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hankwritten · 1 year ago

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A Tavern Named Keep [1/6]

Demoman-centric Modern AU

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

In a small uni-town in New Mexico, DeGroot Keep serves liquor and succor to an eclectic yet loyal group of patrons, and has for many years. The Keep owes its success to its equally colorful owner, who always seems to know what you need—whether that be a stiff beer or a word of advice. But, between setting up his patrons or sifting through his friends’ problems, will Tavish remember to take care of himself?

Nestled between the Law Offices of one B. L. Tarch and the perpetually-closed Geranium Germinated Wheat Bakery, there sits a modest little Tavern by the name of DeGroot Keep. One wouldn’t be blamed in mistaking the Keep for…anything else really; the structure is made from a homey, tan stone that gives it the air of a snug residential building (and indeed, its proprietor does live in the room above the tavern, but we’ll get to him later.) Fresh green paint trims the windows and roof, never a flake nor chip as a point of pride. Although the tavern’s name hangs above a pair of heavy wooden doors just off the street, this sign is only a formality, as the true entrance to DeGroot Keep (as transcribed by its sole employee on a borrowed flashcard and taped to the door) is procured from the eastern side, down the hall to the right. This esca of a front door can’t be breached even if one tries; within, the Keep’s largest and most impressive wooden table blocks the entirety of it, crouching like a curmudgeonly boulder. Nicknamed the Elephant, (both for its girth and the fact that sixteen dancing elephants are carved into legs), the monstrosity can only be moved by four fairly-fit adults working in coordination, which is a big ask for the patrons of the Keep, so there the Elephant sits. This is actually one of the least egregious examples of the business’s fire and safety hazards.

To truly access this strange example of an alcoholic establishment, one must pass through the repurposed gap-between-buildings, underneath the pergola, and betwixt two stone sea-serpents if they judge you worthy. The spot of shaded greenery one finds there is something to marvel at, though few do. During the day it is shaded, and as the sun goes down, hanging lights guide potential customers to the actual front door.

This is the journey of one truly haggard prospective patron, newly jet-lagged and irate from the front door’s runaround, grumbling to himself with a distinct Australian accent as he pushes inside. Tavish, as well as the handful of early customers hunkered in their normal pods, look up at the bell’s ring.

“Aye there!” greets the bartender, as genial as they come, slipping into the smile he reserves for courting the uninitiated to his place of business. “Welcome to DeGroot Keep! What can I get for you, stranger?”

The newcomer startles. Hearing a thick Scottish accent in the deep reaches of the southern United States usually does that—in Tavish’s experience—so he’s just glad that the man’s forgotten to be sour-faced for a second. It’s not so odd that it distracts him for more than a moment, though, and he drifts closer to the bar. “Beer.”

“Coming right up!”

Tavish moves automatically, bottles sliding behind the bar with a practiced ease, acting on hunch as sizes up the man before him. He’s not paying attention to the bartender's hands, instead finally getting hit with the sheer unorthodoxy of the tavern’s décor, the Elephant not the least of it. This is perfectly fine for Tavish, who begins the process of rimming a glass tumbler.

“Flight just get in?” he fields, as his customer gazes around in bafflement.

“…Yeah.” The man’s frown—before with an air of perpetual irritation that was more aimed at the general world rather than Tavish in particular—grows slightly suspicious. It tugs him enough out of his beguilement. “How’d you know that?”

“Just a guess.” Tavish shrugs. “You can wear the sunglasses indoors all you like lad, but it wouldn’t hide those bags unless you had a bag o’re your head.”

There is a moment, a moment where Tavish tenses, knowing that not everyone would take brusque ribbing from a stranger with anything more than offense, but then the stranger fully processes what’s been said. He laughs. It’s an abrupt little thing, more of a bark really, but the tension between them breaks, and the Australian sits down.

“Your drink, sir,” Tavish says as he slides it towards him.

“…This isn’t a beer.”

“ ‘S the same price.” A half grin curls up mischievously. “Humor me.”

The man, now sitting at one of the vinyl-clad bar stools patterned to resemble a vintage bottle cap, takes a hold of the mixed drink and knocks it back. After a second, he sets it down, licking the corner of his mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he says. “That’s a damn good drink, mate.”

The hunch, now confirmed, eases back into the twinkle of Tavish’s eye. “Well they don’t call me the greatest bartender between the 106th and 107th longitudes for nothing! I do my best.”

Snorting, the man says, “Mick Mundy.”

“Tavish DeGroot,” Tavish replies, taking the offered hand.

“DeGroot,” Mick hums. “As in DeGroot Keep, then?”

“No actually, complete coincidence. Bought the place from a woman named Dee Gertrude Roots, her pride and joy it was, founded it in the 70s as a swinger’s club. Anyway, terrible thing happened to the ‘ole girl: ‘twas the day of her retirement, and right as she hands me the keys, that there moose-shoe hanging above the door comes free ‘o its nail. Dropped on her noggin, and killed dead right there.”

Mick turns to stare at the comically large horseshoe christening the Keep’s doorway, before glancing skeptically at Tavish. “You’re fucking with me.”

“ ‘Course I’m fucking with you. ‘As in DeGroot Keep?’ Bah, what sort of half-brained question is that?” But Tavish says it with such teasing humor that Mick can’t help but laugh too. Tavish’s starting to like this man, now that he’s getting a good feel for his ins-and-outs.

Gesturing with his half-finished drink, Mick admits, “DeGroot or Roots, you’ve got a real weird bar on your hands.”

“Tavern,” Tavish corrects seriously. When Mick raises an eyebrow, he blisters, “ach, you’re as bad as the Americans, can’t tell a bar from a pub, let alone a proper tavern when you see one.”

“Don’t let him start draw ‘n quartering you for that,” a voice speaks up from beyond Mick and Tavish’s conversation. “Trust me, ain’t no one in the world makes the distinction but him.”

The three men near the door, whose exchange Tavish has been listening to with half an ear, have noticed that Mick has settled into an amicable conversation, the fact that it’s gone on reasonably long marking him as ‘the alright sort’. The regulars around here know better than to crowd any new faces, lest their enthusiasm chase them off. Tavish has a business to run, after all.

“And that’s what’s wrong with your bloody country,” Tavish points at the interrupter. “No one cares but me! When the day comes you’ll all slide into the ocean, except for I and the Keep, the only ones who bothered to remember that words mean things.”

Ignoring him, Dell speaks right on past to Mick. “Bet he told you he was the best bartender in the county too,” the customer-swiping bastard says, elbowing Mick in the side. “He mention he only won that competition because the other contestant had even fewer eyes than him?”

“You just have to ruin everything for me, don’t you Conagher?” Tavish asks, and Dell laughs.

They quickly round-table the introductions, Dell the only one to reach out and shake Mick’s hand. Mikail stoutly offers his name before retreating back into silence, but when it comes to Dr. Ludwig’s turn, he states abruptly, “and I am a free man!”

Mick falters, but to his credit, it’s only momentarily. “Congratulations? Got ‘ta say though, you got balls mate. Most people don’t offer up when they’ve just been out of prison.”

“Prison?” Ludwig says, eyes immediately narrowing behind his spectacles, snapping into suspicion in an instant. “Who told you about that? I want names!”

“I uh,” Mick says, obviously taken aback. Thankfully, Dell always has his thumb on the pulse of whenever something farcical is about to go on.

“What Doc means to say,” he assuages, “is that he’s been freed from the institution of marriage, not the institution of…institutionalization.”

Ludwig’s mood is gone as quickly as it’d come. “Ah ha ha, yes. Silly misunderstanding. Excuse my slip of the tongue.”

Still looking like he’s been swiped at by a wild animal, Mick cautiously says, “…roight.”

“But yes, the papers came in this morning! As of today, I am a free man.”

He proves this by spreading out said papers across the booth’s table, and reciting in glee the legal severances which he had been granted over a multitude of affidavits and certifications. Tavish, having the misfortune of not being able to move from his post, knows Ludwig’s been doing this for the past hour and a half. Mikhail and Dell have shown him saintly support however, the later patting him on the shoulder as he launches into another gleeful discussion of alimony. They’ve retracted back into their corner, for which Mick is grateful.

“Eclectic lot you got,” he tells Tavish. “Setup to a joke, isn’t it? A German, a Russian, and American walk into a Scotsman’s bar.”

“Tavern,” Tavish says. “And you haven’t seen the half of it. Wait until you meet-”

The bell tinkles, heralding the arrival of Tavish’s only employee and their begrudging chauffeur.

“You’re late,” he tells Pyro.

The bout of muffled, frustrated yelling he gets in response is directed at Jeremy, who puts his hands up in defense. Pyro points at their roommate furiously, laying the truth bare.

Tavish raises a brow at the sputtering man. “You slowed down just so you could stare at the track team’s arses?”

“It’s a student crossing zone!” Jeremy caterwauls with the trod upon hallmarks of an argument carried all the way from campus to the bar. “I had to slow down. And, y’know, maybe while we were stopped I looked, but I was-”

Pyro throws their hands up in exasperation and walks behind the bar.

Mick, meanwhile, has been gazing at Pyro nonstop since they stepped in the door. Tavish doesn’t blame him. It’s not every day you see someone in a fully flame-retardant suit tie on an apron and then put a little chef’s hat on their head.

“Jaw off the floor, lad,” he says to Mick, not unkindly.

Realizing he’s staring, the Australian self-consciously follows the command. “…Sorry.”

“ ‘S alright. They get that a lot.”

The person in question doesn’t even notice the conversation has fallen on them, shuffling to the back kitchen in preparation of the upcoming dinner rush.

“…They wear that all the time then?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, swinging into the stool on Mick’s right. “It’s cool though. Believe it or not, Pyro’s not even the 4th weirdest person at TFU.” Jeremy pauses, as though just registering who he’s talking to. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Scout, be nice,” Tavish warns.

“What? I am being nice! I’m asking who this chucklenut is, ain’t I?”

“Mundy,” Mick growls, already deciding he’s not going to like this kid.

“And I’m Jeremy, but everyone calls me Scout, so there, now we’re all acquainted and shit.”

“They call you Scout?” Mick asks dubiously. “Why?”

“Uh, ‘cause it’s my name, duh.”

“What kind of name is Scout?”

“What kind of name is Mundy?”

Tavish, feeling that occupying the new guest is handled for a little while, (assuming Jeremy doesn’t annoy him to death), gracefully withdraws from the conversation in the horizontal direction—sliding down the bar to where his second most care-intensive client is.

“Lassie,” he says, gently jostling her shoulder, “it’s 5:19.”

“Urg,” Pauling says, lifting from the gentle cushion of her folded arms and into the buzzing light of the Keep, illuminated as it is by the faux-stained glass filtering down from the ceiling. Her cats-eye glasses are ever so slightly out of place, much like the stray hairs popping up from her bun as though they too have just been woken from a nap.

Another bartender might be concerned to find a woman passed out on his bar after only one gin and tonic, but Tavish knows that this particular woman is only held together by stress and paperclips. Before she’d come through Keep’s doors, she’d been going on thirty hours without sleep. It was no wonder that she’d walked in, taken her usual, and then immediately slumped over in her favorite chair.

“Wuzz…” she grumbles, then shoots up like a jack-in-the-box. “5:19? I told you to wake me up at 5:14!”

“I know, but you were just so exhausted looking, I thought you deserved a wee bit longer.”

“It’s not about deserving.” The papers that had provided a barrier between wood and face are gathered quickly, slotted into clipboards and shuffled into her accordion bag. “It takes sixteen minutes to get from here to The Facility at a brisk walk, but to get there in eleven I’ll have to punch that up to a light jog and then I’ll be sweaty, and the Administrator will notice because she always notices and-”

A stray paper flutters away as Pauling fails to put it in its appropriate folder.

“Crap.”

That’s not the end of Pauling's troubles either. As she makes her break towards the door, Jeremy scrambles out of his chair and into her way. “Yo, Miss P!”

“Scout. What is it. Kind of in a hurry.”

Jeremy, with his cap a little crooked as he rubs the back of his head, inevitably does not take the hint and says, “yeah you’re always in a hurry, that’s why it took so long to tell you, I wanted to bring it up when it was new ‘n all-”

“Scout. Talk faster.”

“I just uh,” he flounders. “I got a new bike. A scooter, like yours, just because you make it look so cool, and when my car broke down I figured I could make it, uh look cool...too,” he finishes lamely. “So like, in the future if you ever want to talk about bikes and stuff?”

There is a heavy, prolonged movement of air. A sigh if a sigh were on the inhale, sucking all the aggravation out of the tavern like a straw sucking up Gin and Tonic. “That’s great Scout. We can definitely. Do that.”

“Really? That’s great! I mean uh, that’s cool.” He notices that he’s still blocking her exit. “Sorry, let me just uh…” With that, he scoots out of the way, and Pauling is off at a light jog.

Tavish waits until the bell has longs stopped ringing before frowning at Jeremy. “I thought you were over your crush on her.”

“What?” Jeremy seems genuinely startled. “I am! Like wayyy over it, over the moon about it.”

“Not what that means, lad.”

“Point is I’m not into her.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “I just still want to be her friend, okay? That so freaking hard to believe?”

“With you, a bit.”

Mick, watching the exchange with amusement, snorts. Jeremy glares.

“Glad Scout didn’t chase you away,” Tavish says, done with his sworn Pauling-attending duties and free to return to his other customers. “Now that Pyro’s in, we should have the kitchen up and running soon. If you’re staying around that is?”

Mick pauses, and takes a good hard look at the interior of DeGroot Keep. His eyes go up to the inlaid stone ceiling, festooned with glass lamps and beaded tassels that are now doing the heavy lifting as the daylight fades. He takes in the decoration: the murals of lonely bagpipe players inlaid to the wall as if they were tiled there, the stringless harp hung above the bar, the mounted deer head with a cigar in its mouth. His attention hovers on the group of new acquaintances, still carrying on their warm conversation in the corner.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

Tavish smiles. “Here’s the menu,” he says, sliding the laminated square toward Mick.

DeGroot Keep ( all tax included )

Flaming Burritos $11

Shrimp Flambé $16

Cheese Saganaki $10

Steak Diane $20

Bananas Foster $7

Crème Brule $7

Baked Alaska $11

“He lets Pyro write the menu,” Jeremy says fondly, swinging back into his place beside Mick.

“Aye. And if you ever order a Swedish Glogg, it’s my solemn oath to let Pyro know so they can light it on fire themself,” Tavish says with a wink.

“I don’t even know what a Swedish Glogg is,” Mick says, pouring over the menu in bewilderment.

“Would you like to find out?”

He blanches somewhat. “Maybe some other time.”

At that, the words burrow themselves somewhere warm in the vicinity of Tavish’s heart. Some other time meant the future, meant that even if this stranger was only here for a little while, he’d be back again. The thing is, Tavish likes people. As much as he likes drinks, as much as he likes being a business owner, there’s something special about the way you connect with someone over a bar, one that he’d never gotten anywhere else. He likes this collection of people he’s accumulated, the way ‘regulars’ don’t quite describe them. Because the Keep isn’t a normal tavern, not really.

As Pyro swoops in to take Mick’s—and eventually Jeremy’s—order, Tavish moves a step back, sliding into the background as he uses the moment to drink it all in.

“Hm. New recruit.”

The voice comes from Pauling’s old spot, now a bit shadier than before. In it, a much larger man sits as he contemplates the stranger at the far end of the bar, a bottle of beer before him. He must have snuck in with his spare key, even though Tavish has told him a thousand times that ‘avoiding populated thoroughfares’ isn’t what it’s for.

“Jane,” Tavish laments, though there’s no true reprimand in it. “You don’t need to get your own drinks,” he says of the beer.

Jane draws it closer to himself, as though Tavish might try to take it away. “…Didn’t want to bother you.”

“I’m your bartender, lad. It’s my job.”

Tavish begins the task of retrieving a mug from the lowest shelf, and pouring Jane his usual. As he does, he watches Jane watch the gaggle up front, a look of concentration crossing his already stern features.

“What’s he about, then?” Jane asks as Tavish pours until the beer’s head is just about to crest over the edge.

“Dunno. Haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“But you think he’ll stick around.”

Not a question. “Well, I have a good intuition about these things.”

Jane tilts his head in Tavish’s direction. “Undoubtedly! Your talent for acquiring fruitcakes and weirdos is unparalleled within the state of New Mexico.”

“Aye, that’s how I found you dinnae I?”

To that, Jane only grins, and takes a sip of his beer.

And well, he’s not wrong, is he? Tavish takes a look around at the cozy little community, chuckling as Jeremy inserts himself into Dell’s side of the booth and makes a nuisance of himself, thinking about how he could get Pauling to possibly slow down for a few minutes next time. It’s nice to have a group of people he can count on to always be around, not the least because they’re paying him to make them drinks. It’s nice to have folks to look after.

As a few more people come in through the Keep’s portcullis, he once again remembers to be grateful for everything he’s got.

#tf2 fanfiction #team fortress 2 #tf2 demoman #tf2 sniper #tf2 medic #tf2 scout #tf2 engineer #tf2 pyro #tf2 heavy #tf2 miss pauling

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bananahoneycomb · 1 year ago

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Steve centric steddie fic idea

My Silliness persists :

Steve is having some trouble dealing with all the stress of the upsidedown life. One night when he can't sleep he flips through the tv and lands on an episode of 'The Joy of Painting' with Bob Ross. He decides to give painting a try. He asks will for advice.

He follows along with Bob Ross but he finds he wants to paint people. So he adds them into his 'happy little world' as he paints with Bob Ross. He's not good, but it makes him feel better and Will is very encouraging.

He starts painting those who died into Boss Ross paintings. He paints them doing the things he wishes they had a chance to do. Things that would have made them happy or just being happy in whatever way made sense in the painting. They are little more than stick figures at the start but he gets a bit better. He paints Barb a lot, smiling with Nancy. And Eddie. He paints Eddie even more and he's letting himself think about why.

When Eddie comes back mindflayed and memory scrambled/brainwashed by Vecna he is ready to kill everyone. His gate opens in Steve's pool and he sees Steve through the window so he goes for him first...only he stops dead. Steve is watching Boss Ross and painting Eddie playing guitar on top on a mountain. Vecna's hold broken by sheer confusion and the deep core need Eddie has to be wanted.

It is important to me that Steve's painting is only just recognizable and still so very rough

#steddie fic idea

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feeshies · 2 years ago

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i hesitated to make this post bc it's a vague frustration instead of calling people out directly, but it's been bubbling up inside of me for a while and no single person was the catalyst. also it's my blog. i get to vent.

i get annoyed when some people in trans spaces (including transfemme spaces, even though i can't speak to that directly) claim that (east) asians have an "easier" time being trans because our "natural androgynous" appearances make it easier to "pass"

i added "east", but you know these people don't lol. they just say "asians" as if south asians, southeast asians, west asians, and central asians all look like k-pop idols.

even most east asians don't look like k-pop idols??? the korean men in my family have broad shoulders and square jaws. the koreans i know show way more variety than you could get from a white person's gender envy pinterest board.

this sentiment only holds an ounce of water if you believe that the trans struggle begins and ends at "passing". why don't you talk to trans poc instead of reducing them to an aesthetic.

not everyone wants to be androgynous??? i certainly agonized over my inability to grow decent facial hair.

so much of (east) asian existence in trans spaces is boiled down to aesthetics. it's anime, k-pop, advertisements, our skin, our features, our bodies. it's like people are window-shopping for our culture without bothering to come inside and chat with the owners.

don't get me wrong, i've definitely used my heritage to my advantage. one time someone tried to justify getting my gender wrong because i'm "small with effeminate features", and i played dumb and responded with "well...my family is korean, is that what you're talking about?" and they got so uncomfortable and it was amazing. i dominated that interaction and i don't feel sorry.

but it's a shitty and alienating feeling. and this is coming from someone who isn't always immediately identifiable as east asian. i can easily pass as other groups or just "spicy white" if i need to, but it's a different story when i see how some white people in trans spaces talk about my heritage.

(also i'm obviously not going to go there, but i've seen some black transmascs talk about not being able to ask for advice regarding looking more masculine, because white people will tell them that they already look masculine. again, not my place to speak, but i feel like it's at least related to the same problem and how race is tied to gender in white-centric spaces).

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missamyshay · 8 months ago

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Talk Shop Tuesday: as someone that is not American innit, how do you navigate writing almost exclusively American characters? Do you do a lot of research? Use culturally absorbed knowledge?

HEY. 🤫

Perhaps the answer to this would be more accurate coming from someone who reads my writing instead of me—because I think how well I navigate it is entirely dependent on whether it actually works or not lol. It’s hard for me to know how authentic it feels to people who are American.

That being said, I think there are parts of the process that are easier than others. Certain ways of talking or turns of phrase are things we generally pick up from consuming media that is very US-centric. I also have some American friends and family members, so to some extent some of that stuff comes organically. Although there are times when I very consciously have to dial back my “Britishisms”. It’s so hard not to write stuff like “taking the piss” or starting sentences with “to be fair”, etc. But swapping out words like “bin” for “trash”, or “pavement” for “sidewalk” is very natural.

I can NEVER wrap my head around US geography though. It’s too big for my brain to comprehend. But luckily I don’t have to deal with that often and when I do I ask for advice or do research.

As for writing the immediate space or setting, so much of that comes from paying attention to the source material. It’s easier with Spider-Man to an extent because it’s a comic set in New York. Which means that, having read comics and watched different movie iterations, I have a sense of where Spider-Man is supposed to be, and what that place looks like, how he fits into it. It probably helps that I’ve been to New York within the past few years, and have a general sense of how it feels and where things are. There are some places I visited that have turned up in my writing too. It’s a little more difficult when writing for The Bear, because it’s a show very much steeped in Chicago, but I’ve never been there. Perhaps having grown up watching Shameless helped a little, but I’ve found myself having to do a lot more research on how things actually are.

But to an extent, big cities tend to have a certain transposable feel to them. Having lived in both big cities and small towns, I feel like I have a good grasp on what makes big cities unique. Specifically cities like London, New York, Paris—there are some things that feel the same, the sounds you hear when you open your window, how commuting to work or school feels, how the city buzzes and hums etc.

One last thing (because this is the longest answer ever) but I think growing up around multiple different cultures helps a tonne. Whether that be cultures I claim as my own, or shared cultures I’ve absorbed from different people I have lived with and grown around. I think that helps when it comes to writing characters that don’t share a background that’s exactly the same as mine. There is always some familiar entry point, however big or tiny.

Talk shop tuesday.

#talk shop tuesday!

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thoughtfullyrainynightmare · 2 years ago

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Chapter 50:Nozel needs to deliver the news about the upcoming battle against Lucius, as well as bid her off at the gate. Because he does want to save his family. And while back in Thea, the twins need to make a decision. Will they destroy the gates, or simply seal them for the time being and have hope?

This chapter is Nozel/Selena centric.

Tag list: @succulentsunrise @loosesodamarble

This work contains themes and topics some may find uncomfortable, which is why reader discretion is adviced.

Warnings: This chapter has the theme of approaching death, war, and hopelessness, and is considered an angst chapter. Will contain manga spoilers.

Chapter 50: How much to hope?

Nozel’s mind ran empty as he hurried down the corridors of the Silva estate, sometimes aiding the way, a long stretch of a hallway when no one was in sight, with the aid of his mana, just to get where he was going sooner, despite not yet knowing what he’d say once he got there. And that was the sole reason why he wasn’t running. Flying. Rushing. Because he needed time, time that he didn’t have, to think about what to say to her.

But it was as if some, yet another, cruel twist of fate that his mind failed to cooperate.

His thoughts swayed, but got nowhere, as if a tide in a lake. A tide with which there was the aching sense of nausea, as it was all… happening again.

A devil, though this time something worse than a devil, had come to take his family away from him. Even if, this time, not quite as directly as before. But still… directly enough.

Directly… enough…

And he was holding the task of needing to protect. Last time it hadn’t… quite, been his place, but rather that of his mother, though he still failed to see it, entirely, as such. Because surely, as the first born, the eldest son of House Silva, he should have been able to contribute even back then, when he wasn’t quite a man yet.

Back then I … couldn’t do a single thing…

And he wasn’t sure if he could do a damn thing now, one that mattered anyhow.

But I need to do something now… I need to succeed… in protecting… this time around…

The battle in Spade had only gone to show him how weak he truly was, as a knight, as a captain… as a man… But it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t still have had a squad to lead and a country to protect. He still had both. Which meant something for the country. He wasn’t sure what entirely, but they couldn’t just ship every citizen they had into neighbouring countries, that was for sure.

The battle that would take place, would take place in Clover, in the Royal Capitol. Because that was the target. Everything that it symbolized, everything that it held, and everything it meant. And it was also their strongest fort.

But it didn’t mean that it was strong enough to hold what he held most dear.

I need to succeed… this time… he repeated in his mind, when he ran out of time, and stood before a door, as if the final barrier between himself and the future that laid beyond it. A final frontier that he’d need to cross.

And that door… it mocked him. It ridiculed him. And it… made him feel so small… Like he was nothing. Meaningless. Helpless. Worthless. It made him feel every emotion, and no emotion, all at once.

But, no matter what he felt, he still needed to enter, and tell her. He needed to ask her.

So, he took a deep breath, placing his hand onto the handle, and opened the door.

The bedroom before him was silent. Almost cold. As if devoid of some warmth of emotion he couldn’t yet quite name. But he didn’t need to name it in order to feel it.

His eyes scanned through the room, as he closed the door, as if in a dream, and saw her standing in front of the window, just looking outside. It was, as if, she was standing before a stage, hoping that what she was seeing was simply make-believe, rather than reality, even though it was a mere palace courtyard on the other side.

“Tell me…” she implored him, while looking at him through the reflection of the windowpane. “What is going on outside?”

His eyes averted, because of the sheer gravity of any answer he might have. ‘The world’s end’, ‘the end’, ‘another war’. All of it seemed too… much.

Too much to say. Too much to think. Just… too much of …everything.

So, instead he said: “Julius came back.”

And she frowned at him through the reflection. “He came back? That’s the source of this commotion?” She asked, turning to him, as if to make sure she heard him correctly.

Which he confirmed with a nod. “He… came back and… is claiming to become a…�� he frowned, just as she did, while trying to gather the words, to comprehend them himself. “Magic emperor.”

“A magic emperor?” There was disbelief in her tone, along with the faintest of senses of ridicule.

But he could only nod again, as he didn’t quite know how to elaborate.

“Julius? The king that couldn’t bother to be a king to begin with is looking to be an emperor?”

He exhaled, not sure why, but perhaps out of the relief that there was a topic to which he could answer. “He claimed Julius to be dead, and to be Lucius now.”

“So, he’s copying William?” She asked while taking steps across the room to him.

“I doubt it’s about copying as much as it is the truth,” he replied, focusing on the statements that seemed like facts.

“But we fought something like this once, and there is no reason why we couldn’t do it again.”

He had to admire her resolve, and he could see the logic in her argument. But the thing was, that she hadn’t been there to see it for herself.

“He’s only one man, with, what, maybe a few allies? We have grown and become stronger since then,” she argued, as if insisting, as she reached him.

And though he could see where she was coming from, telling him that they should stand their ground, and do so together, was something with which he didn’t want to comply. She had logic, she had determination, and she was spunky. But even with all that they had, they couldn’t win. He was certain about it. So, this time, he wouldn’t give in to her. He wouldn’t agree to her, even if he thought that she might argue about staying, this time again, as he had asked her to leave once already for a battle.

He knew that she wanted to stay. On this occasion. Because she was gnawed by guilt of leaving last time. He knew… but he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

So, he stood there as if a pillar, unyielding and insisting. But so did she.

She was stubborn as well. And it was a quality of hers that he loved and disliked at the same time.

He loved it because it was a quality of hers that allowed her to be as successful in her career as she was, as well as love him, because he was sure that it took someone stubborn to love him with all that they had. But he also disliked it because, at times, it made life more difficult for him.

However, love outweighed dislike, on every other day but this one. Because this… this was something he could not lose. This was something with which he couldn’t give in, no matter how much it might have pained him.

And it did pain him. It pained her too. That is why she stood there with a frown, as if a pillar of her own, with the fury of a mother that wanted to protect the family in which she and him, along with their child, belonged.

Which made it even more horrid in its sweetness to him. Because he knew that look. That determination and ferocious drive to push forth to protect the family they had, and it, even while within that stubbornness that he disliked, made him love her more. It made her more beautiful, wonderful, divine and cherished to him.

It made him think how he couldn’t have found a better wife for himself, who would do anything to protect their child. A devoted mother, and a loving wife.

But the mother, and wife, was now against him.

“I don’t know who he thinks he is, but he can be fought! I don’t see why you think that we should just yield and roll over and give up like that. So what he came back with an attitude and calls himself by a new name, or his real name, or whatever it is and-“

“Lena!” He commanded.

Raised his voice.

He hadn’t… risen his voice to her ever before.

The tone seeping with something that reminded her of anger. It was harsh and ragged and filled with sharp edges in its primal state, with which it rose from deep within his lungs; deep as an ocean of grief. But it tasted like a plea.

It tried to be anything but a cry. And there was desperation in it which she had never known before.

Never before.

Not one that was… this alive. It was as if, instead of the man she loved, before her there was all his grief and desperation incarnated. Which… made her wonder which was more alive at that moment; the man, or the emotion.

It made her eyes flicker, but she couldn’t look at anything else than his expression. The stern, near harsh look that he had, but there was no wall. Instead, there was a well in his eyes, one that wanted to overflow, but his pride wouldn’t let it.

He’d rather drown in his tears, than let her see the pain that pricked him from within. But the thing was that he could no longer hide it from her. He had grown too close to her and her to him.

She would know it. She had watched his pain, and tried to brush it off; pick the needles and thorns one by one without leaving more scars behind. And because of it, she knew the look he had.

But before that moment, there hadn’t been a… beg, in him.

Nozel Silva did not beg.

That was a fact.

“Lena…” he repeated with a whisper that was, this time, nothing else than silk and feathers, as he placed his hand onto her cheek and just looked at her.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out as she wished she had something to tell him. Something to say, but she didn’t know what. What words of comfort, or reassurance, a plan or a suggestion, she could give? If there were any to give.

“Selena…” he repeated, again, this time as if cherishing the taste of her name on his tongue, as his eyes fell to look at her baby bump, and then back up to the ceiling.

This can’t be it… She found herself thinking as Nozel chewed on the words that were gathering in his mouth.

His lips parted again, after a time that must’ve been only a few seconds long, if even as much, but it felt like a third of an eternity. The sound of seconds had been buried in the ashes of the world that was to come, and only they remained in that room, within those four walls. And then he let his gaze come down again, as if to repent a crime that wasn’t his, as his hand moved from her cheek, taking a hold of her hand instead.

Her head swayed from side to side as a wall grew in between them. An invisible wall of glass and ice that she hated, resented, and despised. And she wanted to pull his hand, so that they might again be on the same side of that wall that shouldn’t be.

But he wouldn’t let her. She knew as much.

His lips parted again, as if to confess to a crime he regretted, but didn’t commit. “I would rather lose you from myself than lose you to death,” he said. And there was no lie in his words.

But it didn’t mean that she would have liked the confession, not because of what he was saying, but for what it stood for.

“So…” he uttered as his right foot took a step forward, and he begun lowering down.

Kneeling down.

The Captain of Silver Eagles does not kneel.

His Royal Highness Nozel Silva does not beg.

House of Silva does not plea.

But a man does.

“I beg of you…” he placed a kiss onto her hand, and pressed her hand against his face.

“Leave…” was the sound… that remained echoing in the room, or perhaps just her ears.

The sound of a man, who had everything to lose, begging.

---

“I already missed one battle,” she told him with a whisper.

“And I would have you miss a thousand more if it meant for you to live,” he whispered back.

“My place is by your side,” the syllables were light as ash, and tasted just the same, spoken without vigour, without a purpose. As if a mere breath, and exhale, escaping from her lungs.

It was as if a breeze that flew by, one that he cherished. One that he listened, as if trying to enjoy the last day of summer before an autumn, or winter colder than death itself.

“Your place… is among the living,” he replied.

He wasn’t this poetic. Never had been, and didn’t think to be now. And yet, for words, that were spoken by a man who was bad at them, they were perfect. They were perfect in their morbidity. Because of the meaning that lied beneath, as if a corpse not laid to rest.

---

The day came, the day he didn’t want to come. The day that he would rather have been nothing but a nightmare.

The day when they walked, side by side, holding onto each other with pale knuckles, to the marble arch.

“You need to go,” he whispered. He must’ve whispered at least thrice during the walk.

But she wasn’t sure if it was more so meant as an implore to her, or a reminder for himself. Because though the words were addressed to her, the way he spoke them, under his breath, as if struggling to breathe, felt more like they were for him.

A mantra that he didn’t want to be. A reminder that this needed to be done. That this was the good, and the right decision to make.

This is the only right decision…

The words might have hung over their heads without a sound, but their hands, with the way they clenched around each other, as if their lives dependent on it, spoken of something very different.

The only good decision…

There was a horrid rancid taste in all of it. The air, the wind, the way sun was hidden behind clouds that day. But sometimes the things that are good for you, will have the most awful flavour. Or so they told each other.

This… is right.

A conscious thought. A forced thought. The idea that it was correct. That they were there, before that arch, before that portal.

His other hand settled onto her cheek, as he looked at her. Just looked at her.

There was something in her eyes that he didn’t think he had seen before. Not like this at least. A look that he didn’t think she was capable of. Because she wasn’t that expression. She wasn’t that emotion. She was anything but.

And yet… fear, was reflected from her eyes, as deep as an ocean beneath the night sky, reflecting the light of the silver stars above.

“Darling…” the word was barely audible.

Barely, but it was.

And he pondered… thought about what he could ask of her. What wish could he express to her, one that wouldn’t be too selfish? For her to not forget about him? For her to love him? Oh no, that would be too much to demand for the days she had left; the days he wished to be plenty. Which made him think about if he shouldn’t ask for her, but rather for himself. Maybe he should request for a memory for himself.

It would be gone soon in any case.

Less damage. Less of a burden.

And if a burden, then it’d be his burden. Not hers.

“Let me remember your smile…” he asked, as he didn’t know what to do.

There was absurdity in the request too, because he did remember her smile. And it was, at that moment, that so many of them flashed through his memory, which brought a painful smile to his lips. Because he couldn’t help but smile when she smiled, but in the moment he wasn’t happy.

So, his smile couldn’t be happy either.

Instead, it was desperate. It was in agony. And it was sad. More of a grimace than a smile.

A sad, anguished smile, with which a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“Please… let me remember your smile…” he asked again, this time wondering if he had the right to ask, and yet asking anyhow. Deeming it as nothing more than a selfish request of a selfish man. But the last request he’d present to her.

So maybe… maybe it’d be alright.

The only issue was… that she didn’t know how she could give him what he was asking. Because she couldn’t give him the happy smile that he wanted. She simply couldn’t. This was not a happy occasion.

This was not…

How it’s supposed to go…

She squeezed her eyes shut and let a pair of tears roll down her cheeks as she swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Don’t be this sweet,” she told him as a reluctant smile appeared on her lips.

It was forced, and pained, and just as desperate as his. But she had to try. She felt that she had to try to give him a smile.

Because it was the last thing, it sounded like the last thing, he’d ask from her.

His hand circled around and settled onto the back of her head as he leaned forth and pressed his head against hers. Perhaps to hide any tears that might have followed, or perhaps to feel her close for one… last… time.

She wasn’t sure. But she didn’t think she needed to be. Not as she pressed her face against his cloak and buried her face into it, as if trying to hide from the world that tried and tried and tried… to do wrong.

Only wrong.

Agony.

Toy with the mortal beings that they were.

Or so it felt. That the world around them was only there, to torment and toy.

To torment and toy…

And around those broken sobs, the air was still, quiet, without a sound. Other than the inaudible ringing of a silver bell that couldn’t be heard. As if a call for a funeral mass that was for none to hear.

But does one need to hear something, in order to know that it is there? Or is it enough to feel the approaching cold, numb, stiff touch of creeping darkness closing in?

Does one need to hear, in order to know?

---

The celestial twins, the nickname granted as a half of a joke, the punchline of which was now missing, stood before the arch, the gate, and the portal. The portal that was now closed. And they pondered a question, quietly, to themselves. The question of what to do.

What they had been urged to do.

What they had been asked to do.

And what they wanted to do.

The ticking of time continued forth ruthlessly, without a care for them, or the decision of how to long to spend by the gate. How many minutes to spend by it? To take enough time to seal it shut, or be quick and quite simply destroy it? Or take none at all, and just step away from it, leaving it up to the Fate to decide what would happen.

So, how many minutes to spend, if none at all?

“[Should we…?]” Lara asked with a whisper, spoken by a mouth that was dry, devoid, as if trying to settle into knowing something… else…

“[We should… do… something…]” Lena uttered, but she didn’t sound convinced. She didn’t sound confident, or with direction. It was all but ash and tides.

“[You think it’ll make a difference?]”

“[I…]”

There was a breeze in between the breaths, the words, the utterances that sounded more like desperate attempts to grasp for air than speaking.

“[They have spacial mages.]”

“[Which is why… I don’t know… I just… don’t know…]”

“[The security will hold just as it has been holding, if we leave it be, but that would still be making it easier than it needs to be. To pass through.]”

“[But would it make… a difference…?]”

“[That is the question.]”

And that was… the question. Because neither had made a promise. Neither had made that promise; to destroy that gate.

“[If we destroy this gate, we should destroy the other one too.]”

Lena nodded. Just nodded. Because it would be the sensible, rational thing to do.

It would be the smart thing to do.

“[What are you thinking?]” Solara asked, both curious and without an answer to the problem.

“[That it’s the same damn thing all over again,]” she said with a whisper, a sound that tried to be a cry, but one that was choked by itself.

And Lara nodded. Because it really, did seem like the same damn problem all over again. Thea wouldn’t fight a war for Clover. Especially if it was a war Clover was having against their own king. Even the idea of it sounded ridiculous. Because internal conflict was internal conflict. And no outsider had a say in it.

Clover was fighting itself, and from Thea, as a nation, stood, it wasn’t their issue.

But for the two of them, there was so much to loose in that fight.

Just for the two of them.

“[So… what do we do?]”

They stared at the gate, the marble arch that stood there, and hoped how it wouldn’t become a passage into a cemetery.

“[It depends…]”

“[How much we have hope,]” they spoken in unison.

Because that was what lied at the heart of it. How much they dared to hope for the future? Not even about how much they could afford to hope, because that’s not what hoping was about.

Either one hopes, or then one doesn’t.

So.

How much do they have hope?

As the bells… grew silent.

Quiet like a grave.

#black clover fanfiction #before we have it #fuegoleon x solara #fuelara #nozel x selena #oc x canon

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charlottesbookclub · 2 years ago

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Clean (General Armitage Hux)

Summary: Armitage has a particularly rough day and takes a depression shower about it

Warnings/Tags: Hux-centric (no pairing), angst, stress, memories of child abuse, Hux works too much, did I mention angst?, body image issues, insecurities, maybe just very slight SH implications?, ANGST (let me know if I missed anything!)

Words: 1,162

Author’s Note: apparently I'm on a roll with producing Hux content recently! This is just a short little fic building off a headcanon I wrote about in this post. It's an idea I've had for a while and just finally wrote it down. Hope you all enjoy even tho it's super frickin angsty and kinda sad!

(oh and the lines from Br*ndol are from the Hux comic and I think Empire's End?)

The faint beep his door emitted as it recognized his credentials and zipped open for him sounded almost heavenly to Armitage. He barely made it into his chambers before he collapsed back against the now-closed door, sliding down until he was seated on the floor. He rested his arms on his bent-up knees, folding himself down as small as was possible given his height. There was a strange tightness in his throat, and not the kind caused by the unseeable grip of the damned Force. The passing thought of that frivolous magic snapped him back to himself, and he pushed up off of the floor in one fluid movement, knowing that if he slowed or hesitated at all, his exhausted body would decide that he would be sleeping unceremoniously slumped against his door.

It had been a long cycle. Or was it two cycles? How long had it been since he had last rested? He shook his head minutely, trying to clear the fog of weariness that had finally allowed itself to settle in his mind. His chambers were dark except for the pale light of the stars creeping in through the large windows. He didn’t bother turning a light on. Instead, he made his way slowly to the refresher, discarding items of clothing one by one, each seeming to represent a problem that he wished he could cast off as easily as his uniform.

First, the gloves – Ren destroying another expensive control panel. Greatcoat next – an unfortunate meeting with Snoke that left his project on a much tighter timeline than he had originally planned. One boot kicked to the side, then the other – the knowing glances cast between former Imperial officers on the bridge, sharing some joke he wasn’t privy to. His uniform top – the endless forms needing his approval and signature. The light undershirt next – the constant pinging of his comlink and datapad with requests for his time. Then his trousers – useless meetings with more insufferable Imperial veterans who just wanted to feel as though they were still valuable by giving outdated advice. Finally, his undergarments and socks – the biting headache that has been festering behind his eyes for the past… well… however many cycles it had been.

Hux reached the refresher and didn’t bother to turn that light on either. Instead, he stepped directly into the dark-tiled shower and turned the hot water to its full capacity. Normally, he limited himself to cold showers. He felt they were more effective at waking him up – or, more often than not, freshening him up since actual sleep was something of a rarity for the general. Either way, despite the fact that his rank gave him unlimited access to hot water, he rarely indulged in the luxury. Right now though, it was what he needed more than anything.

Steam filled the refresher, indicating that the water had reached a suitable temperature, and Armitage stepped under the current, nearly gasping at the shocking heat. For a moment, he could think of nothing else but the nearly unbearable warmth of the water as it coursed over his skin. When he had gotten somewhat habituated to the temperature on his body, he dipped his head into the stream and hissed as the water cut almost-scalding rivulets through his hair. After a few moments of exposure, his body became desensitized to the intense heat. He was left with a welcome warmth seeping into every fiber of his being. He began releasing tension he wasn’t even conscious of as the hot water unspooled it from his coiled muscles. His pristinely coiffed hair was soaked into damp strands, the gel dissolving and relinquishing its hold on his orange locks. For a few glorious moments, his mind was blissfully blank. He thought of nothing, simply absorbing the sensation of the hot water against his skin in the dark shower.

They always crept back in though – the voices, the thoughts. What a waste of resources. How frivolous. How useless. Hux gritted his teeth then, hearing his father’s despised voice ring in his ears: “I’ve yet to find anything that Armitage isn’t utterly useless at.” He was glad he couldn’t make out much of his body in the steam-filled darkness of the refresher. He knew his pale skin was turning a humiliating shade of pink – both from the heat and from the unwanted memories. And he was thin. Scrawny. “Thin as a slip of paper and just as useless.” Armitage pressed his fist against the cool wall of the shower, putting enough force behind it that his knuckles began to hurt. Anything to drive his father’s words from his mind. As the insults and memories faded, Hux heaved a sigh. He exchanged his fist against the tile for his forehead, the press of the cold black stone bringing him back to reality. Despite his face no longer being under the current of water, he nevertheless felt warm liquid slipping down his cheeks. He scrubbed at his face with his hand, assuring himself it was nothing but beads of condensation, and situated himself back under the stream.

He allowed himself just a few more fleeting moments under the warm water, trying to let it sap the last of the stress from his body, even though he wasn’t sure that was even possible at this point. Tension had settled deep into his bones and made itself at home there, untouchable even by the calming hands of heat that spilled over his body. Before he lost his nerve and stayed in the shower for the rest of eternity, he snapped the water off and was left suddenly shivering as the cool air of the refresher began to prick his skin. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped himself in a robe. He caught a quick glance in the mirror, but any glimpse of his body was mercifully obscured by both the darkness and the steam collected on the reflective surface. He didn’t want to be reminded of his weak constitution now, not when he had only just banished his father’s unwelcome words.

He stepped back out into the main room of his quarters, letting the pale starlight guide him as he inched his way carefully along the trail of discarded clothing items, collecting them as he went. On his way to his bed, he placed each in their assigned places: uniform and undergarments in the chute that connected directly to the ship’s central laundry facility, greatcoat carefully arranged on a hanger in his sparse closet, boots lined up neatly next to the door. That done, Armitage allowed himself to sink into bed, pulling the covers over his chilled body. He was almost ready to give into his aching head and sore body, to just allow himself to fall into the oblivion of sleep. Then a shrill ping interrupted that futile dream. He rolled over, pulling his datapad into bed with him to check the notification. He could always rest after responding to this message.

#charlotte writes #armitage hux #armitage hux fanfiction #armitage hux headcanon #hux #general hux #general hux fanfic #general hux headcanon #hux headcanon #tw mention of child abuse #tw body image #tw slight self harm

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crazy-joes · 18 days ago

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mostafaahmed15849 · 1 month ago

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signboardmst · 2 months ago

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MST Sign Company in Johannesburg, South Africa

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thelandscapingemployeetrap · 2 months ago

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12 Questions on How to Scale a Landscaping Business | Dan Platta Home Service CFO

In this episode of the Untrapped Podcast, Keith Kalfas interviews Dan Platta, the Home Service CFO and founder of Best Dan Bookkeeping. They discuss key topics such as managing chaos in business, the importance of having the right team, effective organizational strategies, and Dan's journey from the corporate world to entrepreneurship. The conversation touches on the significance of recruiting top talent, leveraging checklists for operational efficiency, and the biggest lessons learned from past mistakes. Dan also shares his vision for future ventures and insights on balancing business and personal life. Throughout the episode, actionable advice is provided for small business owners aiming to scale and improve their operations.

"Find good mentors and learn from their mistakes" Dan Platta

Topics Covered:

Revenue and Services: Dan's Business Insights

Organizational Strategies for Success

Recruiting the Best Employees

Top Influential Books

Overcoming Entrepreneurial Fears

Advice for New Entrepreneurs

Short-Term Goals and Business Philosophy

Customer-Centric Business Philosophy

The Importance of Zero Attrition

Big Hairy Audacious Goals

Overcoming Business Challenges

Lessons from Business Mistakes

The Value of Good Bookkeeping

Key Takeaways

Revenue Achievement and Service Diversification:

Dan Plata discusses achieving nearly $4 million in revenue, emphasizing the importance of offering diverse services such as window cleaning, pressure washing, maid services, bookkeeping, recruiting, and marketing.

Key takeaway: Diversification can lead to higher revenue, but managing multiple services requires robust organizational strategies.

Importance of Support Systems:

Dan highlights the critical role his wife plays in his success, even though she isn’t directly involved in the business.

Key takeaway: A strong personal support system can significantly boost business performance and personal well-being.

Organizational Strategies:

Dan stresses the importance of checklists and to-do lists to maintain accountability and ensure that employees stay on task.

Key takeaway: Simple organizational tools like digital checklists can streamline operations and prevent errors in repetitive tasks.

Recruitment and Quality of Employees:

Dan learned to recruit high-quality employees rather than hiring quickly to fill positions. By finding the best candidates in advance, he ensures that he can select from the top talent when needed.

Key takeaway: Continuous recruitment and having high standards for employee selection can improve service quality and business growth.

Influential Books:

Dan recommends "The E-Myth Revisited," "Peak Performance," and "Leadership and Self-Deception" as pivotal books that have impacted his business approach.

Key takeaway: Reading and learning from comprehensive resources can offer new perspectives and practical strategies for business improvement.

Facing and Overcoming Fears:

Dan reflects on his fear of leaving the corporate world to become an entrepreneur, but realized the risk was worth the learning experience.

Key takeaway: Overcoming initial fears and making calculated risks can lead to greater opportunities and personal growth.

Mentorship and Learning from Others:

Dan advises new entrepreneurs to find good mentors and learn from their mistakes to avoid common pitfalls.

Key takeaway: Leveraging the experiences of successful mentors can shorten the learning curve and provide valuable insights.

Prioritizing Customer and Employee Satisfaction:

Dan’s goal is to build a business driven by customer demand and employee satisfaction rather than solely focusing on financial targets.

Key takeaway: Focusing on creating value for customers and providing a great work environment for employees can lead to sustainable business growth and profitability.

Big Hairy Audacious Goal (BHAG):

Dan's major life goal is to combine his passion for business with his love for outdoor activities by creating a mastermind group for business owners that includes outdoor adventures.

Key takeaway: Aligning personal passions with business goals can lead to a more fulfilling career.

Handling Mistakes:

Dan admits that growing his business too rapidly and spreading too thin were significant mistakes but valuable learning experiences.

Key takeaway: Learning from business missteps is crucial. Scaling should be done thoughtfully to avoid overextension and operational disarray.

Understanding and Leveraging Financial Data:

Dan emphasizes the importance of having impeccable bookkeeping to make better business decisions and ensure financial clarity.

Key takeaway: Accurate financial data helps in making informed decisions, which is essential for managing growth and ensuring long-term success.

Connect with Dan

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/dan-platta-30736b31

Connect with Keith

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/keithkalfas/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thelandscapingemployeetrap Website: https://www.keithkalfas.com/resources Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@keith-kalfas

Resources and Websites:

🙋♂️Get My Free Landscaping Business Startup Video Series Here👇 Here https://www.keithkalfas.com/Landscaping-Series

Landscaping Course https://keith-kalfas.mykajabi.com/store/8bFERMcs

LANDSCAPING BUSINESS How to Guide: https://www.keithkalfas.com/16

Get Jobber: https://getjobber.com/im/ambassador-referral/?gspk=a2VpdGhrYWxmYXM4NTIx&gsxid=Rs6pwtznLDcs

Get Ballard: https://www.ballard-inc.com/

Easy Budgeting Blueprint: keithkalfas.com/budget

Smartphone Video Creation Guide: Keithkalfas.com/smartphone

Identifying Your Superpower: Keithkalfas.com/superpower

Become An influencer And Monetize Your Expertise: https://www.keithkalfas.com/influence

Multiple Ways to Monetize: https://www.keithkalfas.com/multipleways

Build Your Website: https://durable.co/ Promo Code: keith30

Check out this episode!

#Landscaping #windowcleaning

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webscarlet · 3 months ago

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Reliable Residential Painter Solutions from Urban Painting Company

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hankwritten · 1 year ago

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A Tavern Named Keep [3/6]

Demoman-centric Modern AU

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

Above the façade front door of DeGroot Keep is an unreachable third floor, its purpose assumed by those who walk the streets below to be some sort of attic or perhaps storage space, if they wonder about it at all. What Tavish conceals above the stairs in the back of the kitchen is actually, in fact, his apartment, boasting one room and a claustrophobic little bathroom added sometime during the 20th century. It’s space enough for him: there’s a desk computer, a bed, a half-sized bookshelf crammed with fantasy paperbacks, and a tinkering table whose purposes are better left undisclosed. (Privacy is not the only reason the kitchen stairs are hidden. Such is the lot of men with less than legal hobbies.)

If you were to ask if he wants for anything, he might complain that he isn’t able to move the coffee maker upstairs, but requests for further elaboration would be met with a dispassionate shrug. The kitchen isn’t so far, and what he lacks in elbow room he makes up for in convenience; everything he needs in the morning is only an arm’s length away. The way Tavish usually starts his day is by getting his shower in, shaving, and dressing all within the span of a half-hour, barely moving outside a few cubic meters.

The way Tavish does not usually start his day is with the unhallowed ringing of the landline he uses to make international calls to his mother every Saturday. The digital clock reads 6:46 in the watery light from the circular attic window, but it could be the witching hour for all Tavish wants to get out of bed. But out of bed is the only place he can silence the infernal thing, so up he gets.

“Hello,” he grumbles his barely contained contempt into the receiver, rubbing rheum from his eye.

On the other side, there is heavy breathing.

A sterner man would have assumed he was being punked. A less stern man would have gone and grabbed the rosary from his dresser drawer and warned that he feared no evil spirits and he was well trained in the art of dispelling the profane. However, Tavish merely lapses, standing there in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his boxers, listening as the heavy breathing is intercut by the occasional apologetic mumble and several egregiously incomprehensible attempts at explanation.

The cold floor is biting him through his socks. He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me the station number, I’ll be there in a few.”

There is a grateful keening noise, and the morning is sacrificed to a long and troubled drive that does not help the barkeep’s ever-present hangover. He’s been told once or twice that a businessman shouldn’t sample his own wares, but in all fairness he’s been an alcoholic a lot longer than he’s been a bar owner. On the ride back to the Keep, he hushes Pyro several times, assuring them he’s not mad and can we just save the explanations for when we’re back home, aye?

However, as soon as they reach the tavern Pyro chooses that moment to clam up entirely.

“Oh come on now duck,” Tavish tries to coax. “We’re already bleeding Mayor Piggycorn dry here, the least you can do is tell me what went wrong.”

Mayor Piggycorn—originally named for the construction paper horn taped to his head, and then renamed by the sticky note saying ‘Pyro Bail Fund’—still has a few quarters jingling around in his belly, but only just. Tavish slips the bank back onto the shelf.

“I’ll tell you what went wrong!” Jane, present when they’d arrived despite the fact that both people with the authority to open the bar had been gone all morning, says as Pyro futzes with their hands. “Your cook lights things on fire when they’re in a bad mood, and they also light things on fire when they're in a very good mood.”

Accuracy notwithstanding, this is clearly not the time, and Tavish shoots Jane a withering glare. To Pyro he asks, “can you at least tell me what sort of property you damaged?”

They mumble something. It sounds like ‘dumpster’.

“Ah well that’s not so bad.”

Silence hangs for a few seconds. Jane is right though, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out this isn’t a good mood sort of burning.

“Pyro,” he says firmly. “What’s eating you.”

As though the words can’t contain themselves anymore, it all bubbles out, hand waving and muffled cursing like this morning’s phone conversation. They quickly grow frustrated with the inadequacy of this mode of communication, and switch to sign language.

“<It’s Scout! He’s been avoiding me and I don’t know what I did wrong!>”

Tavish sighs. It’s a sighing sort of day apparently. He should have known Jeremy would be the source of more Pyro troubles.

“<He’s just stopped…hanging out with me. Whenever I go home and he’s there he pretends he doesn’t see me unless I say hi first. And then he’ll say hi but he’ll just go back to playing whatever and he never invites me to join anymore and I feel really awkward asking for a ride so I’ve just been walking everywhere.>”

They take a moment, shoving their hands in their armpits as they try to calm down. Tavish walks over to put an arm around their shoulders, glaring at Jane until he looks properly abashed.

When they’re breathing steadier they try again. “<Last night I asked him if he was mad at me. If I had said something to make him angry, and he got really defensive and said nothing’s wrong. When I said all that stuff I just said to you, he did get mad, and said that he needed to…Think about things? And then! He just left! He went out and didn’t come back to the apartment last night and I was pissed at him for lying to me but also scared that he’d never come home and so I went to the Lecture Valley Dolphin Shack and set their dumpster on fire.>”

Tavish shares a look with the outside of Jane’s hat. “Ach, well…it wasn’t right of him to lie, but sometimes we tell our loved ones nothing’s wrong when we don’t want them to worry.”

“<That’s stupid.>”

“Aye, but Scout’s a stupid kid.”

Pyro looks at the ground. “<He’s my stupid kid. I just want things to be normal between us and not weird and awkward.>”

That phrasing clicks something into place in Tavish’s mind.

“<I don’t want to go to class today,>” Pyro admits after a while.

“That’s fair. Why don’t you go sleep it off in the back room, alright? I’ll bring you something in a bit.”

Pyro collides with his stomach, wrapping him in one of their famous hugs with a muffled thanks Tavish to his chest.

“Ah, no need for that. Off you go.”

Pyro does, and Tavish sets about making the forcibly delayed breakfast, though now for three. He may not have his chef’s talent, but there are plenty of things a bachelor can make that can’t be screwed up too badly.

“…You come away from that thinking the same thing I did?” he asks, cracking six eggs into a well-oiled pan.

“Unless it is a composition of the national anthem as sung by the Western Meadowlark, I find that unlikely.”

Jane, who’s followed him into the kitchen, leans against the countertop. The place is neater than Tavish left it last night, the man to blame playing with the raccoon-shaped salt & pepper shakers as he waits for the eggs to cook. Every once in a while he breaks into the Keep—the untidiness of Tavish’s ‘fortifications’ apparently driving him crazy—and attacks the place in a frenzy until it can pass muster. It was disconcerting at first, but after a few times of finding the back of the bar perforcedly reorganized, Tavish figured that it was worth the small security flaw. Plus, Jane always hangs around after. Tavish pities any real burglar that tries to storm the place.

“I mean Scout and Pyro,” Tavish says, pushing down the toaster. “You remember how Scout went with them to that club the other week?”

“My memory is that of a hippopotamus, but I do not see the relevance.”

“Just thinking.” Tavish idly chews the inside of his cheek, a habit his dentist has railed against on more than one occasion. Tavish’s reply is always that moriscatio buccarum is probably on the kinder end of things he does to his body. “Scout went on a lark it seems. I can’t imagine what would drive a wedge between the two of them, you know how they’re like together.”

“Hooligans, bordering on hippie-dom.”

“I mean they’re affectionate,” Tavish says. “Do you ever get the feeling…maybe there’s something more there?”

Jane shrugs. “Possible, I guess.”

“And he said he needed to go think about something,” Tavish muses. Now that he’s on this train of thought it’s hard to stop. “Ah, poor kid. Must be rough thinking you’re straight this long and then suddenly discovering you’re in love with your best friend.”

Soldier grumbles something that Tavish misses. Before he can ask him to repeat it, the toaster pops, and Tavish runs over to arrange the finishing touches. When he slides the platter in front of Jane, the ranger immediately attacks it with the salt.

“What?” Tavish balks, the highest offense in his pitch. “You’re nae even going to try it first?”

The accusation is met only with a grin. Jane lifts the peppershaker (a black raccoon with white stripes, to differentiate it from the saltshaker’s white raccoon with black stripes) and proceeds to upend it over the eggs as well.

Tavish huffs, then turns to where he knows he’ll have at least one connoisseur with taste.

“Feeling better, duck?” he asks, sliding a plate and a glass of orange juice on the back room’s lone folding table.

They mumble something through blankets and gasmask. Nothing will get better with Jeremy gone, it seems.

“Don’t worry mate. I know just what’s got to be done.” With that, he leaves so that Pyro can eat in privacy.

Jane narrows his eyes as soon as steps foot in the kitchen. “What’s got to be done? You better not be up to what I think you’re up to! That crap with Mikhail and Ludwig was supposed to be a one time thing.”

“Ah…overheard that did you.” Tavish resists the urge to rub the back of his neck: he’s got nothing to be ashamed about, this is a good idea. “Well it makes sense, doesn’t it? They love each other to bits, maybe they just need a nudge in the right direction.”

Jane still looks unconvinced.

“At the very least you got to admit this time is important!” Tavish says in exasperation. “Pyro’s heartbroken, Scout’s gone rogue, and I’m not resting until I get them to make up.”

“…”

“Nothing you say can convince me otherwise!”

Soldier dips his toast in yolk.

Tavish makes a noise of disgust, and leaves to get his tavern ready for another night of romance.

The first, and most important, preparation is to get Jeremy to show up. He shoots the boy a text, aiming for the weakness that he knows all college students in general—but athletes in particular—share: the promise of free food. There is technically an event happening at DeGroot Keep tonight, and Jeremy can have the leftovers if he comes. None of it a lie, per say, but Tavish fails to mention that the event in question is a date between him and his roommate.

“This looks familiar,” Dr. Ludwig says as he sits at the bar and marvels at the candles. “You’re not setting up another pair of your patrons, are you?”

His chuckle dies on his lips as Tavish quickly passes him his beer and says nothing.

“You are? Mein Gott. You never let up, do you DeGroot?”

“Oi, it worked out for you, didn’t it?” Tavish says. In a careful change of the subject before Ludwig can ask which patrons, he adds, “where is Mikhail, anyway? You two are going somewhere tonight, right?”

“Indeed we are.” Ludwig puffs up. “We’re heading to see the opera in Las Vegas.”

“…Las Vegas?” Tavish raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, you caught me. Las Vegas, New Mexico.”

“I take it the opera was Mikhail’s idea?”

The offense on Ludwig’s face is clear. “I happen to quite enjoy opera music. We planned this together.”

“Didn’t mean anything by it, Doc.” Tavish holds up his hands. “It just seems like neither of you would have the, er, temperament for it.”

“Then perhaps you know less about us than you think.” Outside, a pair of headlights flash. “Ah, that’s him. Auf Wiedersehen DeGroot, good luck with… whatever the hell this is.”

Shaking his head, Tavish is just about to scoop up the doctor’s empty beer when Pyro tugs on his shirtsleeve.

They look despondent, their mask-lenses are one step away from drooping like a cartoon character. A finger points at the kitchen, then at the side door, the universal expression of, “I’m heading out now.”

Tavish glances at the (limited edition, Birds of the Southern United States) clock and sees that it really is getting late. But Jeremy still hasn’t shown, and Tavish rushes to stall.

“…Actually, I was hoping you could run the lower bar for a bit? Just to take some of the pressure.”

Somehow, Pyro’s shoulder’s drop further, and Tavish fends off a wave of guilt. But, loyal soul that they are, they plod down to the street-level.

Only needed on truly busy nights, the inventory of the lower bar is locked up tight since it can’t be watched from all angles. Usually Broderick, (Tavish’s authentic DeGroot heirloom suit of armor) mans the area, which means Pyro has to shove him aside in order to unlock the liquor cabinets. They do all this with the grace of the mortally condemned.

This isn’t going well. Tavish checks his phone to see that Jeremy never even responded, not even one of his indecipherable emojis. Before long he’s become glued to his screen, checking it every thirty seconds as the hour hand slowly moves towards the Belted Kingfisher, and one by one the late stayers trickle out. Tavish has never had a problem with barflies, (it’s not the most lively part of town), but for once he very much wishes he’d have some sorry slob that he can’t unstick from the bar with a spatula, if only for the excuse.

But enough time ticks by that Pyro approaches him again, and the bar’s now empty enough that he can’t deny them their request. They slink out the door, and a blue pick-up truck rolls to collect them.

There has to be some way to fix this. After closing the tavern he retreats to his quarters, desktop illuminating his face as he fails to turn on any other light in his bedroom. He hunts for Jeremy’s Facebook, though right away he can tell it won’t bring him any luck. The last post was months ago, a captionless picture of he and Pyro with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. They look happy.

He sends a you alright lad? text. Though, when he sees the timestamp reading 3:01 AM, he realizes that’s an auspicious statement. He lies in his bed and fails to go to sleep.

Whatever time the knocking starts is far too early. Having only gotten a total seven hours of sleep the past two days, he’d been planning to open the Keep late to recuperate, but another repetitive auditory signifier of modern home living has thrown that out the window. Speaking of windows. Tavish’s mood is not improved when he looks out the porthole and sees that the knocking is coming from a lone police officer at his stoop.

“Christ, what did they do now,” he murmurs.

Hair of the dog, he reminds himself. Hair of the dog. He pulls out a spare scrumpy bottle from underneath the bed.

“Not even at the right door, there’s a bloody sign- canae help you, officer?” Tavish yells out the true entrance. He’s still in his raccoon slippers (he’s known Jane for many Smismasses now), and he has no interest in going outside. If the idjit wants to ignore perfectly readable advisories, that’s his business.

The officer sticks his head around from the front. “Excuse me. Are you the owner here?”

Owner? Probably wouldn’t be asking if Pyro had gotten themself in trouble again. Keeping his general distaste for coppers out of his voice is easiest done with one word answers, so he says, “aye.”

“We’ve received complaints about an improperly parked vehicle on your premises. It appears someone is illegally habitating within it.”

Tavish feels habitating probably isn’t a word, but he’s already getting worked up. “Complaints? Is it that Classic Rock ‘n Roll bar down the street? Bloody goat-humpers. Those Classics have always had it out for me and my lads.”

Whether it’s the fact that Tavish burps halfway through his tirade or the volume of the denouncement, the officer looks quite pained. “We’ve had complaints from a variety of sources, sir.”

Tavish grumbles something about pain trains in station town, before the cop’s opening line finally catches up with him. “Someone’s living in a car in my parking lot?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What in blazes-”

Slippers or no, Tavish charges into his rarely used back lot, usually traversed only by delivery trucks and the odd trash collector.

In it, is a camper van.

“Oi, open up!” He slams on the camper’s door. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are but if you’re going to squat at my house-” With the creaking of someone swaying the suspension with each footstep, the door opens. “-Then you- Mick?”

Mick Mundy does an adequate impression of Tavish a few minutes ago, and blinks groggily. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing in that thing?”

Mick looks behind him briefly. “Livin’ in it.”

“In my yard?”

The cop cuts in, “Sir you can’t take up residency, regardless of the nature of the vehicle, on businesses lining Main Street or Teufort’s six main thoroughfares."

“Really?” Mick asks. Tavish facepalms.

“ ‘Fraid so,” he continues, surprisingly straight-faced. “With the exclusion of national and state parks, parking an RV for more than 48 hours is similarly not allowed.”

“Hm,” Mick nods. “Guess I’ll go to one of those then. Is a camper van after all.”

Tavish facepalms with the other hand.

He can’t even bring himself to chew Mick out before he packs up his van and leaves. The incident with the traffic cop was hardly a good start to his morning, and it doesn’t improve with the opening of the Keep’s doors. He goes for the harder, close-to-paint-thinner stuff he keeps in the custodial closet just to stave off the mounting stress of dealing with law enforcement. Jeremy has texted him at some point in the night, a noncommittal assurance he’s fine. Tavish again asks if he wants to swing by the Keep tonight, to which he gets a yeah sure, whatever.

There’s little time to plan. Tavish has to make sure things go right this time, has to make sure Pyro stays long enough, has to get Jeremy to stay long enough, has to also find a way to get Jeremy to admit his feelings. Which, easier said than done. It depends entirely on whether he’s come to terms with things or not, and if he’s just shutting down and shutting everyone out it might not even be possible.

Too many variables. All these unknowns are killing him.

Jeremy didn’t say when he’d swing by and Tavish has finished off his good stuff. The candles are back, and Pyro’s mopily tending the kitchen, but-

Fuck. Someone’s vomited on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t have the heart to ask Pyro to do it, even with the wonderfully convenient rubber suit, not when he made them stay late yesterday for basically no reason. So instead he has Pyro take his place at the main bar and goes to face the music.

It smells awful. The bathroom’s décor is one of his prouder works; it’s all vintage advertisements, wallpapering not only the walls but the low, sloping ceiling as well. Normally it’s a pleasant little place to have a pit stop, but right now it’s just-

Eugh. Words don’t do it justice. It’s-

Guh-

Very difficult to breathe in. His head is starting to feel light and the mop keeps slipping out of his hands as the booze rises to his cheeks-

Tavish wakes up.

He is in his bed and the blinds are drawn and it seems like it could be anywhere in that ephemeral hour between the end of sunset and the beginning of sunrise. He can, after all, see and he can most certainly feel, and what he feels is pain.

“Ach, me head…”

The voice that says these words is coming from his head, the central locus for all his pain. It was a mistake to say them, for any reaffirmation of the self is overshadowed by the revelation that his throat is also worthy of commentary.

“Here.”

Jane is handing him a glass of water. The time to question is not now, because Tavish has never seen anything more beautiful than the glass he flimsily takes out of Jane’s hand. The cool rush of water does a little to ease the pain. His mind can wander now, to realize that he’s wearing the same pair of pants but a different shirt, and the only reason he can assume is that he threw up on himself. That or he landed in the other drunkard’s sick. He doesn’t want to think about the latter.

“I’m guessing that was a real bender I had just now?” he dares to ask once the water is gone.

“If by ‘just now’ you mean ‘last night’.” Jane’s mouth is a thin line, and Tavish groans. In an attempt to reassure, Jane adds, “we cleaned and closed the tavern up. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

Nothing but the loss of income from a night’s work, but even Tavish knows that’s too bitter to fling at the man who helped his sorry arse through a binge, especially when any outgoes are his own damn fault.

Memory does come crashing back to him though. “Damn it, urch, did- did Scout come in last night?”

“For a little.” Jane’s frown only deepens with this line of questioning. “He left with all the hubbub going on.”

“Damn it all,” Tavish groans. “I’m still trying to fix things with him and Pyro. If I can just get them in a room together-”

The feeble attempt to sit up is cut short, Jane moving the short distance to the bed and pushing until he falls back down. The firmness in his voice is unmistakable when he says, “this is not a nudge.”

“I…” But that’s all Tavsih can muster. He averts his gaze guiltily.

They’re still like that for a moment, frozen in the orange-tinted light that now more obviously asserts itself as dawn, Jane with one knee on the bed and Tavish knowing that he’s right.

“I just want everyone to be okay,” he admits finally. “That’s not so wrong, is it?”

Jane retracts his hand, but now won’t look at Tavish either. “I know you do. Dammit, it’s impossible not to know that you want to make everyone around you happy, with your smiles and your jokes and doing everything in your fucking power to light up the whole damn world. I know you want to solve all their fucking problems. But you need to remember to take care of yourself too.”

Tavish hesitates. He takes care of himself plenty, doesn’t he? At least as well as he always has; it’s not like this particular scenario of drinking himself to unconsciousness while on duty is all that unusual.

He doesn’t want to entertain that that’s exactly what Jane means.

“I will,” he says because it’s the path of least resistance. “But you can’t tell me this whole situation isn’t an issue.”

Jane growls, but acquiesces, “…I don’t like seeing Campfire all put out. It’s a bad look on them.”

“So I need to find out what’s up with Scout. If only to get my cook back from blues town,” Tavish reasons.

“Then why don’t you just talk to him,” Jane says, throwing up his hand. “Don’t bring Pyro into it at all! Damn it Tav you’re good at talking to people, it’s what you do all damn day. Just ask him what’s wrong.”

Again, Tavish hesitates. “Do you really think it’s that simple?”

Jane shrugs. “Could be. If anyone can make it simple it’s you. Not as evidenced by your actions today, private.”

Oh hell, now out come the privates. That’s Jane’s equivalent of a mum using your middle name when you’ve gone and done something dumb.

“Alright, I’ll try it.” He tries to sit, and is pushed back again.

“Not now,” Jane tells him. “Now you are going to catch up on sleep, and open the bar late. Am I understood?”

Tavish grumbles, but there’s no arguing with him. “Understood.”

He does feel monumentally better the next time he wakes up, though it’s nearing noon by the bedside clock. Jane’s gone, but he has several messages from Pyro asking if he’s alright, one from Dell who probably who heard from Pyro, and one from Pauling saying she’ll be dropping his cook off at six. Tavish rubs the bridge of his nose. As though he needed the extra guilt, somehow Pauling’s been roped into this as well. Poor lass has enough on her plate.

However, there’s one person Tavish needs to check in with more than anything.

Jeremy’s hoodie is uncharacteristically disheveled as he comes peering in through the front door, not the least because it’s still far too warm to be wearing such outerwear. He checks around each individual corner, making sure they’re as alone as it appears they are. Maybe he really is avoiding Pyro.

“Ey there lad, you’re looking glum,” Tavish greets when Jeremy finally slinks up to the bar.

“Mmm. Yeah.” He folds his arms and rests his chin on them.

Well, it’s better than yelling nothing’s wrong and running off into the night. Tavish slides a drink toward him. “Something new I’ve been working on. Tell me how you like it. Oh, I almost forgot.”

Next to the club soda he keeps several cans of room temperature Bonk!, which he saves when he knows Jeremy needs a pick-me-up. After pouring a toxic layer on the top of the drink, Tavish adds a crazy straw (the straws are technically Pyro’s, but Tavish knows which of the two of them enjoys them more.) Blithely, Jeremy eyes the concoction before him. Then he slides his whole body to meet the crazy straw and slurps.

“Hey, pretty good man,” he finally concludes, and to Tavish’s relief there’s a bit of warmth back in his voice.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah it’s like…spicy. But not like hot spicy, more like uh…”

“It’s probably the ginger beer.”

“Oh yeah, yeah that’s it. The ginger.” With the termination of this statement, his thoughts catch up with again, and the contemplative half-smile is chased from his face. Instead, he lowers his gaze to the mahogany wood beneath his palms, and begins to trace patterns in the condensation rings.

“…Okay lad, you got tae tell me. What’s eating you?”

Jeremy flinches. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing that…nothing that I want you to know about anyway.”

Tavish dries a glass. The squeaking of water on wood continues. He tries, “c’mon lad-”

“Stop,” Jeremy hisses. “Just stop with the lad crap. It’s. Freaking hell it’s too much to talk about all at once. And I can’t even think when you keep…”

“Just start at the beginning.”

“Okay, fine. You know what? Fine. So Pyro’s gay president or whatever and they finally get me to come to their stupid school club and…I meet people there. Lots of people, and it was kinda weird at first but then it got easier and this one girl started talking to me and it turned out she was really cool.”

“And you, what? Have a thing for her?”

In the fastest turnaround, Jeremy’s eyes narrow, staring daggers into the barkeep. “What the fuck man? Just because I make jokes sometimes doesn’t mean I’d actually ever step out. Jesus. I ain’t that kinda-” He makes a frustrated growl. “Anyway, don’t be an asshole, alright?”

“…I have to admit, you’ve lost me.”

“How could I have lost you? I started from the beginning like you said!”

“For one thing I thought this story was going to end with you realizing you have feelings for Pyro.”

To describe it as ‘incredulity’ would not be doing it justice. It was more like Jeremy had just walked into his home only to find that every single piece of furniture had been nailed to the ceiling and a group of cats were asking him what he was doing in their house.

With the cautiousness of a person who senses they’re being tricked, Jeremy says, “Pyro and I have been dating for six months.”

“I…what?”

“How did you not freaking know that?” Jeremy sounds as flabbergasted as Tavish feels. “You helped us move in together for crying out loud.”

“Move in to be roommates, I didn’t know it was a…” Tavish makes a vague gesture.

“We do all the couples shit, though. We’re always hanging out, and going to movies together, and I drive them to work, an’-” Ticking them off on his fingers, Jeremy stops abruptly, guilt wrinkling his features. He shoves his arms back against the bar and buries his face in them. “An’ I run out on them. And I’m an ass who yells at ‘em when they’re just trying to help.”

As delicately as he can, Tavish says, “I’m sorry lad. I guess I er…didn’t understand the situation as well as I thought. But hiding from me isn’t going to help either.”

“Psh. Ain’t you just proved you don’t know anything?”

There’s some mild indignation at that. “Well when Pyro takes you to meet their gay friends and you come back with an identity crisis, what am I supposed to think?”

Jeremy grits his teeth. “It’s not a sexuality thing.”

“Then what the bloody hell else could it…”

When Jeremy looks up, there is jaggedness, laced by the angry tears that are pricking at the corner of his eyes, and once again Tavish realizes what colossal idiot he’s being.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

There are many sounds Tavish has grown used to when tending the Keep all alone: the tick of the clock, the water heater jumping to life every now and again, the various strung-up seashells that rattle sometimes even though there’s no draft. Now, midday light filtering through the frosted windows, he hears a drip where the kitchen tap hasn’t been turned all the way, and the scrunch of Jeremy running his hands fruitlessly through his hair.

Tavish throws aside the rag he was using to clean, and makes the long walk around to the other side of the bar. He slides a stool closer, wraps an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, and squeezes them together.

They don’t shake. Or if they do, it’s with frustration.

“Freaking…” Jeremy croaks eventually. “Freaking unbelievable. Like I can’t be, for fuck’s sake. You’ve met me. I can’t be, you know. That.”

Tavish does not want to upset this, not when the walls are just starting to come down. Gently, he asks, “and why can’t you be?”

“Because everyone would freak!” Jeremy lurches to a sitting position. “Everyone I know, all my classmates, my family, the guys on the team…oh fuck.” He groans and rubs his face. “I didn’t even think about that. I…I can’t get kicked off the team. I’d lose my scholarship, and my grades are slipping and Ma already threatened to sick my dad on me if they didn’t pick back up and-”

“Hey, hey calm down…mate,” Tavish is quickly realizing dropping haphazard lads into this conversation hasn’t been helping. He squeezes a little tighter. “That’s all a bunch o’ maybes right now. Don’t think that far ahead. Just breathe.”

Jeremy does, out slower but shaky. “I can’t. I can’t not think about it. The more I think and the less I’m sure and…would they even let me play on the girls’ team? Ah Christ.”

His hood has come down at some point in the panic. And his face may never have gotten to the point of true tears, but his eyes are still red. Still furious.

Tavish squeezes him tighter, and to his surprise, Jeremy hugs him back, snapping on like a barnacle. “I’m usually better at not thinking about whatever I don’t want to think about. Shit, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you mate. You can work through this. You got lots of people who want to help.”

Jeremy draws in a breath. “…Yeah.”

“Why are you avoiding Pyro?” Tavish asks. “I don’t mean to be cold, but all things considered they’d have much more insight into a gender crisis than I would.”

“That’s…that’s the problem. Shit.” Jeremy draws back, retreating again to guilt and a focus on the tavern floor. “This…this is going to make me sound like a huge asshole okay but, when they first came out to me I wasn’t…I’ve been a real shithead at some points in my life, you know? Not always this cool and awesome ally and stuff. When that was first going on I said something like ‘haha me too’ and then like…fuck I don’t know. Made an attack helicopter joke or whatever.”

“Attack…helicopter?”

“Never mind,” Jeremy waves him off. “Anyway when all this started I didn’t want them to think I was…making fun of them again. Somehow. Or just playing around.”

There’s a beat. When it’s clear that he isn’t going to continue, Tavish says, “no offense mate, but that’s total malarkey.”

Jeremy grimaces.

“You’ve been friends for how long? And you’ve changed a lot in that time, they know you’re not that person anymore. If you talk to them, really talk to them instead of pushing them out, they’re not going to abandon you during something this serious.”

“I know, you’re right, I know.” Rubbing his face, Jeremy finally straightens his shoulders. “I was just scared. Not that I’m scared now or nothin’!”

At the return of the more familiar bravado, Tavish chuckles. “O’ course. The Scout I know isn’t afraid o’ anything. If I were from where you’re from I’d be dead, ‘n all that rot.”

“That’s right.” A bit of a smile passes across Jeremy’s face. Then it twitches, spinning more contemplative. “And…as long as we’re saying things about being Scout…uh. Just um. Just don’t call me Jeremy right now. I’m still like figuring things out, but since you guys always call me Scout anyways…”

“Can do. Anything else I should keep in mind?”

“I…no. Not yet. If that changes I’ll let you know. But you can spread that first thing around, tell the other guys and stuff. I’m sure they’ll…”

Tavish claps a hand to his shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll understand,” he finishes the thought.

Scout smiles, and Tavish makes him promise to go talk to his partner before they start moving on to burning whole restaurants.

#tf2 fanfiction #pyroscout #flashfire

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