#was it all pr or did they really make them shag for no reason

[lovewilltellamillionstories]

Just remembered lukola interviews and stumbled across another saying they loved the 'bed scenes,' they just got to 'sit in bed all day, it was easy.' Point me in the direction of those bed scenes, I beg.

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Far From the Shallow

Day 31 of 2018′s 31 Days of Ficmas.  Thanks to @doctorroseprompts for the list!  Note: new for 2020.  Credited as 2018 for organizational purposes, & back-filling the prompt.

Prompt: Midnight

Rating: General, with occasional strong language

Pairing: 12xRose, Human!AU, SuperStar!AU, vaguely A Star is Born!AU

Summary:  In an effort to combat low ticket sales, Ian Noble’s record label insists he takes to the Times Square New Year’s Eve stage with the label’s newest pop princess - but it’s a backup singer that captures his attention.

2018 31 Days of Ficmas masterlist

AO3

---

Resettling his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, Ian Noble paused for a deep breath before pushing into the practice room.  He still wasn’t entirely clear on how his manager had convinced him to do this, but it was too late now to pull out and he’d just have to grin and bear it.

“Right, ready to start kiddies?”

His fleeting hope of finding a bunch of professionals on the other side of the door was quickly dashed. His band was ready, as always, but they were the only ones.  His ‘partner’ was nowhere to be seen, her backup singers/dancers/hangers-on lazing around the room, laughing and joking.  A few dancers were stretching at the barre, but that was it.

Shaking his head in disgust, he headed for his bandleader and dropped his bag at his feet.  “All good?”

“We’re ready,” Craig confirmed.  “She’s not here yet.”

“Of-fucking-course not.” ‘She’ was the current Pop Princess – Serenity Lake.  Twenty-two years old, she was every bit the bubblegum-pink, super-sweet platinum blonde teeny-bopper he loathed above all else – except unprofessionalism.  Though, it seemed, she was that as well. “Practice started when?”

“At three.”

“And it’s now?”

“Three-oh-five.”

“Can we start without her?”

Craig exchanged looks with their drummer, Rob.  “I don’t think that would go over very well.”

Ian bit his tongue, hard. The sales for his last tour had been… not great (Clara, his manager, had used the word catastrophic), and it had been decided by PR people and good-for-nothing label execs that he needed to ‘reach new crowds’, even though the album itself had sold well.  One of the arse-wipe suits had decided the perfect time and place was a duet with the label’s newest acquisition.  On New Year’s Eve in Times Square, New York.

Perhaps Clara had made the right call by telling him over the phone while he was already on the plane under false pretenses.

“So we just wait then, til the fucking princess arrives?”

The band shrugged, and he shook his head in disgust before turning his back on them.  The practice room was large, easily the size of a ballroom, with industrial-sized windows opposite a mirrored wall, complete with ballet barre.  Two of the female dancers were still warming up, while another four sat around chatting up the men.  Two backup singers were sprawled on mats, with no sign of the usual third.

“Is everyone else here at least?”

“Actually-”

Craig was interrupted by the door swinging open, a young blonde in workout clothes hurrying in with a tray of drinks from Starbucks.  Rage ignited inside Ian, and before he consciously made the decision he strode across the room towards her.

“You!  Blondie!”

She startled slightly, turning to face him.  “Me?”

“Yes, you.  Aren’t you supposed to be a professional?  We’ve been waiting for you!  You might be queen on your own fucking tour, but now you’re wasting my time, and my band’s time.  I don’t like this arrangement any fucking more than you do, but it’s what the High fucking Council of Douchebags wants, so it’s what we’re going to do.  Get over yourself, dig deep for some fucking work ethic, and let’s get through this so we can both get on with our fucking lives!”

Rant over, he settled his hands on his hips, still glaring at her.  To his horror and disgust tears had welled in her eyes, though they hadn’t fallen yet.  That just confirmed that she would be a flash in the pan; if she’d gotten this far without developing a thicker shell, she wouldn’t get much further.  Maybe she had a bulldog manager that treated her like the fucking princess she thought she was; maybe she was shagging one of the label heads and used that to get what she wanted.  He honestly didn’t care; he just wanted to get the show over with.

“Well are you going to say anything?” he snapped.

“I’m Rose,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I’m Rose, I’m Serenity- Miss Lake’s new backup singer.  She texted me- well her assistant did- that they were stuck in traffic and had me go out to get some tea.”

He never would’ve been able to hear her, if the room wasn’t dead silent.  No one seemed to be breathing; he sure as fuck wasn’t, as he realized the enormity of his mistake.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”  The girl sniffled, but kept up a brave face, glaring at him.  “She should be here in just a minute.”

“I-” he grimaced, removing his sunglasses.  Shit, shit, shit.  “I’m very sorry, that was completely unprofessional.  Erm, Ian Noble.”

“I know who you are.” Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but she no longer looked so close to tears.  “Big fan, actually.”

“Uh, thanks.”  Ian blinked at her, at a loss.  He was, ironically, saved by the real Serenity Lake.

“Hello, darlings!” The pop star strutted into the room, tossing her hair over her shoulder.  “Who’s ready to have some fun?”

-

Ian watched sourly as Serenity practiced her dance moves.  They had one song, a duet he’d done when he was just starting out with a woman who’d long since disappeared from the spotlight so thoroughly he couldn’t remember her name, complete with a dance routine.

To her credit, she’d taken one look at his face and suggested he leave the dancing to her; he was so grateful, he didn’t even care if it was a dig about his age.

Happening to glance towards his left, he found the girl he’d yelled at standing next to him, guilt flooding through him.  Watching her watch the dancing for a moment, he hesitated before speaking quietly.  “I really am sorry.”

“Thank you.”  Staring straight ahead she barely acknowledged him, though her shoulders untensed slightly.

“I don’t want to make excuses, but I really don’t want to be here, and I took it out on you.”  He kept his focus on the dancers as well.

“Thank you,” Rose repeated.

“Um, you’re a backup singer?”

She shot him a confused, questioning look, but nodded hesitantly.  “Yes.  I came Stateside with Jo Shannon, who opened for Serenity on her last tour.  When it ended Serenity offered to keep me on, and I accepted last week.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Sticking his hands in his pockets he looked around awkwardly, but no one appeared to save him. His band was, of course, playing for the dancers, and the various assistants had disappeared, leaving them alone.

“Where’s Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?”

“Beka and Margot went for a smoke break.”  Rose’s lips twitched in amusement, but she kept her blank expression.

“You a song-writer?”

Her face lit up, saying it all, even though she tried to play it cool.  “Sort of- I mean, I have ideas, I don’t know if they’re any good though.”

“If you want-” he had no idea where the offer was coming from, why he was taking an interest in this girl’s career.  Maybe it was the fellow Brit in the room, or guilt over yelling at her.  He tended not to care about the support, as he called them.  Didn’t matter whether or not they were there, he hardly noticed them unless they fucked up.

She was different.

“Ian!” Serenity chirped. “We’re ready to run through now.”

“I’ll get Beka and Margot,” Rose volunteered, scurrying out the door and returning thirty seconds later with the other two.  They lined up in the back across from the band, Ian and Serenity taking their spots front and center.

For no reason he could adequately explain, he spent more time watching her in the mirror than the star of the show.

-

After seven hours and a break for dinner, they finally called the rehearsal quits.  Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve, and they’d only have one chance to get it right on live television.  Most of the group packed up quickly, disappearing out the door amid bursts of laughter.  Serenity was first out, oversized sunglasses dominating her face and only making her stand out more than she already did in a fluorescent pink sweatsuit and large handbag.

Ian lingered, taking his time packing up his notes and arrangements, barely acknowledging his band’s goodbyes and dismissing their offers of getting a drink.  The girl, Rose, the one he couldn’t take his eyes off of, was lingering as well, and then suddenly they were the only two left.

Abandoning his things, he approached her when she made no move to leave.  “Rose?”

She yelped, spinning, and putting a hand to her chest.  “Shit! You scared me half to death. What?”

“Erm-”  Shuffling his feet, he found it hard to meet her eye. “Listen, I’m sorry-”

“You’ve said that,” Rose cut him off with a sigh, before offering him a tentative smile.  “And I accept your apology.  It’s all good, really – you don’t need to keep saying it.”

“Right.  Thanks.”  He rocked back on his heels for a moment.  “If you’re not busy, I thought… I mean, if you’d like an experienced professional’s opinion, maybe I could take a look at one of your songs?”

Her expression shuttered, eyes narrowing in suspicion.  “I highly doubt I’ve written anything worth stealing,” she said stiffly, shouldering her bag.  “Thanks, though.”

“What?  No!  No no no. Really.  Listen, you know Johnny Rotten?”

“I’m from London.”

“Right.  Well, when I was just a kid starting out, and not knowing my arse from my head, I got five minutes alone with him in a limo – five minutes.  He asked if I was a songwriter, I said I was, he told me to sing him something.  The next day I was in front of suits from EMI. A week later I had my first contract.”

“That’s nice.”  Rose folded her arms across her chest, turning to go, and in desperation he caught her arm.

“No, listen, my point is – you seem like a nice girl, and I was an utter bastard.  Let me make it up to you.”

She looked down at his hand on her arm, which he promptly removed, then back up at him, steel in her eyes.  “I want to succeed.  I want to make it.  I want it more than anything – except my dignity.  I’ll make it on my singing.  And if I don’t, I don’t, and I’ll figure something else out.  But I will never trade sex for opportunity.”

“I would withdraw my offer if you tried,” he shrugged.  “I don’t know what to say to convince you to trust me.”

Biting her lip Rose looked towards the door, the wheels turning in her mind.  “D’you know a good place in this God-forsaken town to get chips?”

-

Thirty minutes later they were seated side by side on a bench overlooking the Hudson River.  It was too dark to see much other than the occasional light, though the path itself was well-lit.

“So why are you such a surly bastard?”  Rose carefully selected a chip before turning expectant, curious eyes on him.

Picking at his own paper basket, he glanced at her quickly before looking out over the water.  “I’ve been in this business too long.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not…” he sighed heavily, trying to figure out how to put it into words without scaring her off her chosen career path.  “It’s not about music.  For others, I mean.  To me, as long as I believe in what I’m singing, then hang the rest.  I don’t care if it’s… a sold-out Shea Stadium or half-empty corner pub.  The money, the trappings, the fame… it doesn’t matter.  Well it does, but only so far as is required to keep playing the music I want to play, supporting my guys, you know?  Yet everyone else is obsessed with all of it, far more than the music.  To them, it’s just a way to make money.”

“Too much of a purist,” she teased gently, nudging his arm with her elbow.  “I get it.”

“I’ve seen too many talented musicians ruined by the trappings,” Ian said quietly, staring down at his hands.  “Money, fame, sex, drugs, alcohol.  I don’t touch any of that shit.”

“You’ve made a lot of incredible music in your time.  You still feel like you’ve got more to say?”

“Sometimes… sometimes I feel like there’s a black hole within me.  That it’s just… waiting.  For the right song, the right lyric, the right chords.  That eventually I’ll write the perfect thing that fixes it.”

Rose nodded.  “I think I know what you mean.”

They lapsed into silence. Putting his rubbish on the bench next to him, he leaned back and spread his arms, staring across the water.  For late December in New York, it wasn’t too terribly cold out; at least, not enough to make him call it a night.

“Tell me something, boy,” she started to sing suddenly, a halting flow to the words.  “Aren’t you tired tryin’ to fill that void?” Standing up, she wrapped her arms around her waist as she turned to face him.  “Or do you need more?” Another pause.  “Ain’t it hard keeping it so hardcore.”

Sitting up straight, Ian stared at her in surprise.  “Did you just write that?”

Rose nodded shyly, tucking her hair behind her ears.  “I’ve had the tune for a few days, but couldn’t figure out the right lyrics.”

“Almost sounds like it’s about me.”

“I don’t think there’s any life rights involved,” she said dryly, blushing.  “Not that it’s much good, anyway.”

Ian considered it, already hearing the sample on a loop in his mind.  “Actually, it’s brilliant.  It deserves to be heard.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, before smiling reassuringly.  “By you. It deserves to be heard from you.  Thank you for sharing it.”

Her head ducked for a moment, and when it raised, she readjusted her scarf around her neck to try to hide her red cheeks.  “This has been brilliant, and thank you for the chips and just… listening to me, but it’s getting late and tomorrow’s a long day, so-”

“Right, yeah.” Standing up, he brushed himself free of crumbs before gathering all the trash and tossing it in the nearest waste bin. “Can I give you a ride back to your hotel?”

-

The next day was a blur, full of interviews and strategy meetings over Skype with Clara.  He’d been inspired when he got back to his room, staying up far too late scribbling out fragments of songs.  It was seven by the time he was due at the staging area, and he spent an inordinate amount of time in hair and makeup, forced to watch the show on telly.  The official kickoff was at eight, though he and Serenity weren’t scheduled until roughly eleven fifteen – with live TV, they had to be ready to go at any moment.

Throughout the evening he caught the occasional glimpse of Rose, each time looking more harried and panicked until he finally snagged her as she passed his dressing room, pulling her inside.

She yelped, trying to scramble away until she realized it was him.  “Ian!”

“Sorry, sorry.”  He got her steady before letting go, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace.  “What the hell’s going on?”

Rose licked her lips, glancing nervously towards the door.  “Don’t freak.”

“Why would I freak?”

“No one’s seen Serenity since breakfast.”

A dull buzzing started in his ears, mind already whirling with alternatives and potential plans. “What’s being done?”

“We’ve been calling her, her boyfriend, her parents, everyone, but there’s no sign of her. Police are looking, but… it’s New Year’s Eve, they don’t exactly have the time for that right now.”

“We go on in half an hour,” Ian pointed out, eyes narrowing in thought.  “What’s the plan?”

Rose shrugged helplessly. “Hope she shows?”

“Right.  Well, you look busy, I won’t keep you.”  He crossed his arms, gesturing towards the door.

Shoulders unhunching, she smiled shyly at him.  “It’s okay. I like talking to you.”

Their eyes held, and for a moment, just a single heartbeat, he thought he saw something there, but then she blinked and it was gone.  “Right! Gotta go, lots to do.  See you out there, hopefully!”

Then she was gone in a whirlwind, leaving him with more questions than answers.  One of the songs he had toyed with the night before came to him then, and grabbing his coat, he went in search of his band.

-

“Thirty seconds,” a producer barked in Ian’s earpiece, and he gave him a thumbs up across the stage. He was waiting in the wings, his band already on stage setting up while some pop star on the West Coast performed. The backup dancers and singers filed onto the stage then, and he caught Rose’s eye.

She shook her head and he nodded in return, before giving his bandleader the prearranged signal.

“Miss Lake isn’t here, so you’ll have to go on without her,” the aide at his side informed him.  “The backup singers will handle her part, the dancers will stick to the routine, just… do as you rehearsed otherwise.”

“Actually, we’re going to do something different,” Ian informed him, giving him a grin before walking up onto the stage, not giving him a chance to argue.  “Hello New York!”

The crowd went wild, though whether it was for him or in anticipation of Serenity he didn’t want to know.

“There’s been a bit of a change, and Miss Lake unfortunately won’t be joining us tonight,” he announced, relieved when no one booed, though a murmur rippled through the crowd. “Instead I’ll be doing a brand new duet with the lovely, talented Rose- well, Rose.”  Belatedly he realized he’d never bothered to get her last name.  Oops.  “Rose?” He turned to look at where she was standing, frozen, at the mic, one of the other singers nudging her forward.

Eyes wide Rose did, coming up to his side and waving tentatively at the crowd.

“Now, Rose here is a talented songwriter, but you don’t have to take my word for it – you’re about to find out yourself.”

Covering the mic so only she would pick up his next words, he leaned in close.  “I know I said I wouldn’t steal it, and I don’t consider what I’m about to do breaking that promise, but it’s not entirely keeping it either.  Just trust me like I’m trusting you.  This is your moment.”

“I don’t-” she started, but he thrust the live mic in her hands and she stopped.  Nabbing his guitar from Craig and slipping the strap over his head, he readjusted his headset, praying the mic would pick up his voice.

He began picking out the melody he’d arranged overnight, took a deep breath and began to sing.  “Tell me something, girl.”  He met Rose’s eyes just as they widened, relieved when they didn’t seem to hold any sort of homicidal intent.  “Are you happy in this modern world?”  The crowd was silent, more so than he’d ever heard, and if he hadn’t been performing so long it would’ve been entirely unnerving.  “Or do you need more? / Is there something else you’re searching for?”  His heart leapt to his throat, and he wondered if she’d be able to see the truth in his next words.  “I’m falling. / In all the good times I find myself longing for change. / And in the bad times I fear myself.”

The band behind him came in, softly at first, and he met Rose’s eye again and nodded.  She came in perfectly on time, her voice seemingly more beautiful than it had the night before when she’d sung the very same lyrics. “Tell me something, boy. / Aren’t you tired trying to fill that void? / Or do you need more? / Ain’t it hard keepin’ it so hard core.”  His heart stopped when she continued, mirroring his pre-chorus.  The hesitation in her voice made him wonder if, possibly, it was the truth for her as well. “I’m falling. / In all the good times I find myself longing for change. / And in the bad times I fear myself.”

And then she went solo, singing the part she’d added in the car the previous night just before they reached her hotel.  “I’m off the deep end / watch as I dive in / I’ll never meet the ground. / Crash through the surface, where they can’t hurt us / We’re far from the shallow now.”

-

Ian stumbled off the stage somewhat in shock.  They’d made it through, Rose performing beautifully, a haunting vocalization in the middle of the song he was certain was already going viral online it was so damn good.  He kept Rose pressed to his side, not letting her escape as he fought their way back to his dressing room, waving off the comments being thrown at him.  The crowd had gone ballistic, a thunderous roar of approval so great it had been a veritable wall of noise.  He didn’t want to know what anyone else thought until he’d heard from her, explained his side.

Slamming the door behind him, he finally let her go and turned to face her, braced for a slap. “I’m sorry I ambushed you, but I haven’t been able to get that fucking song out of my head.  It’s incredible, Rose, and that reaction we just got? That was for you.  You. As a singer and a songwriter.  I mean, that- that-” he fell silent as she stared at him.

“You violated my trust,” she said quietly.  “I shared that with you in confidence, and twenty-four hours later you gave it to the fucking world.  I can’t- I’m sorry-”  Rose darted forward, hand covering her mouth, and he could only watch, disappointed and angry with himself, as she ran away.

“Fuck!”  He wanted to throw something, destroy something, but the small rational voice in the back of his head reigned him in.  He was already on thin ice for going rogue; better not to ruin in all in a fit of rage. Slamming back a glass of water and wishing like hell he drank, he got himself together before heading for the inside viewing area where a party was raging.

Clara was going to kill him.

-

Sparkling water in hand, Ian sulked in the back of the room.  The network hosting the concert had offered their nearby studios to the performers, hosts, and crew, most of whom were finished with their work and ready to party.  Ninety seconds remained in the year, before it would finally be over and they could all pretend, if only for a little while, that everything would magically be better.

“Ian.”

Her voice sent a shiver racing down his spine, and he turned to face her, resigned to his fate. “Rose-”

“Thank you,” she interrupted.  “The song was perfect.  It was true to what I had written, and yet somehow so much better.  That’s down to you.”

“How many offers did you get?” he asked after a moment, studying her face.

Her neutral expression melted into a grin.  “Six different labels want to sign me.  I haven’t made any decision yet.  Not about that, at least.”  She looked decidedly nervous, rubbing her palms on her skirt.

“Then what did you make a decision about?”  His heart picked up pace, hoping for something he wasn’t willing to consider within the realm of possibility.

“I… I really liked talking to you,” Rose said quietly.  “Something about it… I don’t know.  I thought- I mean- maybe this is totally crazy, but-”

“Ten!  Nine!  Eight!” Everyone’s attention focused on the telly, where the ball was nearing the base.

As the countdown continued, things became clear in Ian’s mind.  This girl, Rose, made him feel alive again in a way he hadn’t in a very long time.  And, if he understood her stuttering correctly before they were interrupted, she was trying to say the same thing.

Eyes darting up, he spotted a spring hanging from the ceiling, and smiled.  “Mistletoe.”

“New year’s about to start,” she replied, breathless, stepping closer.  “Would hate to start it out with bad luck.”

“You just became an overnight sensation, you can’t risk it.”

“Four!  Three!  Two!”

“I am sensational overnight.”  Eyes wide, she was definitely leaning in.

Hand coming up to cup her cheek, he closed the distance between them.

“One!  Happy New Year!”

Their lips met, and the fireworks started.

We’re far from the shallow now.

[thecursedhellblazer]

‘Cause We’re Living in a Mad World

{ @adventurepunks​ }

(( Hiiii! I fished this out of a couple of memes I had done ages ago and...it seemed fun and it gave me the chance to ramble about stuff we mentioned, so...here you go! It’s mostly Nick and John, but I throw in some Zee because the gal deserves some space :3 ))

Who said “I love you” first Definitely John. He was either drunk or totally out of it for not having slept in days (or both) and Nick had been forced to escort his sorry ass to lie down somewhere. Among all the incomprehensible, nonsensical babbling he had been doing, at some point he had just gone on and mumbled something on the lines of “N’ aye, tha’ th’ bloody t’in’, Cap. I think I do love yeh...I bloody do”. By the time Nick had registered the non-sequitur, John had been out cold and drooling very much unattractively on his pillow, leaving his mentor to wonder, hardly for the first time, what the hell he was supposed to do about his disaster youth.

Who would have the other’s picture as their phone background Neither of them does. John doesn’t have a phone (and that’s the reason why both Nick and Zatanna dread the times he uses the one in the Sanctum to phone Chas back to London...Two hours of non-stop Scouse rambling about everything one can find worth complaining about). As for Nick, he simply doesn’t bother with such things. However, John has one, slightly creased picture of him and Nick (a Polaroid taken by accident by some tourist who had been nice enough to hand it over to John) and another with the two them and Zee glued against the wall of his bedroom, right next to a group photograph of his closest English mates, a picture of him and Chas and a black and white one of a younger Cheryl. Also, Zatanna has made sure to have a better, properly framed picture of the three of them hanging inconspicuously from one of the walls in the main room of the Sanctum, not enough to catch the eye, but in a position that makes sure that you must look at it if you know that it’s there. Nick never acknowledged any of those, but you might catch his eyes wandering in the direction of the pictures every time he is in the room with them (yes, at times he dares to wonder in that reign of chaos that’s John’s bedroom).

Who leaves notes written in fog on the bathroom mirror John...when he is trying to be funny. Usually he writes the messages on some other window or piece of glass and then magicks them on the bathroom mirror when he knows that either Nick or Zatanna are inside. Of course, he doesn’t always get it right and at times the wrong person receives a message that wasn’t intended for them. Like Nick finding questions about women lingerie (he never asks, because he is pretty sure that, whatever John wants with it, it’s not something he wants to know or guess). The most memorable mishap, at least in Zee’s opinion, has been when, after having come back from one of her shows at 3 am and after a very much earned shower, she had found herself staring at the suddenly foggy mirror while the words “wudl u shag me een if I ws a gost?” materialised on it. Judging by the bad spelling and by how smeared the calligraphy was, John had to be shitface drunk, wherever he was. Not that the fact excused him in her eyes. Not in the least. She had marched out of the bathroom, told Nick that John wanted to talk to him and then had gone to bed. Useless to say, Nick had gone from confused to extremely unimpressed as soon as he had seen the note on the mirror.

Who buys steals the other cheesy gifts John is the one who, from time to time, comes back from his wanderings bearing “gifts”, pretty much like a not so domesticated cat would do. Thankfully, usually they aren’t dead animals (aside that one time with the still dripping goat’s head...but they don’t talk about it). They range from things he has won at the poker table to stuff he has either con out of someone’s hands or straight out nicked. He has learnt pretty quickly that he can’t tell Zatanna if he’s giving her something he has stolen, not after the one time she has forced him to return the necklace he had got her, much to his annoyance and embarrassment. This has also caused him to get more stuff for Nick than for her. She’s always suspicious now (and with reasons), while his mentor doesn’t really care how he has got his hands on it. The only one time the older sorcerer has shown concern about John’s kleptomaniac habits has been when the younger man brought home a very ancient, very valuable, and also very cursed book. The cleansing ritual took them hours. However, on the other hand, it turned out that the contents of said tome were very much worth the trouble, so John got away with just a mild scolding, much to Zatanna’s incredulity.

Who initiated the first kiss Nick did...after John had driven him crazy with half angry flirting and ambiguous provocations (and talks about shagging ghosts). The whole situation had started from a lot of unresolved tension between them (and not of the good kind), but considering where it has landed them...It might as well have been worth it, even if the original issue lies still mostly unsolved.

Who kisses the other awake in the morning If anyone does in the first place, it would probably be Nick, for the mere reason that John isn’t an early bird (unless he simply forgoes sleeping completely), no matter in whose bed he falls asleep. However, it’s still far more likely that Nick chooses to wakes him up by shaking him or with a shove, simply because something as light as a kiss wouldn’t do the job. Or it would lead to John getting his hands busy even before he has opened his eyes and that’s unacceptable when they have a schedule and lessons to attend to. A few times, John has crawled in Nick’s bed before dawn and, in those occasions, he is the one to wake his mentor up with kisses. There’s an equal chance of either being kicked out of the room pr being allowed to carry on, and, in his eyes, the second thing is definitely worth facing the risk of rejection. John usually gets his nicest wake up calls from Zatanna, when she lures him out of the sheets with a kiss on the cheek and the promising smell of coffee and bacon. She has also learnt to throw a fresh pair of underwear in his face before walking back to the kitchen, though, because that’s the only way to make sure he doesn't show up stark nake for breakfast.

Who starts tickle fights Tickle fights aren’t something that happens frequently, but they did happen. Mostly when they were all at least a bit tipsy. John started the very first one, almost accidentally, by rambling about how Cheryl used to tickle him till he cried and couldn’t breathe as a payback for when he messed with her things. Useless to say, that led him to ask Zatanna if she was ticklish and to the poor homo magi being assaulted. Nick had made the mistake to declare that he found the whole affair “undignified”, which had been enough to make John tackle and tickle him too. Zatanna might have retaliate, on them both (John for starting it, Nick for not defending her), even though, if asked, she would deny it. After that episode, both Zatanna and Nick have become very, very wary of whenever John is drunk and feeling both touchy-feely and playful. Of course, he still manages to find a way to catch them both off guard.

Who asks who if they can join the other in the shower John’s “asking” consists in him sticking his head inside the bathroom (or straight past the shower curtain) and make comments about how there’s just enough room for another person under the stream or about how great he is at scrubbing backs, full trademark smirk in place. Nick usually asks before anyone gets in the shower and it usually happens after a very intense roll in the sheet when all the participants might use a wash up. However, there have been times when he has just hopped in the shower while John was already in it, without warnings or questions, because the smug idiot can use a taste of his own medicine from time to time. The main issue with that tact is that John, after the initial moment of astonishment, always gets a bit too mesmerised to really grasp the lesson.

Who surprises the other in the middle of the day at work with lunch Nick can get completely absorbed in his studying and researches and John at times forgets that human beings need to eat to survive, so it’s definitely Zee. When she is around, she makes sure to bring them both, if not a full meal, at least a snack twice a day. She has found that it usually also prevents John from raiding their fridge during the night and, considering how messy that affair gets, it’s a very good thing. When Zatanna isn’t around, Nick is the one who has a more “regular” (if it can be called that) routine, so he takes over the task of keeping them both fed (also because John can’t be trusted around the kitchen at). There are times, though, when John knocks at Nick’s door, after making sure that the older man is done with whatever he’s doing, with takeaway already laid down at the table or saying that he has discovered a new pub that makes nice steaks or pizza and that they should totally go and try it out.

Who was nervous and shy on the first date Definitely John, even if, as per usual, he covered it up with cockiness and smugness. Especially since he felt like a idiot for being nervous in the first place. He and Nick had gone out plenty of times together (with and without Zatanna), so sharing a night that was perhaps a bit more intimate shouldn’t have been such a big deal. And yet, he still spent an incredibly long amount of time (especially for his standards) tidying himself up in the bathroom and deciding which of his clothes were more suitable for the occasion. It earned him a few raised eyebrows from Nick’s part, which made it clear to them both that the older man knew, but John obviously refused to acknowledge both the gestures and the fact.

Who kills/takes out the spiders Spiders are usually either left to mind their business. Zatanna might use her magic to coax them out of a window when they are in the way, but for the rest no one really cares. It doesn’t happen too often that they manage to get inside the Sanctum, so when they do...it’s safe to say that they have earned their right to stay. There are times, though, when the poor creatures become the unfortunate subjects of John’s practice. Once he has learnt how to open portals towards other realms, it has become very much not unusual to see him trying to shove the spiders inside very small rips in the fabric of reality. Nick has pointed out that he has no way to find out whether or not he has managed to send them where he was planning to, but he has soon given up trying to make John see his point, because his words always earn him nothing but a snicker.

Who loudly proclaims their love when they’re drunk John, even if calling his drunk claims “love declarations” would be pushing it. For the most, what leaves his lips are comments about his and Nick alone time together and far too bold to be nice compliments. And, if he is really in the mood, also short rants about what he would love for them to do that they haven’t tried yet. Whenever magic or the undead start being thrown in the mix, Zatanna takes it as her cue to dump him in Nick’s capable, even if exasperated, hands and go spend the rest of her night elsewhere. The real slips can happen after John has ceased being loud, when his mind is more in Dreamland than on the material plane. They are quiet whispers, compared to all the noise he makes before, and that alone is very telling of how much more sincere they are.

[slothgiirl]

FOREVER ISN’T FOR EVERYONE (IS FOREVER FOR YOU?) part 2

Lucy and I are up before the sun. I've called a cab and manage to grab a banana from the complementary breakfast. Most of the team's still asleep.

 "Fucking techies," Ben mutters, rubbing at his eyes from behind his sunnies, "get to sleep while I do all the work.” He'd stayed out with the rest of the band all night. Who knows they'd gotten back in. And now we had actual work to do. 

"Just you," Lucy replies archly.

"You two weren't out until three in the morning. At least I got a nice shag out of the whole thing."

"TMI Ben!" It's too early for this. But the whole city is too beautiful too miss. New Zealand. I have too at least make it to the beach once during these few days we have here before heading to Auckland. Maybe even make it to hobbit town. 

"It's true. I hate dealing with the business side. I just signed on to party and travel."  

"Where did you guys even go?”

"A bunch of bars. Got some late night eats." He shrugs, looking way too relaxed in jeans and a t shirt. But maybe I was the one out of place in slacks and a silk cami. I just couldn't get my head around doing business in jeans. "You should've come with us Ellie. We missed you last night."

"I prefer not feeling like shit two days in a row actually."

Lucy snorts, "oh you're perfect. You'll do great out here with us."

There's complimentary coffee and I make sure to pour as much creamer as I can into the cup. Ben and the venue manager talk, go over some last minute papers. He passes them to me and I read them and nod, passing them back. They're the same as I have in my files. 

Ben signs off and then they're joking and bantering and I want to stab my eye out. Lucy's gone to go over the press list and signing off on the state of backstage. It's not a huge venue. Nothing like the O2 back home. But the size does give everyone a better look at the stage, probably without selling a kidney for it. 

We're done, having taken longer than we planned. We have to race back to meet up with band to do press. Fuck. Our taxi gets caught up in traffic. 

"How's there even enough cars for there to be traffic," Lucy complains. She doesn't trust the band to speak without her there to do damage control. 

"Fuck it. We're just meeting them at the radio station. Then we can head to hotel and do the rest of the day's press in there." He sends a text. "Can you send a taxi for them Ellie?"

"Got it." At some point I've got to get lunch. A banana and coffee isn't enough to hold me over. 

We barely make it in time and I run off to get them all breakfast while they do their radio interview for the morning. Without specifics I'm left with a bit of time to wander about and find someplace to eat. 

The air feels fresher. Everything has a rose colored cast from it's newness to me. Even I feel lighter without the weight of being known here. Like I could change and be the person I wanted to away from home. In this new place. 

There's a restaurant a street over and the coziness amid the skyscrapers catch my eye. It's homey and welcoming and it smells amazing. I order a couple of their breakfast specials and lunch sandwiches, taking one for myself as the kitchen preps the rest. 

"Large family," the waitress asks. 

I shake my head, "for work actually. I went to school for years to be a glorified assistant." It's funny. I did. But this job, it felt right, even now. 

"That's what my son keeps telling me." 

The foods great. I sip at some tea and wait to be called back. Content to use to wifi. After we get back to the hotel, where some of the crew are setting up for the press, and with the help of the first interviewers of the day, I'll finally have some free time. 

Go walk about the beach. Oriental bay is supposed to be beautiful. And close by. 

Ben texts me and I met up with them at the curb, carrying a large bag of takeout, "It's good," I promise. 

"You ate without us," Miles accuses, all boyish naughtiness, clad in a wife beater and trackies. 

"Down old boy," Lucy says, slapping his chest. Nick laughs, taking a box eagerly as Ben hails us a cab, of which there are plenty in this part of the city. 

"Do we really have press all day," Jaime groans. 

"Bet you didn't think of that when you wanted more people to hear you play," Ben notes with a mouthful of sandwich. 

Miles shimmies, features twisted in delightful amusement, "fame's half the reason I joined a band. Who doesn't want to be a fmaous rockstar. Sex. Drugs, and rock n roll baby."

"You look more like the fifth Beatle than Mick Jagger," I note as we pile into a cab. His hair's certainly Beatlesque. He's also got the boyish charm down, however rakish. 

"Oi!"

Lucy and Ben shepherd the boys to another interview, with promises of partying and beaches later on our last full day before the concert here. 

I wave them off and head up to our room to change out of slacks. I'd been right, I'd been overdressed. And the heat only made it worse. 

By the time I change into some shorts, I feel to tired to go out and sigh see, figuring tonight I'll actually go out with the rest of the crew. It'd be more fun that way. Instead of alone. 

Instead I head down to the lobby with a bag and book and head out to wander the area at least. There's some fast food, the names I know, Mcdonalds and Domino's, and some obvious tourist traps that I go into. 

My family and roommates will at least want a mug. For the first time, I use my own card to buy some souvenirs, opting for keychains to save space. I wander into some of the regular shops to kill time. 

All the stores nearby have a striking similarity to the ones back home. But the architecture's all different. 

My phone is soon full of pictures of streets and buildings and me wearing a New Zealand hat, before I give in and get Mcdonalds, heading back to the hotel, ready to curl up in the beautiful lobby with the book I've lugged all the way from home. 

The air conditioning is a gift. The couch by the indoor fountain perfect and I try to focus on reading Anna Karenina. It's been nagging me since uni. But I've never managed to get through it. 

So many beautiful quotes out there and I can't ever finish a book. 

I almost drop my book as Lucy startles me, taking a seat next to me. "Want to grab lunch by the beach? I mean dinner really but either way?"

"And the boys?"She rolls her watery eyes, the color of fog bound sky, "up to change before having margaritas by the pool. I think they're going out bar hopping again later if you're up for it."

I shrug, "let's see how we feel after wandering about." It's a long walk, but how else will we get to see everything. 

Lucy makes me take a pictures of her against various backdrops. "Make sure you get that building!" She poses. "Wait, over here!" She fixes her hair, back and out of her eyes, "Wait! I think I closed my eyes in that one."

I laugh, willingly taking photo after photo and waiting for her to check them, swiping and zooming in to make sure she likes how it came out. 

"Thank you so much Ellie!"

"It's really no problem."As we get to the beach we duck into the first place that smells good and has a line. 

"First rule of traveling," Lucy grins. "Follow your nose."

It's not half bad. Fish and chips. The fish claiming to be fresh from the day's catch. A perfect dinner. 

Lucy tells me about her last job. "A smaller band, mostly big in europe. I think breaking out into the world's the hardest part. So many bands flounder in the states and unfortunately it's a huge market setter."

"Did you always want to do this kind of PR?" 

"No. But who could refuse traveling! Especially compared to a desk job."

We each pay for our food and head down to the water. The water too inviting to refuse, both of us wading in. 

"It's warm," we both squeal, use to the icy waters of England. 

"It's probably easier to deal with them though."

Lucy's eyebrows rise as she snorts, "you'd be surprised at how crazy things in the boardroom can get!"

We go in past our knees. Yelping as the waves splash, breaking against us. "My underwears soaked," I admit, blushing fiercely. The wet feeling making me want to go running into the water or for a change of clothes.  

"Didn't you say we were just dipping our feet in?"

We laugh. 

The groupchat goes off and we glance at each other, before heading back out of the water. We read over the texts with the sun setting on the water. "This place is paradise," I tell her. Its warm and by the beach and so green. 

"Oh and we've barely even started. Ben told me you didn't even have a passport?" 

I blush. "Yes. I'd only ever been up as far as Scotland." It had been the first and only time I had met my mother's parents. Her family. And despite how it ended, it was a lovely time in the highlands. 

Lucy laughs, scrolling through the messages. "Ben and the rest are heading out to drink up on Cuba street. 'cept for Miles and Alex. They want to go catch some film at a quaint little theater."

"What movie?" 

"The Red Shoes. There'll be food and drinks there too." We trudge through the sand and peddles and reach the sidewalk. This time we hail a cab. 

"How's Cuba street," I ask. She's travelled before. Probably been here with a different band. A different crew. Older than me, lines around her eyes. 

"I mean it's cool," she offers, "but mostly pubs and-it's very much Camden town than Shoreditch."

"A movie sounds nice after all the walking. Maybe along with a nice glass of wine."

"I'll tell Miles we'll be over then," she says, looking up with a smile. It's great to have her here, to get along with her so easily. I'd been nervous before, never having made friends easily in school. Just my dorm mates and whoever I ended up sitting near in class. 

"And I'll tell the cab where to."

Miles and Alex are waiting for us outside when we pull up. Even illuminated by dim streetlights, it's easy too see how pretty Alex is, his face now sans aviators and with a good night's sleep.  

Large and expressive caramel eyes, a softness to his sharp jaw, and a well formed mouth. It helped that he was a good mood, joking with Miles.

"-and I said fuck that mate and drained the whole thing. Burned to bloody hell and back though!"

"Just can't beat an englishman!"

Lucy rolls her eyes, "boys will be boys."

"Ah my dear sweet Lucy who pelts me with candy as I mouth off! Reminds me of me history teacher," Miles winks exaggeratedly. "This is me mate Alex ," he clasps him on the shoulder, pulling him into his embrace, "Alex. This is Lucy and Ellie who I know you already met but."

"Speaking of which," I note, aware of the sand still stuck to my legs and the drying hem of my shorts, "you owe me a drink."

"Oi! What a woman! Hell El, gotta at least wait until we sit down or you might be what we call the local old dog who spends all his days in the back booths of pubs." His voice is all over the place as he twirls an imaginary mustache and it's a combination of it all and him being him that has us all laughing at his antics.

We order chips and a bottle of wine, "to keep it classy," Miles winks, and take our seats in the tiny theater. 

Alex takes the seat between me and Miles, attention dominated by the other man. All the better for me to sneak glances off and it's stupid but I already feel my heart speed up at the sight of him like I'm a teenager all over again. 

"Any if you seen this movie before," Lucy asks conversationally.

" 've not but then again i'm not the most cultured," Miles does a very bad accent as he continues, "je ne sais quoi."

"The french give us films and Serge Gainsbourg and this is how you pay them back," Alex teases, smacking Miles lightly in the arm. I chuckle at that, watching Miles go all mock affronted and tease Alex right back. 

"Is it anything like that old fairy tale?" I can vaguely recall something about cursed red shoes, but the twelve dancing princesses was the story I asked for night after night to my mums despair. 

Alex nods, with a delighted smile on his lips, "loosely. It's great. I think you'll like a lot."

The lights dim and the screen flickers on. I sit back and watch, glass of wine in hand feeling like I'm finally living that life that doesn't really exist, the moments that come straight of of films like this one.

Alex is right. I do like the film.

Its beautiful and I'm not bored at any point. I can here Miles making quite snide comments and am not surprised. 

"It was good," Lucy remarks after as we head out, "very black swan."

"Wouldn't black swan be like this film since it came out before?" I utter. 

"She's got you there Lucy darling," Miles snipes. "Who's up for some drinks! The rest of the boys are still out and about and I've got a bloody mary calling my name." 

He glances at Alex for a second before erupting into laughter that has Alex smiling as well. Must be an inside joke of there's. 

"Are you two coming," Alex asks, meeting my gaze. 

I shake my head. If I wake up early enough tomorrow I could probably squeeze in a trip to hobbit town and back before I had to run anywhere. 

I tell him as much. "Mums a huge Tolkien nerd, so I kind of have to."

Alex nods in understanding, "I've never cared for Tolkien. 've always preferred science fiction. Going way back to good ol Mary."

It take me a second for it to click. Mary Shelley. As in Frankenstein. "Never read it."

"You should. It's a great little book."

Miles snorts, "just watch the movie with the willy wonka fella!"

Alex rolls his eyes fondly. 

We hail a cab and part ways. 

Lucy boldly proclaiming she intends to get a good nights sleep and still look "banging in my fourties."

"Ya that old Lucy darling," Miles snorts, unable to help himself.

"Don'tcha know never to ask a lady her age Kane," Lucy calls out as the cab pulls away and I'm giggling, carefree. No one here knows me. I feel unabashed, making a scene and taking cabs about town. 

"So that Alex is right fit," Lucy states with a knowing smile as she plays the spice girls loudly in our room, handing me more wine. I blush and think I must've drunk way more than I though I did. He is! And I don't know what to do with that. 

So I shrug and reply, "I guess," to her very unconvinced face. With ease, a down another glass of wine, shamelessly crying out spice girls lyrics. 

I might as well be thirteen again. 

[sunken-standard]

Sherlolly Week 2017 Day 2: First Date

(The rating is still G on this one. Set in S1, sometime after ASiP but before TGG.)

*

"Sherlock?  What are you doing here?  Do you have another case already?" Molly asked, setting her bag on the lab table.  He'd only left a few hours before.

"Nope.  John has a date and I'm not to return to the flat until two at the earliest, which, I have to say, is highly optimistic of him considering the length of his shower this morning."  He went back to looking at whatever slide he had in the microscope.

"Ah.  More than I really needed, or um, actually wanted to know, but okay.  I forgot m--"

"Cardigan," he said, holding it up without looking away from the microscope; he'd had it on the stool next to him for whatever reason.

"Laundry night.  The fun never ends when you're thirty-one and still single," she tittered, then felt like an idiot.  Why did she say she was single?  He quite obviously knew that and couldn't be less interested.

"I suppose eating cold Chinese takeaway out of the carton while standing over the sink in just your underwear holds its own appeal as a way to spend a Friday evening. Certainly more than being subjected to the sounds of your flatmate's date getting shagged through the mattress to Motown's Greatest Hits Volume Two."

"Sometimes I use a plate," she defended, wondering how the hell he knew that about her.  Really, by this point she knew she shouldn't even bother wondering.  "And, ah, that's more that I didn't need or want to know."

"More than any of us needed or wanted to know, and yet, here we are," he said in that bouncy-chirpy-sarcastic way of his.

They lapsed into silence.  "Well, I ah, suppose I'll leave you to it, then," she said, moving around the back of his stool to collect her cardigan.

"Why are you going so soon?" he asked, actually sounding put out.  Like he wanted her to stay. "I'm not finished with that yet."  

Yeah, it was too much to hope for.

"What were you doing with my cardigan?" she asked slowly.

"Going over it for trace evidence. I like to keep my skills sharp."

"Ah."  What else could she say?

"Whoever asked you out yesterday is either going prematurely grey or is older than you think he is. Probably better you give that one a wide berth either way, never ends well."

"Wonderful," she said.  

He glanced at her, his eyes flicking over her before he made a little noise of assent or dismissal, she didn't know which.  She realized that she was actually well within his personal space, not even a foot between them.  She should probably get out of there before she said or did something stupid.

"Are you, ah, hungry?  It's just, I haven't had dinner yet and if I'm going to be staying...  I know you said you don't eat when you're working, but since you're not on a case...  I could, um, pop out to the vending machine and get something."  Yep, that was the something stupid.  

"I was actually going to go and grab something when I got finished here," he said.  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.  "There's a nice Italian place on Northumberland Street.  I got the owner off a murder charge."

"Sounds nice," she said, trying for interested and engaged, but coming off a bit bland.  She didn't know why he was telling her, to be honest.

"Good.  I'll be finished in ten minutes and then we can go."

"Um... we?"  He probably just meant he'll leave and she can shut off the lights behind him.  

"Yes...?"  He drew the word into a question.

"Go?"

"Yes."  He said it shortly, like a confirmation; no clarification was forthcoming, apparently.

"For dinner?"  Hope springs eternal.

"Are you having a blood sugar issue?  Maybe you should have one of the mints you keep in your bag," he said.  "Really, you could stand to eat more than a packet of Wotsits for lunch."

I would have, but I spent my lunch hour helping you, she thought, a little annoyed.

"So, ah, what's the name of the place?" she asked, thinking if she asked him enough questions she could figure out if he actually meant he wanted her to go with him.  Because that's what it sounded like, but Sherlock wasn't like other people.

"Angelo's."

"Oh!  That's where you and John went during the, ah, case with the case...  A Study in Pink?"

"Oh, for—does everyone read his blog?"

Well, yes, but not because I'm stalking you in a creepy way or anything, she thought.

"It's interesting.  What you do, I mean."

"I have a blog too, you know," he sniffed, annoyed.

"Mm," she nodded, too enthusiastically.  "I've read it."

"What do you think?"  He held very still, looking at her from the corner of his eye again.

"Well, ah, some of your links are broken and there's a lot of 'notes to be added.'  But what's there is interesting," she said diplomatically.  Really, it was more of a trainwreck than her own attempt at blogging.

He grunted.  "Really should update those," he said, more to himself than anything.

"Oh, and you deleted the thing about cigarette ash."

"I've been reliably informed that it was boring," he mumbled.

"And your forum section doesn't seem to work at all."

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.  "I'm thinking pasta, what are you thinking?  I'd stay away from the veal, unless you want to spend the rest of the weekend recovering," he said quickly, standing and twirling on his coat in one smooth movement.

Oh.  So he did mean he wanted her to go to dinner with him.

Well, wasn't that a turn-up.

It wasn't a date, was it?  No, probably not.  He'd made it pretty clear months ago that he wasn't interested in her like that, after she'd asked him out.  He probably just didn't want to eat alone.  Which was okay, because she didn't really want to go home and do laundry and eat cold Chinese while her hellbeast cat ignored her in favour of doing his damnedest to make sure she never got the deposit back on her flat.

"That was a quick ten minutes," she said.  She hoped he wasn't like that in bed. 

...And that was not something she should think, lest she say it out loud.  She pursed her lips and tried to make herself look innocent, like she hadn't just been thinking about shagging him, or that he might be miserable at it. Maybe she was having a blood sugar issue.

"You stayed up too late Sunday night and slept in Monday morning; you either overslept again Tuesday morning or, more likely, forgot to go grocery shopping the evening before so you had a salad for lunch from the canteen.  You had three postmortems Wednesday, one of which was in an advanced state of decomposition—undiscovered shut-in, nothing interesting.  You stayed up too late again Wednesday night—it's not a boyfriend keeping you up, so it's either telly or a book; signs of eye strain make book more likely—and drank two extra cups of coffee Thursday to compensate.  Mr. Hairdye, probably a lab supply company rep, asked you out in the late afternoon.  You wondered earlier if you might be coming down with something because you didn't need to wear your cardigan—fairly certain someone turned the thermostat up as it was quite warm in here today, so you're probably fine—and you were distracted by a last-minute email before you left for the evening, which is why you forgot to take it home.  That about covers it?" he rattled off, tying his scarf and buttoning his coat.

She was always a little in awe of what he did and how fast he did it, even if it served to highlight just how mundane her life really was.

"Actually, Tuesday I had tacos from the canteen.  The meat was a little iffy, though, so I scraped it off and didn't eat it."

He grimaced.  "Always something."

"Taco Tuesday didn't live up to the hype," she agreed.

"Mm," he acknowledged, then set off out the door, expecting her to follow.

*

Angelo's was nice, she thought.  Cosy, more like a family place than some kind of hip, trendy spot or insufferably posh.  She was coming to realize that, insufferably posh as Sherlock himself certainly was, he valued comfort and familiarity over appearances.  She liked that about him.  

The restaurant was busy, but they managed a tiny table in the back just next to the kitchen. Sherlock's knees bumped against hers every time he moved.  The owner apologized and Sherlock was nothing but grace and charm, saying he should have phoned ahead and thanking him for squeezing them in. What was more, she was fairly certain it wasn't an act.

The waiter brought wine to the table, even though they hadn't ordered anything; Sherlock asked after his mother (well, more like made an observation and had it confirmed), who'd apparently been in hospital, then smiled with genuine warmth when the boy (young man, really; university age) mentioned his night classes for software engineering.

"I helped him get the job," Sherlock explained after the waiter had left.  "Met him on a case, low-level drug dealer.  Seemed a waste of his talents.  He's actually quite mathematically inclined."

"That's really nice of you," Molly said.  "Most people wouldn't trouble themselves."

Sherlock looked away, almost... bashfully?  Embarrassed.  Flattered.  "Yes, well, everyone deserves an opportunity," he said gruffly, picking up his menu and very deliberately reading it.

Molly felt a pang of longing and a flutter of admiration; she really had it bad.  Down girl, she told herself, taking a fortifying sip of wine.  She picked up her menu, since she should probably look at it.

"So, um, what's good here?" she asked, browsing the specials page.  The prices were reasonable and the descriptions simple, nothing of that faux-authenticity nonsense that the snootier places did.  If the food was good, she'd have to come back sometime.

"Mostly everything besides the veal.  The fish tends to be a bit overcooked sometimes, hit or miss. I'm going to go with miss tonight," he said, his tone automatic, as though he were preoccupied.  

"Mm," she acknowledged.  She supposed she'd go with the ravioli, since they had red wine already and she was trying to avoid any faux pas.

The waiter came back and they ordered; Sherlock got the same thing as she did.  It wasn't a sign, she told herself, just a coincidence.  And, if he liked it, it was probably good, so she had nothing to worry about.  She was a little surprised he hadn't ordered off-menu; he seemed to be the type.

Sherlock sipped his wine and sat the glass back down.  "Did you finish the tox screen from the OD last Thursday?" he asked conversationally.

"Mm," she nodded into her own wineglass.  "It was ketamine and MSG.  She had an allergy."

"Amateurs," he dismissed.

"They do look a lot alike," she said, feeling like she had to defend the girl, even if she hadn't known her.  Just another tragedy, they all were, but that didn't mean they deserved it.  "A kid like her wouldn't know the difference."

"I meant the suppliers.  Cutting product indicates they have no understanding of the business side of things.  Dead customers aren't exactly repeat customers, are they?"

She conceded with a tip of her head; he did have a point.  Not the one she was expecting, but still a point. "It's like no one takes pride in their work these days," she said lightly, trying to keep her lips from twisting into a smile. She was pants at deadpan delivery, the urge to laugh at herself always ruining it.

Sherlock drew back and squinted at her from one eye, obviously unsure if she was making a joke or channelling her inner Tory.

So much for humour, she thought, looking around to the the tables next to them because God, she was a tit.  She hoped the food got there soon, even though they'd just ordered.  "So, ah, how did your saliva coagulation experiment go?"

"Not enough data.  I'll need another head, but not this week.  There's always an uptick in clients immediately following Valentine's Day.  Dull, predictable, but infidelity does pay the bills," he said, his eyebrows high and eyes wide, like he was still in awe of how utterly boring adulthood was.  She could relate.

"I can only imagine," she said, thinking of the myriad horror stories she'd heard from girlfriends over the years as well as her own.  "How, ah, how long have you been doing this, anyway?  I mean, it's um, not really something with the standard trajectory of a career like mine, is it?"

"Fffive-ish? years," he answered, a bit more cagey than she was expecting.  "I solved cases for people before that, but I didn't start charging until then. Even now I mostly prefer to work in trade.  Favours come in handy."

She nodded to show her interest; she'd only known him a few months but he'd never spoken so openly about himself before.  Then again, she'd never really asked a lot, either. He was usually busy with whatever he was working on at the time, anyway, so his answers tended to be short.

The conversation continued until the food came and throughout the meal; it was easy and normal and she didn't feel tongue-tied or weird at all.  That, she supposed, was how she knew it wasn't a date.  Most of it was about work, anyway, so it was really more like two colleagues out for a meal.  

Actually, it wasn't like that.  Even her colleagues didn't really discuss work over meals, mostly because there was always at least one non-pathologist present and it tended to put them off.  Sherlock didn't mind any of the details, and the ambient noise in the restaurant was loud enough that she wasn't afraid of other diners overhearing.  It was relaxing, actually.  

The only small moment of awkwardness was at the end of the meal when she brought up splitting the bill; Sherlock insisted it was fine, he had a tab that he settled monthly and it was the least he could do in exchange for all the body parts she provided him with.  That got them a few looks, as he was standing to put his coat on when he said it and his voice did carry.  They probably thought he was referring to sex and not actual body parts and she wasn't sure what would be worse.

Outside, he looked at his watch and groaned.  "It's not even ten-thirty.  Honestly, it's all very simple, how long could it possibly take?  Two o'clock," he scoffed.

Well, if that's how he thinks of sex...  Maybe that ten-minute thing was closer to the mark than I thought.  Stop thinking about shagging him.

"Fancy a walk?  Unless you've got to go and feed your cat, or walk it, or whatever it is people do with cats, I don't know," he said, leaning back on his heels.

"He's fine.  I always leave out three days of food just in case I end up in hospital because a piano falls on me or I get taken hostage in a bank robbery or something. And he drinks from the toilet, so he's always got water."

"You let your cat drink from the toilet," he said, giving her a look.

"I'm trying to toilet train him. I bought a book on it."

Sherlock laughed.  Honest-to-God laughed.

Christ was he gorgeous.  She'd only seen him actually smile at something that amused him a handful of times, and she'd just made him laugh, even though she hadn't been trying.

"You're trying to toilet train your cat?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  Oh hell, even his teeth were cute.

"Litter boxes are a hassle and I can't let him out all day while I'm at work," she defended.

"Is it working?"

"Well, no, but it's a process."

Sherlock started to walk down the pavement, still smiling.  Molly hefted her bag on her shoulder and followed after him.

Their breath fogged as they strolled along the Embankment; she expected Sherlock to keep up a running commentary of deductions of all the people they passed, but instead he started talking about the history of the Embankment's construction.  She was a bit surprised; she didn't think he'd be the type to care about that sort of thing.  

They stopped to sit on a bench across from Temple Station.  

"This was the first street in Britain to be permanently lit with electricity.  1878," he said, looking toward the Eye.  He sat back against the bench, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his face half hidden by his upturned coat collar.

"Hard to imagine that it was so long ago, but really nothing compared to the rest of human history," she said.

He made a noise of agreement; they both lapsed into a contemplative, companionable silence.

She liked him.  More than just fancied him; she really liked everything about him.  It made her a little sad to think that she'd probably never find someone half as good as him, someone she felt such a strong connection to.  Wasn't that always the way, though?

"I know it's still early, but I probably should be getting back," she said after a few minutes. She was tired, and not just from her unexpectedly long day.  

She stood; Sherlock remained seated. He looked a bit sad, too.  Lonely.  She wondered if her mood was somehow affecting him.  She doubted it.  He probably just didn't want to have to kill more time alone before going back to his flat.  It was only just gone eleven.

"Thank you for dinner," she said, her tone softer than she'd intended.  Now wasn't the time to turn into some blushing, stammering idiot.

"You're welcome."

"I'll, ah, be seeing you," she said, feeling the awkwardness that had been missing all night finally creeping in.

"Mm," he nodded, not meeting her eyes.  It was a little weird, how he'd pulled back into himself like that, closed himself off.    

She paused just a second longer, wanting to ask him if he wanted to talk about it.  She thought better of it; she didn't want to spoil what had been such a nice night.  She left, clamping down on the urge to glance back as she walked away.

*

Sherlock looked out over the river. He'd had a lovely evening with Molly, which had ended up more troubling than anything.  He liked her.  Quite a bit.  More than he should, more than he had any right to.

He really hadn't meant for it to be a date.  It was only supposed to be a meal, someone to pass the time with while he was exiled from his own flat.  So why was he so disappointed now that it was over?  

Not your area, he told himself forcefully.  Relationships were more trouble than they were worth and they never ended well (and they always ended, one way or another).

He supposed he had a what-if now, something he could think about when things were particularly bleak. A fantasy he could bury himself in now that drugs were permanently off the table.  Probably not a good idea, but the best things never were.  

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Remembering Greg Escalante, a Gallerist and Friend to Artists

John Swihart “Greg Escalante: Selfie in Heaven” (2017)

“One of the illusions that we live by is that we can really know anybody else, and we’re often surprised by traits in people that we thought we knew very well.”

– Thomas McGuane

When the news began to spread, on the morning of September 8th, that gallerist Greg Escalante had died, the shock was resounding. A much-loved figure in the L.A art scene — he was dapper, generous, and quick to smile — Escalante once stood in the center of his Chinatown gallery during a crowded opening, handing a sharpie to anyone who wanted to draw on his white suit. This gesture was, among other things, a ritualized way of letting others into his life while empowering them to create. Recognizing, encouraging, and supporting the creativity of others was what Escalante lived for. His great reward in life was his circle of devoted friends, many of whom were artists.

Robbie Conal signs Greg’s suit, (2016) (photo courtesy of Heidi Johnson / Hijinx PR)

“Greg had more friends that loved him than anyone I’ve ever known,” says artist Jon Swihart. When public confirmation came from his brother, Joe Escalante, that Greg had taken his own life, the shock deepened, turned to sadness and generated a difficult question: How could such a beloved public figure — a man who meant so much to so many — have been in so much private pain?  The answer soon appeared in a Facebook tribute from his sister Mary Ann Escalante Nasser: “My brother Greg was bipolar. He fought it most of his adult life. It was both a blessing and a curse.”

One reason that Escalante’s battle with depression remained largely hidden was

Robert Williams, Jorge R. Gutierrez, Greg Escalante (photo courtesy of Gregorio Escalante Gallery)

that he drew attention to himself in order to serve others, especially artists: he was an introvert who posed as an extrovert. “Greg was the only art dealer I’ve ever met who didn’t seem to give a damn about money,” comments painter F. Scott Hess. “And look at all of his Instagram and Facebook posts. There is Greg with a gigantic laughing smile, eyebrows raised in excitement, and pointing his finger right at the artist he’s with, saying with a gesture, ‘Look how fantastic this artist is!’”

Artist Mark Ryden also remembers Escalante’s altruistic selflessness:

I can’t remember one of my art shows where Greg was not there wearing an appropriately themed, fabulous outfit. I realize now how much I took his support for granted. Greg was never interested in getting something for himself — not money, art, or glory. He was simply excited to connect people and make interesting things happen in the art world.

Laurie Lipton, who Escalante discovered though an article in Juxtapoz magazine. which he had co-founded, remembers him as very admiring:

At first, he seemed overwhelmed by my work, like a fan, but he was very, very encouraging. I was living in London when we first got in touch and he was instrumental in getting me a residency in Southern California. He could be very bashful and shy, but was also such a social guy, always out there. He did not complain or talk about himself though.

Greg LA Art Show Art Party at his Chinatown gallery (photo courtesy of Gregorio Escalante Gallery)

Sandow Birk, who met Escalante when he was 11 years old recalls: “I grew up surfing with him, up and down the coast in long car rides, and around the world, from El Salvador to Ireland to Mexico and Hawaii and beyond.” Escalante became an early supporter of Birk’s art and also a business mentor. Birk says, “I used to discuss my gallery business dealings with him at great length and he always had good, honest advice.”

Endowed with a great sense of humor — Escalante loved a good laugh and didn’t mind a bit if he was the butt of the joke ���he used humor to navigate situations that his underlying shyness might have otherwise caused him to run away from. Josh Agle (aka “Shag”) recalls Escalante as one of the funniest people he ever met:

At one point he carried around a giant fake finger in his car. It would fit over a regular finger on one’s hand.  If somebody flipped him off while driving, he would slip the giant finger over his middle finger, and make a grand, overly dramatic unveiling of his enormous bird. The way he did it, and the unexpectedness of it, almost always left the other driver in fits of laughter.

Gregorio Escalante Gallery: Mural by Mikael B. (2017) (photo courtesy of Gregorio Escalante Gallery)

Behind  all of the laughter was a man who knew despair well, and as everyone now realizes he was an alchemist who managed to turn his own suffering into empathy. No wonder he understood that being an artist can be a lonely profession and that his encouragement and support were be life-changing. In obituaries that have appeared since his death, in the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times and the Orange County Register, Greg Escalante’s many accomplishments have been fittingly documented. Still, the most moving tribute is the very simple statement made by Sandow Birk, and certainly echoed by many of Greg’s other friends:

“He was my best friend.”

A memorial for Greg Escalante is scheduled for Saturday, Oct. 14, at 2 pm, at the Clayes Performing Arts Center at Cal State Fullerton (800 N. State College Blvd.) Fullerton, CA.

The post Remembering Greg Escalante, a Gallerist and Friend to Artists appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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