#yeah i give him sideburns because i flinch every time he turns his head in ROP

[gi-nathlam-hi]

some gil gadaddy face practice because I still don’t know how to draw him and I’m nowhere close to nailing down a consistent simplified design

Gil-Gadad: exists  My basic understanding of shapes and proportions and art knowledge in general: 

[thepineapplejuicer]

Title: Know It All Chapter 4 

Nightcrawler fanfic x OC

(I do not own the X-men or the photos/gifs). 

Violet Ashbourne is a gifted human hacker in possession of a radio, a secret device that gains her access to a large underground information network and electronics all over the world. Human and mutant coexistence has always been her goal, but will the betrayal of her mutant mother and father- once partners to her rise to power- distort her beliefs? Will the X-men be able to save her from her own pride and ambition? Or will she sacrifice everything, including the only boy she’s ever trusted, for vengeance?

The cushions squeak as I toss and turn on the medical bed. My clothes feel warm as I continuously straighten them out, my shaking foot wrinkling them after every time. 

“Rest your arms above your head, please,” Forge asks as he gently guides them, giving them a small squeeze once they are in place. “And try not to move.” He places a steady hand on my leg.

 I try to distract myself by glancing around the room, the blue-tile illudes into vibration as the machine rumbles, powering up. I look up as Forge walks to the thin, circular x-ray machine towering over me. I’ve always hated anything associated with hospice settings; makes me feel like someone knows something before I can.

 “I’m only going to move your wrists across, okay?” he reassures me. 

The bed jolts into a steady backward motion stopping just after my fingertips are completely passed the machine. “Make sure you don’t move.”

 The whirling noises of the mechanism fill the nearly empty, spotless room; only a simple desk and the x-ray machine offer me comfort to the unknowing results. Silence follows the rumbling of the machine as it shuts down and my body starts to ich, but I stay still. 

“Huh.” Forge mumbles. 

 “What is it? Can I move?” I ask leaning pointlessly towards him. 

“Not yet.” 

He says nothing more. 

The smell of my deodorant and the tingles in my armpits cause me to look back and forth from Forge to the x-ray machine. Forge rubs his chin and furrows his brows.

 “Are you going to tell me or what?” I ask loosening my muscles.

 “It’s not picking up anything.” 

“What do you mean?” 

I jump out of the medical bed and to the monitor with the captured pictures. Forge points at one of them, “See that? Those are your normal hand bones.” He trails passed the large gap, “and those are your normal arm bones.” He draws a circle in the middle with his fingers, “these empty gaps are your wrists.” 

“Clarify.”

 “Well, considering that this specific machine can scan through metals, stones, you name it, it means one of two things. One, your flesh isn’t completely attached to the bands, otherwise, it would show it inter-webbed into bones. Which is good and we just need to figure out a way to unclip them.” 

“And the other?” 

Forge lets out a sigh, “Or the bands are just not allowing the x-ray to show passed them. Meaning that- ” 

“That cutting my hands off isn’t completely off the table.” 

“Yeah. I might be able to tinker a bit with the x-ray, maybe get it to show us a little more. It’s pretty state of the art but I could hook up a calibrated-” 

“How long will it take?” 

“About a week or two.”

 “A week?!”

“…or two.” 

My jaw clenches involuntarily, “And that’s the best you can do?”

 “Well if I could use my powers- you know the ones you hate so much-I could be a lot quicker, Your Highness!” 

I flinch as he associates me with ‘hate’ and I quickly straighten my posture, “Get it done. I expect results by the end of the day.” 

He scoffs as I return to my station. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX “I hope Kurt’s okay.” I hear Kitty mutter. 

I enter the kitchen and see Kitty and Scott sharing a conversation.

 “Hey, Violet.” Scott greats.

 “Hey, is something wrong with Kurt?” I ask in a hardened voice, with more force than needed. 

“Tabetha and Kurt were messing around during rescue training on the cliff and Kurt ended up hitting his head and taking a dive,” Scott explains, “Logan jumped in after him and he was NOT happy.”

 Kitty chimes in, “Seriously, Tabetha needs to, like, chill.”

 “Yeah, but Kurt encouraged her. They could have gotten a lot more hurt, or worse.” Scott chokes.

 “Where is he now?” I ask sympathetically.

 “Storm took him to the infirmary, to do a checkup.” Kitty offers. 

I turn and stare at the doorway, unsure why I can’t quite move.

 “You can go see him, you know,” Kitty states with a sultry tone, “might make him feel better.” 

“I might do that.” 

As I leave the kitchen I start to feel a pinch in my stomach. I’ve been talking to the students a lot more over the past few days and it’s unsettling. However, I’ve managed to keep my distance from Logan since he hasn’t properly apologized for hurtling me at the rampaging Juggernaut during our last encounter. I keep reminding myself that I am only here temporarily; forming relationships, even enemies is a waste of time. I know all of this. I know what my goal is and what I must do to make Sanctuary grow and to face my father again. I need to stay focused. So why am I outside the Infirmary?

 I hear Kurt’s chirpy accent from beyond the door, “I’m fine, really!” 

 Storm’s voice responds, “Alright, but take these before bed to be sure.”

 I open the door slowly to avoid interrupting them, but the croaking of the door’s hinges bring their eyes on me like a spotlight. They both stare, wide-eyed and tightening their posture. Storm tries to smile at me so I try not to notice her taking several steps away. “Get well, Kurt,” she states and walks out, avoiding my gaze.

 “Hey, Violet.” Kurt finally says. I look his face over, warmed by the strands of blue fur and yellow eyes. I trail up and down his jawline and see the small bandage on his temple hiding a purple gash where he must have hit his head in the accident. “Are you alright?” I ask biting the inside of my cheek. “You heard?” he rubs the back of his neck, looking away from me, “I’m fine, it’s nice of you to worry.”

 “I wasn’t!” I choke out. Our eyes lock. “I mean, I know you were okay. You’re stronger than you look.” I finish. 

Kurt just blinks at me.

 “Is what I meant,” I say quieter. 

He smiles and gets up, grazing my hip with the back of his hand. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not before he starts to speak, “It does suck though, I got grounded so now I can’t go to the carnival that is in town.” 

“Carnival? Consider yourself lucky then, they are rigged and irrational for the use of entertainment.” I chuckle.

 “You… don’t like them?” he asks, his chest giving out.

 “Uh well, I never had the pleasure of going. Were you going to go with someone?”

 “I was going to ask someone on a date there.”

 “Oh.” I swallow hard, “I know Tabetha is pretty, Kurt, but maybe be careful of going out with a girl that calls herself 'Boom Boom’.” 

“Why would I think Tabetha is pretty?” “Look I’m not saying you shouldn’t like her, just take it from someone who knows everything about anyone and just be careful around her.”

 “I wasn’t going to ask Tabetha-” My phone chimes before I can register what he said. 

“Actually, I wanted to ask-” 

My phone screen taps into the entrance camera and shows a man I’ve never seen walking into the mansion. “I’ll be back…” I whisper and walk straight towards the main hall. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I creep along the hall, hearing the conversation ahead, coming from the main stairway. “This is the last run we have to do, sweetheart.” A man coos.

 “That’s what you said last time!” Tabetha’s voice struggles. I hide behind the doorway, the light from the curtains hitting my shoulder as I lean over. A rugged man with greys peaking out of his sideburns and chin stubble is holding Tabetha by the wrist. 

The closer they got to each other the more I noticed how similar they were. “Meet me by the alleyway next to the building and be sure to bring what I told you and I promise we can go away together and be a family again.” The man bargains. 

Tabetha’s silence prompts me to come out and face them, “is something wrong here?” They both turn to me, Tabetha’s eyes lining with water.

 “No, nothing, I just came to check on my daughter.” The man smiles, “see you tonight.” With that he walks out of the mansion, leaving Tabetha shaken. “Going somewhere?” I ask. She tries to speed away, but I catch her by the arm.

 “What?!” she yells, yanking her arm out of my grasp. Some of her colorful hair clips hang by broken gold strands and smudged blue eyeshadow blend with the redness in the corners of her eyes.

 “I’ll make it quick,” I coldly state, “Don’t involve Kurt in any more of your recklessness.” She stomps away without another word. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Kurt’s POV 

The cold wind evens out the warmth from the orange-hued sunset, bouncing off the carnival lights that flicker on like parts of a caterpillar. The past week has been nothing but daydreams of Violet and I enjoying the 'rigged’ games and 'childish’ rides. To be honest, I think the fact that Violet dislikes things like carnivals makes her more attractive to me. Something about her maturity, but she always seems like she is too serious and needs to relax. If I wasn’t grounded, I’d drag her to that carnival and make sure she knew what it was like to let her hair down occasionally. 

Maybe I’d be the one to win a kiss in the end… Ah, snap out of it! There is no way she would want someone like me. I should be grateful she comes as close as she does. 

“Contemplating the laws of physics, blue?” a familiar voice comes from behind me. I turn, not altering my perched position on the balcony. 

“Tabetha? What are you doing here?”

 “I wanted to apologize for ruining your plans to ask Violet to the carnival.” I smile weakly, “Trust me, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask her.”

 “Why not?” She asks leaning on the stone balcony.

 “Because I’m like this and she’s beautiful, smart, independent.” 

“Cocky, rude, bossy.” Tabetha mimics. 

“I’d say she was confident and assertive. She’s… normal.” Tabetha scoffs, 

“Right! A girl who can hack into any camera and microphone to know all our dirty secrets is normal.” 

“You know what I mean.”

 “Is she normal, Kurt? Or do her bands just make YOU feel normal?” 

There is a long pause as I think about my answer, finally, I whisper, “She makes me feel normal. But she’ll never feel remotely attracted to me.”

 “What happened to 'chicks dig the fuzzy dude?” she jokes. 

I frown, “I’m not dumb. I know where my leagues are.” 

“Hmm. You know what will help?” she nods her head over to the horizon. I look over, trying to figure out what she meant. 

“What?” She nods again. I look in the same direction and only see the carnival. “Oh. OH!” I smile wide, but then remember, “If we get caught, we’ll be in even more trouble.”

 “That’s the fun part.” Tabetha smiles, grabbing my hand. Without reasoning with my better nature, I Bamf us away from my room. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Violet’s POV Tonight has me more restless than usual. Perhaps it is the thin air in the subbasement or the fact that ever since the x-ray this morning, my wrist has been uncontrollably itchy. Loud snoring comes from behind me. I turn and see Forge still passed out on his work table in the corner. Maybe it is the obnoxious snoring that started over an hour ago that’s been keeping me up.

 I tap along my keyboard, reading through the psychiatric tests on the volunteers in Sanctuary. Nisha has been more than capable of sending me all the information, including physical tests Bronco provides; they even state that they like being taught basic self-defense. Most of them passed our standards, no alcohol use, no drug use, no criminal history; decent people who’ve been dealt crappy cards. Most were homeless or lived in poverty from the amount of money the government robs from them. I’m eager to recruit mutants next. The idea of them coexisting sends me into relief. That was always the plan: give to the people, not rob them. I flip through old, depressing drivers license photos of the volunteers and compare them to the new Sanctuary I.D. taken upon acceptance. “They’re smiling.” I lean back enjoying the feeling of accomplishment before checking my emails. 

Empty. 

I’m not surprised since my father hacked most of my contacts and is pretending to be me as I speak. Luckily I am still able to sell and buy information I come across. I scan over the files on my desktop 'Avengers’, 'Shield’, 'Thrask’, 'Deadpool’, among dozens of others. Finally, I stare at the newly added file, 'Xmen’. I shut my monitors off and relax for a moment, letting my mind drift. Oddly enough, the first to come to mind is Kurt.

 I bite my lip as Tabetha’s involvement begins to worry me. My gut twists and I glance over to another monitor that I use to tap into phone calls, text messages, and emails. I sigh, “It’s none of my business. It’s none of my business.” I close my eyes and calm my breathing. “It’s none of my-” The image of her and Kurt… together shock my eyes open. The next thing I know I’m hacking into Tabetha’s phone records. “I’m such a horrible person,” I grumble and open her recent message from an unknown number. 

Unknown #: You going to bring our secret weapon? Tabetha: I don’t want to do this… 

Unknown #: It will be quick, they won’t even notice it’s gone until morning and by then we will be long gone.

Tabetha: and what about Kurt? 

Unknown #: Leave that to me.

 My eyes widen, “Kurt? What is she doing with Kurt?!” I yell as I flip through earlier footage of all the cameras in the mansion simultaneously. “That’s the fun part.” I stop at the end of the footage showing Tabetha and Kurt on his balcony disappear in a puff of smoke. “I knew it.” I grab my tablet and rush to find Xavier, hopefully, we aren’t too late. 

-Thank you for reading. feel free to post any comments :)

(chapter 5 will be posted on Friday, June 21, 2019)

[rum-and-shattered-dreams]

Chapter 13:  I Miss Him

Summary:

For once, Ford has a dream that isn't a nightmare. Bill falls suspiciously but thankfully silent. Stan gives Ford some news that brings back shreds of memories.

Notes: Here's a list of the end codes translated if anyone wants to see. I'll update it as needed but keep the newer codes secret for a while after posting them.

Thanks again to everyone for your comments and input!

Warnings: Nothing much to speak of this time other than some good old Stangst with a dash of fluff.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven (with illustration) Part Eight Part Nine (With link to more art!) Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve More fics An illustration (from part one) The afternoon sun shone bright across patches of grass and dirt as two sets of feet pelted through the clearing surrounding the Mystery Shack.  A third set followed along with a gritty laugh and the splash of water balloons against colorful T-shirts.  "Oh.  Oh no!" Stan said and turned tail to run as the kids chased him with fresh handfuls of yellow and pink balloons.  They disappeared around the gift shop and reappeared from behind a tree on the opposite side of the back porch, spotted in the bright specks of sunlight shimmering through the rustle of pine needles above. Ford watched from the porch and laughed as his brother dove behind a barrel filled with blue and red water balloons.  Stan dug both hands in and rapid-fired them at the kids. Through laughter, Dipper complained, "No fair!" Mabel ducked behind a bush beside the porch.  She looked up to him and said, "Grunkle Ford, tell Grunkle Stan that's cheating!" "Hey," Stan said, "All's fair in war or whatever!" and chucked a water balloon at Ford's head. His eyes widened and he moved to dodge but it was too late.  The balloon hit him square in the cheek and...  He didn't feel a thing. **** He awoke, not with a start but with a smile. When only one eye would open, his heart sank.  He squinted at the shadows on the ceiling of the recovery room, nausea stirring in his stomach as he shifted his wrists.  Why did he bother trying?  He already knew the answer.  Of course they were still bound to the bed's sidebars.  Of course he was still in recovery and his eye was still gone, and worst of all, he was alone. It was his own fault.  He'd told his brother to leave.  He'd callously nudged at Stan's deepest insecurity and, honestly, one of his own, to make him leave, fully believing that it was the actual reason, except... It was never about the money, he realized. He stared up blankly, too weary to bother stopping the tear that streaked down the side of his face.   "I'm sorry, Stan." "Geez.  You humans are weird," Bill's voice echoed through his mind.  Ford clenched his eye shut as if to close out the taunts.  Even so, tears flowed past and a sob wrung his chest.  "I didn't even do anything and you wake up and start bawling like a kid with a skinned knee.  Sheesh, it was just a dream.  Oh right.  Guess It's my fault that it's just a dream.  Oopsie!  Hope your brother's having fun with them today.  That's what you wanted, right?" **** Bill was seemingly silent as Ford recovered, leaving the elder twins with decades worth of fear and misery fueling their unrelenting apprehension.  Stan wasn't sure if Bill chose not to bother with them or if the anesthesia was to thank for Stanford's uneventful trip back to the shack.  Dr. Braum and her assistant had monitored his vitals with compact, portable machines to assure his safety during the drive and finally disconnected the leads once he was safely resting in a nest of plush pillows behind familiar bars. At 2 am, they'd taken advantage of the noises from the construction crew setting up the Shack's fair, using them as cover while moving him into the house and down the stairs.  Stan had led them back up and out, thanking them again for their help and assuring them he'd pay up as soon as he could.  For once, he meant it, and not just because they'd have every right to rat him out to the authorities, or worse, Rico, if he didn't. He slept on an air mattress in the basement for the remainder of the night.  He'd slept there on a few occasions, when Ford needed the company, but with the kids in the house, he'd taken to sleeping in his own bed every night.  It was too risky not to.  If Dipper or Mabel decided to check up on him, or to use his dentures as a fishing lure again, and found him missing, he'd have to spin more lies, remember more garbage.  But tonight, he didn't care.  He could probably say he was outside checking up on progress with the fair equipment if anyone asked and it wouldn't be unbelievable.  Either way, he needed to be there when Ford reawakened. And he was.  Even in his exhausted state, he only managed about four hours of sleep before he sat up, his bottom nearly sinking to the floor through the mattress.  A rustling of pillows caught his attention and he slipped on his glasses in time to see Ford sit up as well.  He yawned and stretched, flexing his hands and wrists, visibly relieved to be free of the medical restraints.  His hand reached up to the gauze patch taped over his eye and Stan held his breath, hoping Bill wouldn't take control and tear it off.  He let out a relieved puff when Ford's fingers simply traced the gauze and lowered back to the pillows in his lap. His head tipped down as his hands trailed across the familiar cotton, jersey, and microfiber fabrics.  "I never thought," he mumbled, "I'd be happy to be back here."  He lifted his head, seeing only a blur of his brother without his glasses.  In a clearer voice he added, "But I am.  Even though he can still get to me here, it feels..."  His voice trailed off with no intention of finish the thought he never meant to vocalize in the first place. "Yeah..." Stan filled in the silence.  Ford didn't need to say it.  After all they'd experienced, the basement was safe and comfortable in its familiarity and privacy, hidden from the view of outsiders, tucked away from judgement and pity. "You made it comfortable here," Ford complimented in hopes of detouring the subject at least a little.  He wasn't lying.  The warm light, the photos plastering the wall, the plants in the corner, the bookshelves filled with science journals and novels, the television, even the makeshift bathroom made the room feel like a home, despite the circumstances. "It ain't the Ritz but...  I tried," Stan said, scooping up Ford's glasses from the floor and offering them to him through the bars. "You succeeded," he affirmed, reaching for his glasses.  He sat back and stretched their strap over his head, finally taking note of his shorter hair.  After adjusting his glasses around his ears and comfortably over his eye patch, he ruffled the nearly buzzed strands at the nape of his neck and the longer curls crowning his head. "I got a mirror here, if you want to see," Stan suggested, lifting a square mirror framed in plastic that was about a foot tall by eight inches wide.  Ford knelt closer to the bars and looked through, moving his head from side to side to get as much of a view as he could.  Maybe he didn't look that much different than Stan after all.  Sure they each had their scars, but for the first time in a few years, he felt like he could see the resemblance again.  The shave and hair cut definitely helped.  His new style was almost identical to the one he'd kept in his youth but, perhaps a little longer on top.  It turned out that his nearly white streaks formed a semi-circular band around the back of his head from ear to ear.  His hands patted his cleanly shaven chin, stopping to trace one of the scars his beard had kept hidden. "Better?" Stan asked, uncertainty edging his voice. "Better," Ford confirmed.  Even if his scars were more visible this way, even if it felt like a child who'd lost his security blanket, it was nice to be well-groomed again.  He'd forgotten how much he'd once preferred his sideburns trimmed neatly and his hair off of his neck. "Hey, Stan..." he said, shifting to the side to look at his brother around the mirror and bars.   Stan lowered the mirror and answered, "Yeah?" Ford wanted to say he was sorry.  Sorry for being difficult while he was in recovery, sorry for snapping at him, sorry for acting like Stan owed him his presence there on that first day.  He wanted to speak up and tell him he was sorry for sending him away again after that, sorry for being so fickle.  Even more, he wanted to tell him that he never meant to mention money, that he had no right, but, the words failed him.  He didn't even know where to begin.  Instead, he simply said "...Thank you." **** Ford sat near the bars of his cell, drooping forward in the TV's flicker as he nodded off every so often.  Of all times, why did his new prescription have to kick in now?  Just a few more minutes.  Let me get through the rest of this episode.  Damn commercials, get on with it!  Ducktective was on the verge of solving the case and someone knew it.  A creepy stranger had been following him and had lurked up behind him with a knife raised, ready to strike... And it had cut to commercial. He shook his head, reaching into his jelly bean bag to find nothing but dust in its bottom.  "Aw, that was the last bag," he grumbled, crumpling it between twelve fingers.  He raised his arm to toss it through the bars but paused, lowering it to his lap and squeezing it between his palms as the screen flashed back to Ducktective waddling through the parking garage, lights flickering overhead.  Ford leaned forward, his hands idly holding the crumpled bag as the knife raised above the duck's head. "No no no no," he chanted, flinching to look away but unable to tear his eye from the screen as the knife plunged down... Into a cake. "Yes!"  Ford cheered, the bag flying from his hands.  "They remembered." The screen flashed bright and right in the middle of the garage was a table with a colorful cake on it.  The entire cast, even the deputy from season one shouted, "Happy Anniversary!" A sloppy smile spread across his face as he watched the animated cast celebrate Ductective's tenth anniversary as a detective, completely ignoring the implications of a real duck's lifespan.  He didn't even mind that the cliffhanger of "The Case of Miss. Felicity's Missing Feline" lingered. The basement door edged open and Stan gave a light knock, startling him. "Hey," Stan said, "sounds like you're watching something exciting." "TV, off," Ford commanded.  He looked toward the door, hoping his cheeks weren't burning too red.  Luckily, Stan backed into the room with the typical covered tray in his hands.  His bottom pressed against the door, his boxers twisting uncomfortably around his hips before he stepped away, letting the door click shut behind him. "Hey, you don't have to turn it off just 'cause I'm here," he said, turning to Ford who seemed suddenly fascinated by the hem of his sweater.   "Oh uh, it's fine.  It was just an old movie I used to enjoy," Ford scrambled for an explanation, arranging the pillows around him as an excuse to continue looking down.  Finally, he glanced up, as if to prove he wasn't at all flustered. "Sure, sure," Stan said, bending over to set the tray down.  "You know, the missing cat ended up-" "No spoilers!" Ford shouted, holding his hands up in surrender. "Ha ha!" Stan ended his laugh with a grunt as his attempt to ease down onto the floor pillow ended in the thud of him flopping into it.  "I knew it.  The kids and I missed most of the marathon today 'cause of the fair winding down but we caught a few episodes before they went up to bed.  Sounded to me like that was the fiftieth episode special, huh?" "It was..." "It only gets better from there!  Turn it back on," Stan said, swiveling around to at least partly face the TV. "TV on," Ford commanded, his voice squeaking sheepishly. "I felt the same way you did about this show until the kids made me watch it with 'em.  But, even though it's ridiculous, it's good, isn't it?" Stan spoke over a commercial whose catchy song invited viewers to "come along" and "feel the fizz" of their brightly colored colas. "Indeed.  The humor offsets the drama perfectly and, despite the cartoonish fantasy elements, it makes you care about the characters." "Yeah, that," Stan chuckled.  He turned back to Ford and the covered tray sitting between them.  "Hey, I brought some food from the fair if you want some."  He uncovered the tray to reveal a question mark shaped corn dog placed on a plate beside the meat cut from a turkey leg and assorted paper cups of condiments.  On a separate plate was a giant pretzel with extra salt and a cup of beer-infused cheese.  He'd even included cotton candy stuffed into a plastic bag, a cone of soft-serve ice cream, slightly melted and tipped upside down into a bowl, and a cup of semi-frozen lemonade. "That's an impressive spread," Ford said, reaching out for the bowl of ice cream that was quickly becoming soup.  He broke off pieces of the cone, dipping them into the vanilla and chocolate swirls.  "So," he asked between bites, "How did the fair go?" "I'd say it was more than a success.  Well, at least for Mabel and I.  I'm not sure exactly what happened but Dipper seemed upset about something.  Kid won't tell me what, though." "Reminds me a bit of you at his age," Ford said, cleaning the last drop of ice cream from the bowl with his finger. "Yeah, maybe a little more than I thought," he muttered, turning back to the TV as the Ducktective theme song played. "Oh, show's back." Stan watched with the odd outburst of laughter while Ford picked pieces off of the corn dog, dunked them in ketchup and mustard, and munched on them without looking away from the screen. When it cut to commercial again, Ford resumed their conversation, "So, how did your dunking game go?" "Better than I thought it would," Stan answered, stealing a pinch of cotton candy, "A few insults and everyone was coughing up cash to try to dunk me.  I haven't done all the math yet but looks like there's a..." "Oh Stanley..." "FAIR amount of profit." Ford stuffed a bite of cheese-dunked pretzel into his mouth to stifle his laughter.  He swallowed hard, cleared his throat and asked, "So what about Mabel?  You said she had a good day." "She did.  She won a pig at the guess the weight booth.  Named it Waddles." Ford coughed, nearly spitting bits of pretzel through the bars.  "A pig?  And she's keeping it?" "Yeah-" "In the house?!" "Uh...  yeah?" Stan said with a shrug, "Guess I should have asked but she was so happy and I didn't think it would be a problem.  I mean, you seemed alright with me keeping Gompers." "I...  I remember saying something to someone about this."  Ford shook his head, clenching his eye closed.  He searched his mind as if reaching for a book on the top shelf only to find half of its pages missing and the other half illegible.  "If I ever see a pig in this house I-"  He squeezed his eyelid tighter, trying to remember what he'd said.  "I'm sending you...  Him?  Back south." "South?  Him?  Who?" "I-  I don't know!  It feels like it's right there but I can't see it.  It was important.  Whoever it was...  I miss him," his voice cut out airily as he leaned forward, cupping his head in his hands, the ache in his heart nearly choking him and he didn't know why. "Can you remember anything else?" Stan asked, his voice gentle, not demanding or interrogating, "Something he wore?  How you knew him? Anything you did together?" "No...  Nothing other than that he was there for me when I needed a friend.  And...  I think we fought and I hurt him.  Badly.  Possibly...  Irreparably." "So, we know it's a memory Bill messed with, then," Stan sighed, ignoring that the commercial break had ended.  "Do you think he's making you believe you did something to hurt him?" "I don't know.  I DON'T KNOW!"  He clutched the sides of his head, doubling over.  "I hate this..." he whimpered, rocking back and forth, "I want to remember.  I feel horrible that I can't remember!" "Hey, hey, it's alright.  It's alright," Stan reached through the bars, resting his hand on his brother's shaking shoulder. Ford wanted to lean closer, craved the comfort of human contact with an ache that knotted his breath within his chest, but he backed away instead, clutching a bed pillow against himself, practically burying his face into it. Stan sighed, retracting his hand.  "Even when that monster hasn't shown himself for days, he still manages to make us miserable," he muttered. "Mmm," Ford mumbled, his eye staring up at the TV, not even registering the colorful characters on the screen.   "I mean," Stan spoke up, "He hasn't actually been around since we got back, has he?" "No," Ford answered, his voice muffled by the pillow.  "Not at all," he continued, lowering the pillow and easing his grip on it.  "Not that I mind but, between this and the pause before our birthday...  I wonder what he's up to." "He keeps saying things about having his eye on some new pawns," Stan pointed out, his eyes darting to the ground as he considered all that could imply. "It worries me.  Who are they?"  Ford wondered aloud, his fingers digging into the pillow as he rested his chin on it. "Is he bluffing?"  Stan added, picking at the cotton candy sticking out of its bag. "It's possible.  It could be a new manipulation tactic.  But we can't risk assuming it is." "I'll keep a lookout for anything um...  weirder than usual," Stan promised. The two stared blankly at the TV, not even registering the events of the show as it played before their eyes.  Their minds wandered, going over the past and worrying over the future, spiraling around too few clues to piece together.  Finally, Ford broke the silence with a sheepish question, "A pig, huh?" "Yeah.  He's cleaner than I figured he would be," he said with a shrug, somewhat glad to change the subject, even if his mind lingered on more disturbing matters.  "She gave me some photos of them together.  Oh!  and I got those ones from the party developed, want to see?" he added, digging in his pocket for the photos. "Of course!" Ford leaned forward, equally relieved for the distraction. Ford looked over the photos, commenting on the party decorations, on how cute Mabel looked in her party fashion, and on how Dipper somehow appeared to be somewhere in the background of every image.  When Stan showed him the photos of Mabel with waddles, he smiled and said, "She looks so happy." "Does that mean?" "Yes," Ford conceded, "It's alright with me if she wants to keep him in the house."

Notes:

Grq'w iuhw, Irugvb. Kh grhvq'w uhphpehu brx hlwkhu.

First one to get the "Fizz" commercial reference in the comments gets their choice of a set of Pines Fluff prints ( 1 2 3 4 ) or a set of Ford prints ( 1 2 3 4 ) mailed to them as a consolation prize for now having that song looping hopelessly in their head.  (See AO3 link for comment section) Edit: We have a winner! ChromaticDreams / @a-million-chromatic-dreams got it!

[readiceprincess]

Chapter Seven

“Well at least now that you're in Reeve's clothes you don't stick out like a sore thumb,” Sibyl said as she walked with Reeve and Westley into the mall. Except he did stick out because he had cheekbones sculpted by angels and gawked at everything.

It was a small mall that closed at six every day and had little to offer save a large book store at one end and Macey’s at the other. Walking in, they were greeted with stomping and loud instruments. Sibyl groaned. The pep rally started at the mall before the band led everyone to school. Of course. How could she forget?

She grabbed Westley's arm and dragged him to Macy's. He was warm under her hold but shuddered when she touched him. Looking back, Sibyl caught Reeve talking to Mary. Something he said made her laugh. With a roll of the eyes she dragged Westley to the Junior's department.

“I picture you as kind of preppy,” she mumbled as she studied him in Reeve's v-neck and tight pants. Westley was more toned than Reeve, filling his clothes well. Hot damn.

“You dress pretty colorful in Faerie,” Sibyl noted with a gulp as she went to the polos. “What kind of colors do you like?”

“I wear the colors of my clan,” Westley explained. He motioned to Reeve's clothes, an emerald v-neck with cobalt stripes. “Not these colors. Though I'm partial to blue.”

“What are the colors of your clan?”

“Blue, yellow, and white.”

Shame. He’d look amazing in red. “Well I think you'll look good in some polos. I'll find some colors you might like. But I think these styles are too young for you.” She lead him to the pants section, pulling out a size and checking it against him. He made a face, shifting his weight between his feet. “We need to get you some well fitted jeans – Keep in mind this is coming out of my wallet.”

“What about that?”

“Hmm?” Sibyl followed his gaze as he walked up to a mannequin in the mens' section. It was dressed in a suave suit with a bow tie. This prince wasn't so bad. Dapper even.

“I can't afford that,” she told him as she came to his side and touched his arm. Westley flinched. “Sorry. Come on. Let's try these on.” When he didn't follow Sibyl turned back to him.

“I like it,” he admitted in a small voice followed by a small chuckle. “It's strange here. Nothing like Faerie.”

“You'll get used to it. Come on. This place closes soon.”

They walked to the dressing room. From there she handed him the clothes and waited outside, tapping her foot. Her hands flexed at her side.

“Am I to dress in these clothes all the time?” Westley asked from inside.

“Yeah. Sorry if you hate them.”

“On the contrary, they're rather comfortable. Though I must say, the clothes women wear in this world are odd,” he commented. A small smile formed on her face as Sibyl tapped her cowboy boots and played with the hem of her yellow dress.

“I guess we show more than they do in your world, eh?”

“Indeed. Such clothing wouldn't be suitable in Faerie Court.”

Voices outside caught her attention. Sibyl tip toed to the exit.

“I can't explain what she did to me.”

Freddie.

He was coming to the dressing room. Sibyl cursed under her breath, running back in and knocking on Westley's door. “Let me in,” she whispered. “Westley open up.”

He gasped. “I'm changing!”

“I won't look just open up.” The door swung open and Sibyl slammed it shut, standing on the seat and crouching down. She put a finger to her lips but used her other hand to usher him to continue changing.

“I will not,” he whispered.

Freddie and his friends walked into the dressing room. She put her palms together.

“Just act normal. I won't look,” she mouthed, closing her eyes and covering them with her hands.

Westley sighed, pulling off the light blue polo. He hesitated, watching to be sure she didn't see him, then tried to manage his pants zipper.

“The next time I see her, I'll give her a piece of my mind.” Freddie said, a door opening.

“Man it was weird. You were out all day.” That was his friend Zach.

“Such a freakazoid.” That was Teresa. If she could curl her hands into fists she would. “It’s weird how much she’s changed. I mean she’s like a completely different person now.” Teresa popped her gum.

“But still hot,” Freddie countered.

“Hey you can tap that if you want. I wouldn't. You've heard the rumors,” Zach replied. “Dude can you hurry up?”

“Seriously Freddie who comes to an event without the school colors on?” Teresa added.

“Sorry not all of us are prepared as you. This good?” A door opened and he walked out. Teresa popped her gum again.

“Good enough. Come on freakazoids,” she insisted, marching out.

Freddie went back to change and followed Zach out soon after. Sibyl refused to move until she was certain they were gone. Then she stumbled to the floor, shaking.

“Are you okay Miss Sibyl?” Westley asked, reaching for her arm. His touch was warm, soothing.

“Hmm?”

He was unbuttoning his shirt, his collarbone visible. It didn’t take a vivid imagination to guess under the shirt was a toned a sculpted body. How this guy was real was beyond her. Gulping, she looked away, still shaking. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Were they talking about you?”

Leaning against the wall, she let out a deep breath. “Yes.”

Westley paused. “No wonder you want to avoid them. Their English is rather poor.” Which made her chortle. He reached for her but she recoiled. Clearing his throat, he stepped back. “My apologies. Perhaps you should leave my dressing room so I can finish.”

Stepping out, Sibyl stared at the closed door. It wasn't Westley who made her recoil, but she wasn't sure how to communicate that without having an uncomfortable conversation. Her fingers prickled.

They were silent. Westley came out in a deep maroon polo shirt and dark pants. Just as she suspected, red looked amazing on him. It made his golden brown eyes vibrant. She half expected him to have this exotic color, but this was even better. “I like this one best.”

Sibyl stammered, taking him in. Wowza. “Yeah it suits you. I think you'll need a haircut too.” She reached out to play with his hair. But it was one of his best features. It’d be a shame to modernize it. A small smile crossed his face. “You still have the Victorian hair and those crazy sideburns, but that can wait.” He stared at his feet then peeked at her. “Oh I almost forgot. You sound too formal. The accent sounds kind of English.” She paused. “How do you know English?”

“Pardon?”

“English. I'd think being from another world would mean you speak a different language.”

“We've spoken English since the Order began. We also speak French and some areas speak German. Some of us still speak Faerie. There are different languages for different regions. Like here, I suppose.”

She nodded, tapping her chin. “Okay. And I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“How old are you?” Before he could protest she countered with, “I know it's rude to ask, Westley, but it's important I know.”

Westley opened his mouth to counter her, then clamped it shut, his shoulders falling. “Twenty-three years.”

Well that explained why he wasn’t burdened with teenage baby face syndrome. “Yeah now you're seventeen. Got it? And you're from England and you're part of a student exchange program. We're friends. Okay?” Sibyl reached past him and grabbed the clothes he tried on. “Tell me which you like best.” One by one she held them up and he wrinkled his nose or smiled in response.

Once done, Westley asked, “Am I to wear this the rest of the night?”

“Yes, but go back inside and change out of them. Wait for me and I'll pay.”

She stopped. He must have Victorian undergarments. He'd need boxers. Blushing, she shoved the thought aside. Reeve could help him get those. Westley held the clothes out for her and she grabbed them, her face burning. “I'll be back.”

Poking her head out, she scanned the area for Freddie. There was no sign of Reeve either. Jerk. Once she was certain it was empty she walked to the register and paid.

The band was gone and with no Reeve around she'd be stuck with Westley. Well he wasn't too bad. Not bad to look at, that's for sure. But where would they go? The Aislin's? Her place?

Sibyl froze with the clothes in hand. Rose. If she went to her house Rose would be there. And then what? Rose must have been from Faerie too, or knew something about it. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

When she returned the clothes to Westley and he was ready the stores were closing. Sibyl dragged him out since he kept wanting to try on suits. Outside the band echoed into the still night, like a far off possibility they couldn’t grasp. Westley turned to her with raised brows. “Where to Miss Sibyl?”

****

“Josephine? Luther?” Sibyl called as she opened the front door. They stepped in, scanning the area for any sign of the two. “Hello?”

Clang! Footsteps ran up the stairs, and the door on the side of the staircase opened, Josephine appearing. Her eyes widened when she saw Westley.

“Your highness! You look fantastic,” she complimented with a thumbs up. Then her smile faltered. “Where's Reeve?”

“He left with Mary to the pep rally. The little jerk left me to babysit,” Sibyl replied.

“I'm not a baby. I'm older than you,” Westley shot back.

Sibyl grabbed his cheek. He flinched and shot her a playful glare. “Aw poor baby. Does baby need a nap?”

Josephine looked between the two but sighed, flailing her arms at her side. “Sorry about Reeve,” she mumbled. “He’s a little too nice for his own good. Knowing him he probably didn’t have the heart to say no to Mary, too scared he’ll hurt her feelings.”

Sibyl stopped. “And here I thought he was just a flirt.”

“Reeve?” Josephine snorted, which seemed almost out of character of her. “No way. He just likes to make people happy.”

“The more you know. Anyway, where's Luther?”

“Oh he's downstairs trying to get everything ready for you to get tested tonight.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Tonight? Doesn't that seem a bit fast? I feel like I need more time to adjust and stuff.”

“I know but the sooner we get it done the better.”

With a sigh she leaned against Westley who had no idea what to do with himself. “How long will it take?”

“No more than an hour.”

“I guess if I must,” Sibyl replied, again wondering about Rose. Maybe Rose had the answers. It was worth trying, but not with the Aislins around. Actually, maybe it was best not to tell them about her in the first place. She walked into the living room, Westley following with a pained expression.

“Are all houses like this?”

“No. And now that you mention it this place needs some work. People will get suspicious if they realize you guys aren't trying to clean up,” Sibyl said, wiping some dust off a portrait on the wall. Westley sneezed.

Josephine's forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows turned upward. “You think so? But we can't afford to fix it.”

“Then I'll help out. I’m gonna ask for more hours anyway. They won’t let me in Honors Society with a suspension.” Which was going to be a thrill to explain to Celia when she came to. Her stomach rumbled and her gaze flickered to the kitchen. “What do you have to eat?”

“Uhh…”

“Just what I thought. Oh the travesty.” Sibyl dramatized, her hand on her forehead. “I guess we’ll have to try something else.”

Josephine sucked in her cheeks. “I don’t think we can go out.”

“The diner’s closed anyway,” Sibyl replied, dropping her hand and her act.  “Unless you want Subway, which is the only other place here. Oh and McDonald’s. But that’s okay we can work something out. Westley are you hungry?”

“I'm famished,” Westley added.

Josephine turned to him, biting her lip. “I'm not sure you'll like our food.”

He waved her off. “If there are Fae who can live amongst your kind and deal with your food then so can I. Come. I insist we get a meal. I'm sure Miss Sibyl has a nicer home and a good chef.” He stood, offering his arm to Josephine.

Well not a chef but a weird relative who never left her room. A relative who might be from Faerie. Sibyl turned to Westley. “I don’t think we should go to my house.”

“Why not?” Westley asked.

Because of Rose and her wrinkled nose. “I have a place we can go. I mean it’s a bit of a long shot. I just need to pick up things from my place and we can go,” she forced out, the gears in her head working. If they suspected she was hiding something then she’d have to think of a valid excuse. Something…

“Alright. Lead the way. Let me just tell Luther,” Josephine agreed. “Westley why don’t you go with Sibyl to pick up the stuff from her home.” For a second their eyes met and she thought Josephine was trying to tell her something, like she knew. Sibyl kept her expression blank, or as blank as she could remember was physically possible.

“We’ll come back from you,” she told Josephine before motioning for Westley to follow her out the door and to her truck. If he noticed how she gulped and her hands quivered he didn’t show it. Not that she had any real reason to be nervous. It wasn’t like there was any proof Rose was involved in this. If she was in the Order they had to know, but what if this was all a trick and Rose had the real answers? Maybe it was just best to keep them in the dark about her.

When she pulled into her home she peeked up at the windows. Sure enough, Rose’s light was on. Sibyl mouthed a curse and unbuckled. “One minute. You can just wait here,” she told him. Westley just nodded, staring at her house. It must have paled in comparison to his castle. Or castles.

Sibyl walked out of the car and to her door. When she opened the front door she paused at the doorway, stepping in to be sure Rose wasn’t downstairs. The house was empty, untouched. Letting out the breath she was holding, Sibyl walked to the kitchen and pulled out a basket from the closet. She put in pots, pans, knifes, aprons, and got a bag of whatever stuff she could find to make dinner. They had three potatoes, a little bit of rice, chicken, onions, and tomato sauce. Perfect.

First she carried out the basket, putting it in the tiny backseat. Westley watched with a quirked brow but she waved him off before he could offer his assistance. It was better this way. Then she ran back in to grab the food bag.

“Going somewhere?”

Sibyl jumped, dropping the bag and cringing at the sound of the sauce jar hitting the kitchen island. Then she sighed and put her palms on the counter. “Do you always sneak up like that?”

“Why are you being so sneaky with the food?” Rose questioned, leaning against the door frame leading to the back hallway. She wore a black silk robe with floral embroidery, her hair up in a teal retro turban as she wore big teardrop shaped earrings. Despite being so casual she was the poster child for class and still had perfect makeup.

“I’m just going out with some friends. We’re gonna have a potluck,” she fibbed, giving her a thin smile. “There’s plenty of food here for you.”

Before she could leave Rose swept in front of her, hands on her hips. “You’re coming home rather late from school. Where have you been all day?”

“Why so curious? I was out with friends, obviously.” And discovering magical worlds while also bringing a Faerie prince to earth.

Her eyes narrowed. “And here I thought you didn’t have any friends.” How would she know that? There was a pang in her heart.

“Well things change,” she replied, again with the thin smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go.”

Sibyl stepped around her to leave when Rose grabbed her arm and leaned into her ear. “I have eyes everywhere Sibyl. You can’t hide it forever.”

Maybe if she wasn’t kissed by ice she’d shiver at her breath or cringe at her frost tipped grip. Her fingers throbbed, and when she cast a glance back at Rose’s black eyes she knew this woman was one of them. But whether or not she trusted her was another question.

Rose let her go, raising her chin as if understanding something. She fought a smile and crossed her arms. “Have fun with your little friends. I’m going to bed. I don’t care for your mortal rules on time.” With one last smug glance Rose left the kitchen and went up the stairs. Sibyl watched, rubbing the spot where she gripped her.

She flicked off bits of frost from where Rose grabbed her.

****

Sibyl couldn’t get her mind off of Rose’s warning. Was she being literal or just trying to scare her? Westley fidgeted beside her as they waited for Josephine in the driveway. Reeve still hadn’t shown up, but based on the time he had another hour at the pep rally. Maybe more if he went to hang out with Mary and her friends.

“We’re are we going?” Westley asked, fidgeting and playing with the buckle.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, looking him up and down. His cheeks turned pink, and internally she screamed at how cute it was. So far there were two sides to Westley, too hot to be real and awkward dork.

“Your carriage is strange. We have horseless carriages too, but they don’t smell and aren’t like this,” he confessed in a small voice. Was he scared?

“Oh. Sorry if it bothers you. And sorry about the smell. That’s gasoline. It stinks, eh?”

Westley avoided eye contact. “Indeed it does. Let’s go for another mode of transportation.”

Sibyl’s brows furrowed. Was that an order? Then she snorted, catching his attention so his gold eyes were on her once more. “Uh no. We stick to my truck. Her name is Sylvia by the way. Be nice to Sylvia.”

“Miss Sibyl I must insist-”

“Hey guys,” Josephine greeted from Sibyl’s window. “Ready?”

“You betcha. Westley get in the middle so Josephine can sit next to you. Come on, it’ll be a bit tight.” Westley gawked at her so she gave him a sugar sweet smile.

“Miss Sibyl-”

Josephine came in and his warm arms brushed her skin, a shudder of warm sliding down her back. “You’re so warm. Thank goodness too. It was getting cold in here, don’t you think Josephine?”

The girl caught on, giving him a honeysuckle sweet smile. “And you do have beautiful eyes your highness.”

“Let’s not forget how strong you are,” Sibyl added, feeling his arms. Dang he had nice biceps. Westley blushed.

“Well now Miss Sibyl-”

“You can call us by our first names. No 'miss' necessary, sugar,” Josephine interrupted, flashing her best smile. Westley's neck turned red. Sibyl turned on the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

“If you insist-”

“Just so you guys know I brought the stuff to make dinner. And I got us three aprons. Don’t touch my batman apron and we’ll have fun tonight.”

“What? You expect me to cook?” Westley gasped.

“We’re all going to cook, your highness. Team effort here. We’re all equal in my house. Except we’re not going to my house. We’re going to my second home.” Josephine raised her eyebrows at this but Sibyl didn’t elaborate further, turning on the radio and her iPod. Westley didn’t make any more protestations as the music played, Meg & Dia serenading them on their drive.

When they pulled in Josephine cast her a confused glance, eyes demanding an explanation but Sibyl just turned off the car and sighed. “I told you my mom made costumes right?” Her eyes didn’t leave the building, which was empty, a sign advertising the upcoming spring musical dates.

“I thought it was for the historical society,” Josephine replied.

“It was. But most of the time it was for plays all over the state. Come on. I have the keys.” She unbuckled and got out of the car, grabbing the bag of food.  Josephine grabbed the basket and followed her as she made her way to the door. “They have music camp here in the summer so there are rooms to sleep and there’s a kitchen. Celia used to teach a dance and costuming class.”

When the door was unlocked she held it open for them and they followed, Westley eying it suspiciously. “You’re sure this is safe?”

“Just trust me,” she insisted, shoving him in and locking the door behind her.  Josephine turned on the lights, posters of past shows staring down at them. Sibyl lead the way down the hall past the theater, dressing rooms, concessions, and offices. She unlocked another door and brought them to the barracks. “This is where camp is. If you know drama kids you get why they lock these doors.”

“You helped your mom?” Josephine asked, turning on a hallway light and following her to a mess hall and kitchen.

“When she needed me. I can’t sew much like her but I can do little things. And I was in pit sometimes, or I helped with the dance classes. Just whatever,” Sibyl replied. “She was also in charge of cooking, and if you’ve had Celia’s food you’d understand why she needed help.”

“So you cook.”

“No Thomas does, my dad. Again, I just helped whenever. But I learned a few things here and there,” she explained, placing the back on the kitchen island. Sibyl grabbed her batman apron and tossed a floral one to Westley. Josephine grabbed a white one with ‘Kiss the Cook’ written across it.

Westley was silent, taking his time to put on the colorful apron. Back to his awkward side, he lingered by the doorway gawking at the place. It was like he was discovering a new world. A small smile curved the corner of his lips. Sibyl tied up her hair, watching as he warmed to his surroundings.

“You okay?” she asked.

He met her gaze, a wide smile crossing his face. “It's just... I'm being treated like a normal person. Not-”

“A prince?” Sibyl finished, taking the food out of the bag.

“Yes. It feels nice.” Westley said. “Thank you.”

Something about the way he looked at her made her catch her breath. There was a light in his eyes. “No problem.”

“I hope you two know how to cook. Or at least Josephine,” she told them as she grabbed the cutting board and washed her hands.

“Reeve's the cook in our family,” Josephine admitted. “But I can still do some stuff.”

“Alright then you peel the potatoes,” Sibyl instructed, grabbing a bowl and putting the potatoes in before grabbing the potato peeler. “Wash them then put them in the bowl and peel. Oh, let me get you a plate for the peelings.”

Once everything was set up for Josephine she placed onions on the cutting board and grabbed a knife.

“I can cut them,” Westley offered, coming next to her.

“Are you sure? I don't know if they have onions in Faerie but they make people cry. Think you can handle it?”

Westley grabbed the knife. “I'll survive.”

“Alright, I'll work on the rice and meat. Get cookin' people.”

To their surprised it turned out to be a fun evening. Westley panicked when he started crying as he cut the onions and the girls laughed. Josephine kept getting distracted and almost burned the food. Yet decadent scents and warm laughter filled the mess hall.

“We need this in Faerie,” Westley proclaimed as they ate. “This is delicious.”

“Teamwork!” Sibyl replied as she raised her glass. “Thanks for your help guys.”

“Thank you for letting me help,” Westley countered.

There was something about him. She couldn't put her finger on it, but being around him felt safe. Comfortable. Happy. They laughed and she met his gaze over the kitchen table. Her cheeks burned. What a pleasant surprise.

[scribomaniac]

As Natural As Breathing: II

James McGraw normally wasn't the type to sit around and listen to gossip. He didn't care who was dating who, who cheated on who, who slept with who, or any of that sort. It wasn't any of his business. Even back in his sophomore year, when he first started dating Thomas and Miranda and the rumor mill had focused on him and his life, he hadn't batted an eye. So at first, when the new kid had arrived, and that same rumor mill had started up again, James hadn't cared a lick. No, he was more interested with keeping his head down, avoiding Vane, and getting accepted into Whitehall University. He didn't have time for gossip. Nor did he have the patience for it. He knew he had a nasty temper, it flared up and got him in trouble more times than he could count, and now—especially now, with Miranda and Thomas no longer able to help keep his rage in check—he needed to keep his head clear and his nose clean. Just a few more months until graduation. He could make it.

At least, he thought he could make it—until a little shit named John Silver walked into his life. James didn't care about the rumors, really, he didn't, but this—this shit. First, the rumors said he lost his leg in a car accident, then they said he lost it in a boating accident, then it was to a shark, no, a gator, then a hippo—James had even heard one say he lost it due to some freak accident with a chicken. Now, normally, James would roll his eyes and shrug it all off, because he just really didn't care. Rumors were rumors, and at first he just assumed people were making all this up because they were too afraid to actually ask the kid how he lost a limb.

And then one day, he heard it, straight from the horses mouth, “Born without it, actually,” the little shit had said with a shrug. Silver sat across the room from him, surrounded, as he always seemed to be, by a group of teens hanging on to his every word with rapt attention. Flint had tried to ignore him, but even on the other side of Hennessey's classroom Flint could hear every word as clearly as if he were sitting next to the curly haired student. “Birth defect of some sort.”

Flint thought that'd be the end of it. He thought that birth defect story would circulate the school for a week at most and then die off, but then, not even a week later, another rumor sprung forth, “You talk to the new kid yet?” Anne asked him as she unceremoniously sat herself down at his table in the cafeteria. Closing his eyes and releasing a slow, calming breath—James was fine with Anne, really, he was . . . it was Jack he could barely handle. And wherever Anne was, Jack wasn't too far behind—before putting his sandwich down to give her his attention.

“No, I haven't,” though he'd heard the new kid talk plenty of times. A loud thunk sounded behind him and the red headed man barely held back a groan as he looked over his shoulder to find Jack Rackham sitting to his left. “Jack,” he nodded in greeting.

“Yes, hello Flint,” the dark haired boy with strange sideburns said, squinting as he overlooked the cafeteria. “Strange man, that Silver. I don't quite understand what he's playing at.”

“I told ya,” Anne sneered from behind a veil of her red hair. “He's a compulsive liar, innit he?”

“But why?” Jack asked, his brows furrowing. “What's his reasoning?”

“Fuck you not getting about the compulsive part?” Anne glared at him, “There ain't no reasoning behind it.”

“What's this all about?” James asked, not completely following the couple's conversation.

“John Silver!” Jack hissed while slamming his fists on the table top. “He continuously lies! Tell me, do you know how he lost his leg?”

“What does it matter how he lost his leg?” James asked, frowning down at his food. “Why do you care?”

Jack looked at him like he'd grown two extra heads, “I care because stories are my life, Flint. I didn't become the editor in chief by sitting on my thumbs when stories came my way.” James sighed, knowing Jack was on a roll now. “It's a matter of the truth—I simply need to know it. And this Silver fellow is giving me the run around, isn't he Anne?” Anne grunted, “Right.” Jack nodded. “Everyone in this school wants to know his secret, they want to know why he's keeping it a secret—and I'm going to be the one to give it to them.”

“Is that so?” James said calmly, “What is I said I knew how he lost his leg?”

“You do?” Jack's right brow rose with interest. Then he exchanged glances with Anne and he pursued his lips. “Well, what is it, oh knowledgeable one?”

“Birth defect,” he answered, reaching for his sandwich again and assuming this conversation was over.

Just as he was about to take a bite, Anne snorted, “Where the fuck you hear that?”

“From him.”

Anne grinned, sharper than any knife, and barked out a laugh, “Yeah? Well I heard, from him, that he lost it in a rock climbing accident.”

“What? When?”

“Two bloody minutes ago,” she barred her teeth at him, though James knew her anger wasn't directed at him. James's gaze sought out Silver. He found the curly haired man where he always was at lunch, sitting with Muldoon and Billy Bones and the rest of their lot.

“Every time someone asks him, he changes the answer. For all we know, he told us the truth, but we can't confirm it. Furthermore—” But James had stopped listening to Rackham. He could feel his body temperature rising, his chest tightening, his gaze narrowing. His anger was like a noose, tightening its hold around his neck. He hated liars. They were the scourge of the Earth and, in Flint's opinion, the reason for all evil in the world. If James were in a sounder frame of mind, he would probably admit that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he wasn't, so he wouldn't. He stared Silver down, glaring cannons at him. Silver was the source of his own gossip? He was the reason Flint had been hearing nothing but ridiculous story after ridiculous story? It didn't make sense. Silver's blue eyes broke away from Dufresne's and caught his green ones. He quirked a dark brow, and James's upper lip curled back in a snarl. Usually, when faced with such animosity, people averted their eyes or flinched back. This little shit, though. This little shit didn't do either of those things. No, this little shit threw his head back and laughed.

“I'm going to fucking kill him,” he growled, cutting Jack off mid sentence. “That little shit. I'll kill him.”

“Right, well . . .” Jack's dark eyes flickered between James and Silver before he looked to Anne, “come along, darling, we mustn't out stay out welcome, hmm?”

“Yeah, wanna see Max before class starts up, anyway,” Anne said, then bumped her shoulder into James's, “Don't do nothing stupid, yeah? Think of Whitehall.”

James's face darkened. Whitehall. Right. The light at the end of the dark tunnel that was high school. Just a few more months. Just a few more months and he'd be free of this place. He just had to keep his nose clean . . . and his temper in check. That was easier said than done, especially when the little shit had the audacity to wink at him.

Twisting back around, James began shoveling the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth. Once he finished scarfing down his lunch, he pushed his body out of his seat—with a bit more force than absolutely necessary—and stomped out of the cafeteria towards his locker. He needed to cool off, and that wasn't going to happen with John fucking Silver sitting behind him, burning holes into his back. He had three more periods to get through today. Just three more and he could go home and call Thomas and forget everything that had happened today. Maybe he'd even drive up to Whitehall's campus and surprise Miranda and Thomas. Maybe even have dinner. Maybe even spend the night—it was Friday, after all. Tension began to slowly bleed from his shoulders at the thought. He just needed some time with Thomas and Miranda. That'd set him straight.

He had Physics after lunch. They had a lab project due at the end of the period, and he was paired with Joji—thank Christ. He didn't think he'd be able to take any mindless chatter in his current state, and the lab work kept his mind busy and the time moving. Soon enough, the bell was ringing and he and Joji were turning in their work. Next was Econ with Guthrie. He hated this class, but it'd look good to the colleges he'd applied to. It was terribly boring, though. Guthrie wasn't the best teacher, nor was he the most engaging. Sometimes James found himself wishing he shared the class with Eleanor, if only for the entertainment factor her presence always brought. Eventually, though, that class ended, too, and then there was one. His final class with Hennessey. Thankfully English was his favorite subject, and Hennessey was his favorite teacher. Unfortunately, he shared the class with Silver.

Silver was already in his seat when James entered the classroom, and he could feel the invisible noose around his neck begin to tighten again. He tried to shrug off the compulsion building within the bowls of his stomach to lash out and punch the man across the jaw. Whitehall, he thought, over and over again. Whitehall, Whitehall, Whitehall. He released a shaky breath. He could do this. Taking his seat, he pulled out his notebook and his copy of the current book they were reading—The Canterbury Tales—and stared steadfast ahead at the chalkboard before him. He could sense Silver's gaze burning into the side of his face. It made his skin itch and the muscles near his eyes twitch, but he'd ignore him. He couldn't afford not to.

Hennessey took that moment to walk in, closing the classroom door behind him. “Afternoon, class,” he greeted, pulling down the projector screen and then heading over to his desk. He grabbed a small remote, turning the projector on, and then began logging into his computer. “I hope everyone remembered to bring their books to class today. You'll be needing them.” A few students looked around in a panic, but for the most part everyone seemed prepared for whatever Hennessey had planned. “I'm assigning a group project due on Monday.” He waited for several groans to finish their course. James held his back, but just barely. There went his plans with Thomas and Miranda. “Groups of two—one of three. I've already chosen your partners so stop looking around frantically, Mr. Dooley. You and your partner, or partners, will choose a story from The Canterbury Tales and give a fifteen to twenty minute report on it on Monday—or, if we run short on time, Tuesday. You'll find the restrictions and requirements on the projector, so be sure to take notice, please.” James read the words on the screen, while most of his class mates began writing the instructions into their notebooks. “Don't forget to email me your chosen story by midnight tonight.

“Now, as for partners, keep an ear out for your name.” Hennessey began listing pairs off one by one. Some people were thrilled with their partner. Idelle and Featherstone—always a suitable pair. Woodes and Edward Low—that was a match made in hell. Ben and Billy—that'd be interesting. Eme and Berringer—Christ, Hennessey was a sadist for making that match. “James McGraw,” Hennessey said, looking down and reading from his notes. James's focus honed in on the older man as he read of his partner, “John Silver.” Blood drained from James's face. His mind turned fuzzy. The noose tightened, cutting off his air way. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. James wanted to pinch himself to test the theory out, but some last remnant of common sense told him he wasn't dreaming. This was all really happening. He wanted to scream, he wanted to rage, he wanted to break Hennessey's face against his desk or putting him in this position. He wanted Miranda. He needed Thomas. But he couldn't have any of those things, and he knew it. So instead, he ran a hand down his face and sighed.

He was screwed.