do besides elbow Jyn in the ribs. “Thank you both.”

One of the officers calls for her then, and Interim Chief Mothma leaves them with a wave. Jyn and Bodhi look after her for a few seconds before Jyn says, “That was close.”

Bodhi lets out a breath of relief. “No kidding,” he says. “I cannot take anymore stress today. I just can’t.”

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get you home,” Jyn says, patting his shoulder.

“We can leave?”

“Yeah, whenever we want. The cops are done with me for now.”

“Awesome,” Bodhi says, before he remembers the problem. “But my car is still at the precinct.”

“Oh, yeah. Cassian said he’d bring us back when we were ready.”

“Who?”

“Detective Andor.”

“You called him ‘Cassian.’”

“Did you think his first name was Detective?” Jyn asks, rolling her eyes at him.

“You’re on a first name basis with him now?” Bodhi asks, unable to help himself.

“Relax. It’s no big deal,” Jyn says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can call him that too.”

“I should hope so. He’s going to be my best friend-in-law someday.”

“I hate you,” Jyn says, but she’s smiling a little. “I’m going to go find Cassian and ask him to take me back to the precinct. And I’m gonna leave you here. You can walk home, for all I care.”

“If you want some alone time with your boyfriend, all you have to do is ask,” Bodhi replies. Jyn flips him off, which is all the encouragement he needs. “You two, alone in a police cruiser. Very romantic.”

“Don’t give me ideas, Bodhi Rook,” she says, and then she turns on her heel and heads back towards the house.

Smiling to himself, Bodhi follows her.

***

Unsurprisingly, Bodhi doesn’t hear from Jyn for a few days after the McCallum case wraps up. He assumes she’s catching up on all the sleep she missed while she was working the case, an old habit of hers he remembers from when they were in high school. She would always wait until the last minute on projects, pull all-nighters to finish them, and then sleep for days afterwards. For all solving murders and writing research papers are completely different, Bodhi thinks that Jyn’s method of recovering is probably the same for both.

Given the amount of emotional upheaval she went through, Bodhi actually figures it will take longer for Jyn to recover after this, but it’s only Monday when he receives a text from her asking him to meet her that afternoon when he’s done at work.

Sure. At your place? He replies immediately.

No. I’ll text you the address. Her reply comes twenty minutes later.

Why are we meeting at a mystery location?

I have something I need to show you!

You’re making me nervous…

You’re always nervous. See you at 4:30.

Jyn actually remembers to text him the address about ten minutes before he’s planning on leaving the office, and the map on his phone shows that it’s right by the water, but there’s no businesses listed there. Whatever Jyn is trying to do, it’s going to be a surprise, despite Bodhi’s best efforts. He sighs, before gathering his things and heading out for the night.

It’s a short ride from his office to the address Jyn sent him and he finds himself pulling into the small parking lot of a tiny, one story office building that faces the beach. He recognizes the only other vehicle in the lot as Jyn’s motorcycle, so this must be the place. There’s a wide window on the front of the only office housed in the building and, when Bodhi gets out of his car, he sees that there’s a sign painted on the glass that reads, “PSYCH” in big letters and, underneath that in a smaller script, it says, “private psychic detective.”

“Oh, no,” he says to himself, before pulling open the door.

“Bodhi,” Jyn greets him cheerfully when he enters the room.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Depends on who you ask,” she says. “Why? What did I do?”

“You rented office space, for your psychic detective agency! Which is a career you’ve had for less than a week! And, by the way, you’re not actually psychic!”

“Oh, that,” she says, waving a hand at him, as though his are petty concerns.

“You’re not actually naming it that, are you?” Bodhi asks.

“No, Bodhi. I just paid them to hand paint it on the window because I’m a patron of the arts with money to burn.”

“You can’t call it that,” Bodhi says, ignoring Jyn’s joke and changing tactics.

“Why not?

“Psych?” He says, hoping hearing it aloud will make her understand. When she just looks at him blankly, he adds, “As in ‘Gotcha!’”

“No. Psych, as in psychic,” Jyn says, throwing in some jazz hands for good measure.

“It doesn’t read that way.”

“Oh, whatever.”

“Actually, I have a great idea,” Bodhi says, rubbing his forehead. “What if you called it, ‘Hey, We’re Fooling You and the Police, Hope We Don’t Make a Mistake and Someone Dies Because of It.’”

“As catchy as that is, I think that would take up too much space on the window,” Jyn says seriously. “It would interrupt our ocean view and you have no idea how much that cost me.”

“Speaking of which, how did you even get this place? I know your credit score is terrible.”

“True. But yours isn’t.”

“Mine?” Bodhi asks. “What does my credit score have to do with it?”

“You co-signed the lease with me.”

“Funny, I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, you’re a busy man. I didn’t want to bug you with the trivial details, so I signed for you,” Jyn says innocently.

“Jyn!”

“It’s not my fault that your signature is easy to forge!”

“That’s not even remotely the problem here,” Bodhi says, his annoyance clear in his voice. “What real estate agent would allow this?”

“A really terrible one.”

Bodhi groans and covers his face with his hands. Jyn crosses the room to pat him consolingly on the shoulder.

“Hey, lighten up. This is gonna be fun! You and me, solving crimes together,” she says.

That’s enough to pull Bodhi out of his despair and he gives Jyn a disbelieving look. “Jyn, what are you talking about? I already have a full-time job,” he says.

“Oh, believe me, I know. You’re always talking about it, with your steady paycheck and your dental plan and your 411K,” Jyn says bitterly.

“It’s a four-OH-one-K, Jyn.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“I’m not leaving my job,” Bodhi says firmly and he sees Jyn’s face fall. “But, I can help you with cases in my spare time, if you’d like.”

“I would like,” Jyn says, smiling. “I would like very much.”

“Good. Partners?” He says, offering his fist for her to bump, which she does.

“Partners. Of course,” Jyn says, and the two of them enjoy approximately thirty seconds of peace before a noise outside catches Jyn’s attention.

“Okay, look alive,” she says, smoothing out her shirt. “Our 5 o’clock is here.”

“What?!” Bodhi asks, shocked. “You have a client already?”

“We gotta keep the lights on somehow,” Jyn replies.

“The Jyn I know has never paid an electricity bill on time in her life,” he says, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Well, maybe I’m turning over a new leaf,” Jyn says with a small smile, which Bodhi returns easily. If she’s really serious about this, he’s not going to stand in her way.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, pointing a finger at her emphatically.

She points back at him. “Thank you.”

At that moment, a young woman comes through the door, looking around cautiously. “Is this the psychic detective agency?” She asks.

“Yes, it is,” Jyn says. “And I’m the psychic detective, Jyn Erso.”

“Wow,” the young woman says, completely dazzled. She looks at Bodhi then, clearly confused as to his role.

Jyn, for her part, doesn’t miss a beat. “Allow me to introduce my associate, Burton Guster.”

Bodhi doesn’t bother correcting her, giving a small wave instead. This is his life now, after all.

[temporary-ss]

@birkastan2018 Hi! First of all, I’m not really here on tumblr anymore, I’ve deactivated a long time ago. I wanted to chip in on this because it’s spreading like wild fire, it’s the mere reason I’ve made this account.

I admire and understand what you have been doing, I really do. There’s nothing wrong with wanting reviews and recognition from your readers. Writers deserve it through and through! It’s okay to enjoy what you do at the same time ask for feedbacks, IT’S OKAY! No to shaming writers.

Now, let’s go to a more delicate subject which is the main reason I am here now. We want to encourage readers to interact with authors, that’s it that’s the advoacy here. Now, I came to see for myself what the fuss was all about, with some intensive backreading. So what I have noticed there was a “shift,” the one thing you were trying to build destroyed itself. I don’t know if you are aware of this. Instead of encouraging silent readers, name calling happened. Words like “shame,” “selfish,” “sociopath,” “parasites,” etc., all of which lead into this = WORTHLESS. I was shocked! I thought you want readers’ involvement so why? Those were not exactly confidence booster which I think one of the things silent readers lack. I thought you were the adult one. I’ll treat you the way you treat me, yeah do that but on a different account because you are destroying the purpose of this blog by applying this principle. Again, remember your advocacy: encouraging feedback. We are bridging gaps not widening it. Do not pit them against each other. No to reader shaming.

Mental issues is a very sensitive topic which you have adressed also. This has left a bitter taste in my mouth honestly. We don’t know what is happening behind everyone, be it authors or readers. You cannot compare how one handles his/her issues to others. We were always told this during my pre-med: Every person is unique. Everyone have different experiences, coping mechanism, signs and symptoms, etc. You cannot compare how a writer handles it from a reader and vice versa. I think you’ve said something along the lines: If an author with mental issue can manage to write something, readers have no excuse. This is exactly the problem of our society and how they approach mental health. It does not work like that. Patient A and Patient B both have the same diagnosis but present different sets of signs and symptoms - this happens, I’m not gonna go technical and bore you with medical stuffs. Both are important and valid, that’s the bottomline. Yes, it could be an excuse. Don’t undermine mental health. #MentalHealthAdvocacy 

I’m not here for a debate. I’ve read some of your responses, all of which have same points. (they were all long fyi you could easily condense it to one short paragraph. As someone who read thick medical books everyday, just a sight of long posts in the internet makes me puke. But here I am making one, oh the irony...ANYWAY). I am aware of the sacrifices our writers make. Yes, they deserve reaction from readers. It’s okay to feel sad if reviews are vast, its okay to seek it out. But you birk cannot simply force readers or guilt-trip them into leaving one (I haven’t seen writers guilt trip their readers, so this is on you birk, it is not good for the author community so please refrain from doing this). Isn’t it more satisfying to receive a heartfelt genuine review? I’ll choose that over thousands of guilt-tripped/pity/forced/don’t-leave/i-owe-you comments anytime of the day, it’s so fake don’t insult our writers like that. Let’s forget about statistics: Quality>Quantity.(Edit: Literally, the most reviewed naruto fic on ffnet right now is full of spam (70k), let that sink in) I am in no way encouraging silent readers to be silent readers forever. One by one they’ll come around, it may take days, weeks, months, or even years, but they will. Little by little, it may first start with a kudos, a like, a favorite, a follow, a reblog and by the time they left a review they are ready and they mean every word of it and it’s gonna be worth it. It’s very disheartening to hear, your kudos is just a slap in my face, do you think if you said those words it’s gonna make them magically leave a review? No. Instead, you’ve instilled fear and intimidation upon them, making any possible interaction from a genuine reader in the future impossible. Again, the goal is encourage readers not eat them. I know that is what you want, but your sudden deviation on a different yet same path (idk if you were influenced by someone im kinda observant that way...maybe choose your friends wisely) became a trigger for this to spun out of control. You can go back!

Lastly, the “fandom.” Everyone has their own definition of it. But what I can confidently say is that the backbone of the fandom is not you, not me, not the content creators, not the readers. It’s kishi, naruto, the anime, the manga, the characters, the ships. It’s those little canon moments. Isn’t that the reason why we create and built this fandom in the first place? We love them. I’m gonna give you a leeway for this because you’re still pretty new in the fandom. I can see how a person who had been here longer than you get mad at your sentiments. We make contents based of the canon. Many are still here because we cling on those canon moments. We take something and give it a different universe, giving rise to beautiful fan arts and fics, cosplays, conventions, dojinshi, etc. At the end of the day, we go back to those canon moments that we love. It had been so long since naruto ended, but you still see gifs, manga caps of the anime and manga, respectively, you still see analysis of moments, you still see people fighting how the story should have ended (let’s not forget the time when someone made a petition to change the ending like 🙄) or who is better. That is our backbone, our roots.

Additionally, the anon that said something like I will go down with this fandom even if I’m the only one left. I think it wasn’t at all meant to shame anyone. That’s a popular slang(?) in fandom culture: I will go down with this ship, I will go down with [insert anyone here]. That’s passion. That person love naruto and nothing will make it go away, he/she will enjoy naruto despite everything that’s a fan mentality. What do you expect some of us here have been fans since we were children, it had been a part of our lives for more than a decade.

And seriously? “Consumers”? Do it in another place, it is so inappropriate to use this in fandom culture. People are here to enjoy you make it sound so corporate, it is such a kill joy word. Maybe it’s an age thing? We’re not consumers, we are “fans.” Makes me think you see fandom superficially not capturing it’s entire essence.

Birk - do not reduce yourself to name calling, you are bigger than that. learn to see things with an open and clear mind. if you’re not gonna leave your bubble where silent readers are worthless & [insert the words you used to call them], you are not gonna get through with them. remember your goal always. Readers - your opinions and excuses matter and your self-worth can’t and shouldn’t be dictated by anyone. Writers - your’s also matter. its okay to want feedback. its okay to create patreons/kofi, ignore those who said otherwise. keep doing what you love, if passion gets too overwhelming take a breath and relax. if you want to quit doing it, it’s also okay you don’t have to keep doing if you’re unhappy anymore. self care first.

This had been said already but I wanna reiterate. Let’s not forget the real devils here: REPOSTERS, TRACERS, PLAGIARIZERS, ENTITLED PERSONS.

I hope you finish reading this and take it with an open-mind. You gonna meet me half-way here. Otherwise, this will not end. Thank you! P.S. I said I am not here for debate bec I understand your point. It’s okay not to answer me (if you will, don’t make it long, straight to the point but you do you) but let me know if you’ve already read this. 

[bookshop]

Remixes!

I have been remiss (or should that be remixx) in thanking a couple of people who need thanked for recent amazing remixes of some of my fics!

First, on AO3, breathofmidnight stole my breath by remixing my military backstory fic, Love Is Pure Gold and Time a Thief. Their remix—which is their first posted fic, and I’m like, HOW IS YOUR FIRST FIC THIS GOOD?!—examines the events of my fic from Arthur’s point of view rather than Eames’, and it is gorgeous and nuanced and such an unexpected gift that I’m still kind of reeling from the wonder of it.

Like Ships Adrift (We’re Swept Apart)

There are rumors that something big is happening at Fort Bragg, and it’s all the motivation he needs to really let himself get started.

Basic is harder, too much of the useless running and weight-lifting and not enough of the tactics and planning he does well. But there are the weapons, dependably accurate, and he turns to them for the easy comfort of familiarity. He knows how to get what he wants, knows what everyone wants from him and does it, over and over again, constant perfection. If they need him to be perfect, he will be; it’s that simple.

The other men whisper when he passes, and he catches the relevant bits and pieces. There are new foreign liaisons, longer meetings with the higher-ups. It doesn’t matter what it is; it’s big, and he’ll be involved, and he’ll do it to the best of his ability. When the assignments finally come, it’s exactly as he suspected. He’s a lieutenant corporal now, with a band of men at his command, and things are finally going as planned.

Bennett’s name is a surprise, but not a pleasant one. He’s seen him in training, neither the fastest nor the strongest, and he’s seen the way the other man avoids interaction in the halls. Whatever this new opportunity is, it’s the kind with a capital O, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let someone like Bennett ruin this for him. Arthur’s the best at what he does, and he’ll do it to perfection, but if Bennett falls behind, he’s not going to stoop to pick up the slack.

They’re given bigger, cleaner barracks, a new set of clearances, and a strange, whirring contraption in a shiny silver briefcase.

It’s everything Arthur never knew he wanted. It’s dreamshare, and it’s all his.

I’m going to be totally honest here: I don’t normally see the point in re-telling fics from different points of view because generally as written such fics feel to me to be retreads of what we’ve already read, with not a lot of difference or gain in perspective. But (as anyone who was on the Inception slack last fall when I was agonizing over this story probably remembers), I went to great pains to give the story I wrote a very close, limited point of view, and I made Eames a really unreliable narrator. So suddenly when seeing the events in my fic from Arthur’s perspective, things snap into place about their relationship that even I didn’t know, and it’s fantabulous and amazing. Even if you haven’t read my fic, their fic is a superb look at Arthur’s military backstory all on its own, so please go read theirs and encourage them to write more for us in this lovely fandom!

Next up I have to thank @corinnetags!  Corinne remixed my Arthur/Eames angel/demon AU “And I laid traps for troubadours” with a hilarious “bureaucracy remix.” She took the minor side stuff I put in the original fic about the offices of heaven and hell not knowing how to handle Arthur, renegade Angel of Death, and made it a wonderful pastiche of corporate office entanglements! It is great and you don’t need to have read my fic first to enjoy it, so you should all go read it:

As Heads is Tails: How an Angel and a Demon fell in love and the trail of paperwork they left behind

Hell: Department of Demon Resources Employee Training and Re-education Inspection Report: 1 Employee: Azrael Assignment: Angel of Death

Heaven has agreed to keep Azrael in his current position, giving him an angelic counterpart as the Ferrier. Azrael performs his job reaping souls with zeal, although he refuses to fill out his paperwork in triplicate, calling it “a waste of time”. His response to his first job inspection was highly unprofessional. He lacks respect for authority. Threats of punishment were met with laughter. Of course, his independence and disrespectfulness were largely why he was the only Ophalim to Fall and join the rebellion against Heaven, so this could have been anticipated. He has refused to wear the mandated uniform, calling it “tacky and over the top”. These violations have been entered into his official record. No further action has been taken at this time.

The whole thing is a clever look at the fumbling of outside forces to try and contain Arthur and Eames without success, and it’s THE BEST.  Thank you, Corinne!!!

Finally, I already posted about it once, but the mystery artist who remixed my 2002 H/D fic “Every Second” for the H/D remix fest has blown me away several times over.

Violet Light <-- THIS IS STUNNING GO LOOK AT IT.

I also have remixes in both the inception and h/d fests; the h/d reveals aren’t up yet, but for Inception, I wrote “A Rush and a Push and the Land is Ours” for @pinkys-creature-feature!

[thenewbuzwuzz]

Title: A Hundred Tiny Silver Deer Rating: T Words: ~3.6 K Ship: Spuffy Setting: BtVS season 7, in a manner of speaking Summary: Dimension-hopping Spuffy try to figure out what is wrong with season 7. Instead, they find out how to make everything more trippy and medieval.

Repost time! Linked above, on Dreamwidth, is my chapter of the recent Elysian Fields collaborative surrealism party, Exquisite Consequences. I think it's possible to enjoy each chapter separately -- after all, I hadn't read the previous chapters when I wrote it. The first paragraph is my prompt, written by relurker. The chapter title is from Tennyson's "The Last Tournament". I also borrow heavily from canon BtVS dialogue and a certain classic love story that is named in the chapter. A big thank you to Double Dutchess for the coherence beta! I have made a bunch of minor edits since the Elysian Fields version, BUT, if you read this and fall into a plot hole or anything else in particular bothers you, I'd appreciate a holler. I'm sure there's plenty left to clean up before reposting to AO3. One can also read it here, because why not:

“No, you’re right. Every time realities mix, it’s like playing dice with nitroglycerin. You’ll go back to your world in a minute, and reality will be a little different. I don’t know how much of this you’ll remember, or how much of your reality will be different. Extreme times… you know how it goes.” Dawn’s eyes were very bright, too. “Now, you two. Hold hands, close your eyes, and when I say the word, you’ll be in your own place. Bazinga!”

*** Buffy woke up feeling warm and happy, and a bit pleasantly sore. Her nose was smooshed up against... Spike. There was a light touch on her hair that stopped when she stirred. She opened her eyes to see Spike hovering his hand like he wasn’t sure where to put it. She took it in her hand and beamed at him. “Good morning!” Spike seemed to unfreeze. He put his other arm around her and held her close. “Best morning of my life,” he said after a moment. “You remember, then?” Buffy remembered lots of things. They were all jumbled together. Some of it was definitely a dream, thank goodness. (Spike streaming with light like a disco ball, wearing an ugly necklace.) Some of it, she wasn’t sure. (Could cheetahs really do that? And when had she resolved to visit a vineyard? She didn’t even like wine.) “I remember that you have my back,” she told him. “I remember making love to you.” He gave her a breathtaking, unguarded smile. Had she seen that smile before? It felt like she saw it for the first time. Wait, she’d been saying something. “And I remember saying bye to Dawn. Something about mixing realities. She was sending us home, but she said something might be changed.” Spike nodded. “Doesn’t look much like home, does it?” She looked around. “I can see why. There’s not a skull in sight.” They were in a room illuminated by indirect sunlight. The bedclothes were a rich blue and brown with a pattern like leaves or ferns. There were some candles and books and an armchair. “Yeah, I don't know this house. But I know who we are, so this isn’t a Randy and Joan day.” “Well, no randier than usual.” Buffy groaned. “You had to, didn’t you? But, y’know, there is something wrong with this reality. We’re in bed, with clothes. Who does that? There should be no clothes.” So they fixed the timeline. *** Afterwards, they got dressed and made their way to Revello Drive, which turned out to be only a couple of blocks away. Something was definitely off about this reality. Tucker's brother lived with Buffy, for one. So, apparently, did everyone else. There was a bunch of girls calling Buffy “the General” when they thought she didn't hear. And that First Evil loser, which Buffy had met in the real world back when Angel lived in Sunnydale, was apparently still a thing here. This reality’s Scoobies even had little tricks for distinguishing between one of them and absolute evil. What a fun place. “So, really, what you're saying is that we should keep our hands on each other at all times.” She slid her hand into Spike's back pocket. “Ah, thank you, you’ve hit upon the exact opposite of what I would suggest,” Giles said. Yeesh, these Scoobies had issues with Spike. Good thing that Buffy hadn’t taken the opinions of the local Scoobies seriously for a few realities in a row now. Dawn spoke up, “Buffy, don’t you remember what Spike did to you?” “No? I bet this Spike didn’t. I mean, of course he tried to kill me! He’s Spike. But that was years ago, and I’m over it. He has helped us all so much. What’s your problem, people?” “Oh.” Dawn considered. “So he hasn’t, like, tried to make you do anything you didn’t want?” “Pfft. Like he could.” “I wouldn’t hurt Buffy,” Spike said, “not unless she asked me to.” “Eww, Spike, I don’t need to know that,” Dawn said, but she was already grinning. She hugged Spike. “I missed you.” Not trusting Spike, imagine that. Wasn’t it so last season? Or month? Or at least last week? She wasn’t clear on the timeline. “Oh, wait! I haven’t told you guys! See, in our reality, Spike has a special chip that would trigger a headache if he tried to hurt people. He’s safe!” “Thanks ever so,” Spike said and rolled his eyes. Buffy checked under his shirt to see if he was corporeal there, too. He was. Spike pinched her. “Just checking you're not the source of all evil.” “So what’s the verdict? Is my butt evil?” “No.” He leaned closer to her. “It’s all things good and warm and delicious, like all the rest of you.” “Uh huh.” She suppressed a shiver. “You sure you’re not just peckish?” Giles had said some more words while they were doing their part for the war on evil, and Buffy debated asking what those words were. But just then, Faith walked in with even more girls, carrying weapons. They’d been out patrolling, Faith said, but couldn’t remember why they’d gone in broad daylight. It had ended well, though. While regrouping, they’d heard a distant underground explosion and found a whole arsenal of goodies, only protected by a few Bringers. “Hey, you’re just in time, guys,” someone piped up at the kitchen door. It was that twitchy guy who quoted movies all the time. The one who had teared up when Spike asked him who he was. Tucker’s brother. “I made an early lunch,” he said and gestured with oven mitts. The aroma of deep-fried onions followed in his wake. “You were right, Spike, ice water really helped.” After a lot of delicious, calorie-laden food, Buffy decided to follow the nagging feeling that she should be at a vineyard. It paid off. They beat up some Bringers easily, just like the last time she remembered, and Buffy got to King Arthur a battleaxe out of a rock. After some research, Giles and Willow told her the axe was originally supposed to be a scythe. Another reality change, then. As long as they were all going to be this harmless... *** Things got murkier when Angel arrived out of the blue and gave Buffy an amulet that looked oddly familiar. At least he didn’t want to stay and chat once he saw that Sunnydale wasn’t as apocalyptic as he’d thought. “It has a purifying power and a cleansing power, and, bonus, it bestows strength,” Buffy recited to the group after Angel was gone. “What is that about? I don’t think anyone here needs to be purified.” “Prefer me dirty, Slayer? Mutual,” Spike said and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Something clicked. “Spike,” she said. That’s where she had seen the necklace before. “You wore this in my dream. There was... a lot of fire. You were talking about cleanup, and everything was collapsing. I think you were on fire, too.” A dark-haired girl who’d introduced herself as Shannon spoke up. “It kind of sounds like what that creepy preacher guy said when he drove me here. A cleansing fire? He said it would cure the world of weakness.” Everyone went silent. “It’s okay, unfamiliar girl,” Anya finally said. “It’s not your fault the deranged clergyman died in a car crash, even if he was distracted because you were talking to him. And you never know, maybe he deserved it.” She gave Shannon an encouraging smile. Giles winced. “Anya’s right about one thing. We cannot avert every tragedy, only do our best.” “I’ve heard this before, though,” Willow said, hunched small. “About cleansing fires and letting them burn away souls and bring death.” Giles made a thinky noise. Sometimes Buffy was just so happy she had a Giles on her side. “I agree, we can’t rule out a connection to the Proserpexa temple on Kingman’s Bluff.” “So this amulet thing sounds pretty dodgy?” Buffy summed up. It was more of a hunch than anything, but more of her dreams were coming back, and she didn’t like them one bit. “It’s not impossible that Angel thought he was helping,” Giles said generously. “He has been misled before about what help, uh, entails. Of course, we may be able to discover more about the artifact with some research. There may be a use for it yet.” “Right. Thanks,” Buffy said. She handed the necklace over to Giles and caught Spike’s eye. “They put the spark in me, and all it does is burn,” she said quietly. “That’s what you said in my dream. And you were smoking, Spike. As in, there was smoke rising from you. Don’t do that.” Xander said, “You know what they say. You’re a fool if you think smoking is cool.” There was a hint of real concern in his voice. “And there’s more.” They had felt like Slayer dreams, now that Buffy thought of it. “I remember a phrase. Someone was telling you, ‘Touch her, you’re gonna wake up on fire.’ I think they meant me.” “Well, I’d say I’ve touched you all right,” Spike said. “We should find out what’s up with this,” Buffy said. “Could it be realities mixing together? Dawn told us – not you, the Dawn in the other reality – that what we did was like playing dice with explosives. I want to know for sure if my dice are going to explode, you know? Or anyone else for that matter.” She grasped Spike’s hand more tightly. *** “Okay, there’s the shadow of Jonathan’s old charisma spell,” Willow said half under her breath, sitting cross-legged with her eyes shut, “and this is the monks’ spell for Dawn. I think this might be traces of Sweet, gee, there’s a lot of wishes being made lately… actually, all of this stuff might not be wishes. It’s like patchwork around here. I’m sorry, Buffy, I’m not sure I could see a reality mixing into ours even if it was right in front of me. Wait, well, there is this thing… I’m not sure what it is.” She paused. “It doesn’t look like an alternate reality exactly, but it’s not anything else I know.” “Well, what does it look like?” Buffy was pacing. “Kind of similar to Sweet’s singing spell. Neater and less detailed than the other ones. It’s probably not a full world, but more like a pattern, like maybe something based on a story.” “That’s the penalty when life is but a song,” Dawn said like she was just remembering something. “Quite right, those were Sweet’s words,” Giles said. “We did all see that exposure to artistic reality changes can lead to combustion.” Willow repurposed the shadow caster to work as a portal to the reality she’d seen, so they could step in and investigate. She said it was a Prose Portal. Apparently, she’d read about those in England in some grimoire called “The Eyre Affair”. Willow said it would be easiest for Spike to enter the portal, because the story world was already linked to him. Buffy could follow. They said bye to everyone for the time being. Even Xander clapped Spike on the shoulder. “Hey, if you see any fluffy dragons in there, remember to grab one on your way out. We could use a luck dragon.” *** Spike floated in and out of scenes as if in a dream. Someone was reading a story to him. Maybe it was his mother, or maybe just the voice that he usually heard in his own head when reading – in any case, it was a voice he trusted and gladly followed. Some of the time, he saw himself from a distance, acting the story out. He loved a queen who wasn’t his to wed. His lady belonged to no king, true. It was to the graveyard that she returned faithfully every night, her sacred calling the only vow she had taken. But her golden hair shone brighter than that of any king’s bride. The wine was drugged. It let thorny love take root in his blood, and with it, sweet-smelling, sunlit death. Or was it that the blood was drugged? It was too late, at any rate. He’d already drunk it, felt it burn in his throat and all the way down to his gut (god, no, please, no). “Well, then, come, death,” they both said and gave themselves over to love. And all around them, the walls, the floor, the ceiling cracked and broke. He was in a bathtub, and she was threatening him with a sword. He’d killed her kin, it was true, but (he tried to explain) it was always a fair fight. By right of combat, he’d hold his own against anyone who dared say he was in the wrong. They were holding trial by combat right now, not against her, someone else, in a room decked with crosses (God their witness). He won, because he was right. Her castle was fenced with sharp stakes, but he leapt over them every night to send her messages. When enough water had flowed by in the stream, she would come out to meet him, he knew it. Alone in the wilderness, they slept on a bed of leaves and ferns, side by side yet chastely distant, a naked blade between them. In the morning, they found a new weapon in its place, red blade proudly curved, fit for a king. Many deeds he had done for her, and his madness was from her alone. He walked back home to her, barefoot, a fool, and she told him she knew him not. The other, more pleasant Iseult (Wait, who? He meant Buffy.) tried to soothe him and heal him with her soft, white hands. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked. He told her, “Just be Buffy.” A dragon returned every year to Buffy’s town, collecting tribute. It was a matter of time before it claimed her. The right thing was to volunteer as a sacrifice, so she wouldn’t have to fight. After all, his life was rightfully hers, because she had returned it. They’d drunk love mixed with death long ago. He knew how to make the story end right. It had been worth it. *** Buffy was good at dreams when she put her mind to it. She kept a dream diary, so she could remember her Slayer dreams in more detail. After the First Slayer attacked them all, Buffy had started practising ways of telling whether she was dreaming or not. She hadn’t wanted to be caught off guard again. So when she floated into the dreamlike story world and saw the air shimmer golden, something registered as slightly suspicious at the back of her mind. She was in a crumbling house. She’d had magic weed, and it was taking root in her blood. If she wasn’t careful, all her fingers would sprout purple, sweet-smelling sage flowers through the ruins, and everyone would know that she was in love with her death. The scene changed. Spike was in a bathtub, and she was threatening him with a sword. She remembered this, but it wasn’t quite right. He was supposed to be in chains, and she should be threatening him with blood. Wait, that didn’t make sense either. Was she dreaming? She jumped and watched herself float down slowly. She was dreaming. Or something like it. Now she remembered going into the alternate reality with Spike. She looked up, meaning to tell Spike what was going on, but he had disappeared. She flew around the dreamlike world and looked for Spike. Lots of forests, fortresses, and small towns. Not enough Spike. She found a cliff instead. There was a cave, and near the mouth of the cave, Spike was trying to put some chains on himself. They kept slipping off. She walked up and grabbed the chains to free him. He yanked them back. “Respect the narrative flow, would you! I want to see how it ends.” “Oh, no, you don’t. I say it’s not ending this way.” “I’m not afraid, Buffy,” he said and smiled. “I would, you know, for the right person? For you.” “I don’t want you to die for me!” Buffy yelled. Silence rang. What the hell. It was only a dream. “I want to live with you,” she added. Spike blinked. He pinched himself. “Am I dreaming?” he asked. “Yes!” she said. “Or close enough. I mean, I meant it, but also, you’re dreaming. And you really, really need to snap out of it.” The chains disappeared. “I’m not asking you for anything, you know,” he said, his eyes warm. She was on a throne now, and he was kneeling. “When I say I love you, it’s not because I want you…” “Well, why the fuck not? What’s wrong with wanting me?” “You’re missing the point, Slayer.” He sounded more like himself. “No, you’re missing the point! We’re going home! Together. Got it?” Spike finally seemed to come to his senses. He got up and looked around. “So this is where all the fire bollocks came from, is it?” Buffy nodded. She was so relieved to talk to Spike without thrones or misused chains. “Why fire, though? There isn’t anything really fiery here, so why was it that way back home?” “Well, what else does death look like for a vampire?” “Point,” Buffy said. “I guess it’s harder to have prophetic dreams about wood.” Spike started to waggle his eyebrows, but then there was a roar and a rumble. Something was coming out of the cave. A muzzle and a pair of round ears appeared, along with eyes that seemed to fairly glow with evil intent. It was a bear. “What is it with the bears?” Spike exclaimed. “I could live for decades at a time without running into one, until I met you. I hold you accountable, Slayer.” “Undo it, undo it,” Buffy said smiling and hefted her red axe. “I’d like to see you keep your calm when you’re trussed up like some sacrificial virgin and one of these things comes at you. Did you know they can decapitate a moose in one go?” The bear was half out of the cave now. It turned to stare at them with bright red eyes and huffed. Fire shot out of its nostrils. It was the greenest, most scaly bear Buffy had ever seen. “Wait,” Spike said, suddenly grinning. “You’re not a bear at all, are you, beastie?” He bounced on his heels and unsheathed his sword. “Spike. How is it good news that it can breathe fire?” “Aw, don’t tell me you never wanted to slay a dragon.” The creature’s skin glittered in the sunlight, covered in black, yellowish green, and transparent crystals. A long tail dragged behind it. “Dragon slaying it is, then. I mean, someone’s got to save the world from this fashion disaster. Glittery snakeskin overalls? So seventies.” And then it was on. The red blade sang through the air, Buffy’s muscles sang with the weight of the axe, and, though she might not have phrased it that way in another world, her heart sang to feel Spike fighting beside her. They weren’t getting anywhere, though. Spike had managed to leap aside from the flames every time so far, but the dragon’s skin was too tough. “Wait a mo,” Spike said when they retreated to rest for the third time. The dragon rumbled its way towards them like the world’s slowest rock avalanche. “I know this dragon. The head of a bear and red eyes like coals of fire… say, do its ears look tufted to you?” “Definite tufting vibe,” Buffy said. “Thought so. This fellow is from the Romance of Tristan and Iseult. ...Explains a lot, actually. Well, we’re not going to have any luck cutting its skin, and the saliva is poisonous.” “Any other good news?” Spike muttered something rhythmic under his breath, keeping the beat with one hand. “It will die if we shove a sword down its throat.” “Neat. What doesn’t.” “But we’ve got to be careful and not touch its tongue.” They made short work of the dragon, so that all the more time was left for wacky dream sex that defied everything: physics, description, and the status quo. “Okay, how do we get out of here?” Buffy said eventually, as they snuggled on the cave floor that could only be so comfortable in a dream or story. A map appeared in her hands. It was blank apart from a label that said, “BUSH”. “It's retrograde,” a white rat said from the deep end of the cave, “but that's… that's okay!” Buffy rotated the map, and it began to change like a kaleidoscope, along with the walls of the cave. Every stretch of wall bloomed with colorful tapestries of… her and Spike, in the best rendition of some textile artist. Buffy in a black beanie, standing side by side with Spike while the unconscious body of a six-headed lion draped over what was probably meant to be a car. Buffy hugging Spike, a wide grin on her face and a ring glittering on her finger. The two of them lying naked on the floor behind strategically placed pieces of rubble, in the ruins of a building that looked oddly fortress-like. Sitting on the porch while a porcupine creature squatted in the grass… had that been there? More and more tapestries appeared, and Buffy knew each one was a door, the way you know things in dreams for no reason. With a quite different certainty, she knew they’d be fine wherever they went together. Buffy and Spike smiled at each other and stepped through time hand in hand.