#you may be vain but in a hundred years they’ll be dead and you’ll still be beautiful

[blergeatkitty]

Remember:

Just because you’re a lithe, near-immortal being with upswept ear tips, flawless skin and perfect hair it doesn’t mean you have to push yourself so hard on endless quests.

Take some time away from the archery and horseback riding, ditch the gauntlets and riding boots.

Take a spa day.

Moisturize those slender hands.

Grab some Epsom salts and a hot bath, maybe some lavender.

And stop being so stoic and fathomless, if only for just a decade or twelve.

In a few hundred years you’ll be gazing longingly at yourself in the mirror and realizing it’s ok to have a few crinkles around the eyes from smiling, even if it’s only from reminiscing about your long-dead shorter-lived companions.

You’re worth it. (And they’re such mayflies anyway)

[wantlonger]

𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 (𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟎) 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

content warning ahead for religion, murder, suicide, and other triggering topics. lost post, more lyrics under the cut.

my mind is clearer now.

i can see where we all soon will be.

you have started to believe the things they say of you.

and all the good you’ve done will soon get swept away.

you’ve begun to matter more than the things you say.

i’ve been your right hand man/woman all along.

and they’ll hurt you when they find they’re wrong.

my admiration for you hasn’t died. 

but every word you say gets twisted ‘round some other way.

and they’ll hurt you if they think you’ve lied.

i am frightened by the crowd.

we are getting much too loud.

please remember that i want us to live.

all your followers are blind.

too much heaven on their minds.

it was beautiful but now it’s sour.

he won’t listen to me.

what’s the buzz?

tell me what’s-a-happenin’.

why should you want to know?

don’t you think about the future.

don’t you try to think ahead.

save tomorrow for tomorrow; think about today instead.

i could give you facts and figures.

i could give you plans and forecasts.

why are you obsessed with fighting times and fates you can’t defy?

let me try to cool down your face a bit.

that feels nice, so nice.

[name], that is good.

she/he/they alone has tried to give me what i need right here and now.

it seems to me a strange thing mystifying, that a man/woman/person like you can waste his/her/your time on women/men/people of her/his/kind.

yes, i can understand that she/he/they amuses you.

it’s not that i object to her/his/their profession.

it doesn’t help if you’re inconsistent.

they only need a small excuse to put us all away.

who are you to criticize her/him/them?

leave her/him/them, she’s/he’s/they’re with me now.

try not to get worried, try not to turn on to problems that upset you.

don’t you know that everything’s alright?

we want you to sleep well tonight.

let the world turn without you tonight.

if we try, we’ll get by.

forget all about us tonight.

sleep and i shall soothe you.

why has it been wasted?

we could have raised maybe three hundred silver pieces or more.

people who are hungry, people who are starving, they matter more than your feet and head.

there will be poor always, pathetically struggling. 

look at the good things you’ve got.

you’ll be lost, you’ll be so sorry when i’m gone.

ah, gentlemen, you know why we are here.

we have not much time and quite a problem here.

listen to the howling mod of blockheads in the street.

tell us that you’re who we say you are.

he is dangerous.

we need a more permanent solution to our problem.

one things i’ll say for him/her/them, [name] is cool.

but how can we stop him?

i see bad things arising.

i see blood and destruction: our elimination because of one man.

fools! you have no perception!

the stakes we are gambling are frighteningly high.

we must crush him/her/them completely.

this [name] must die.

won’t you smile at me?

this common crowd is much too loud.

tell the mob who sing your song that they are fools and they are wrong.

they are a curse; they should disperse.

you’re alright by me.

why waste your breathe moaning at the crowd? nothing can be done to stop the shouting.

won’t you fight for me?

won’t you die for me?

did you see i waved?

i believe in you and god, so tell me that i’m saved.

there must be over fifty thousand screaming love and more for you.

you will rise to a greater power.

we will win ourselves a home!

you’ll get the power and the glory.

you’d see the truth but you close your eyes.

to conquer death you only have to die.

he/she/they had that look you very rarely find ... the haunted, hunted kind.

i asked him/her/them to say what had happened.

he/she/they never said a word, as if he/she/they hasn’t heard.

the room was full of wild and angry men.

i heard them mentioning my name and leaving me the blame.

roll on up, for my price is down.

come on in for the best in town.

take your pick of the finest wine.

name your price; i got everything.

come and buy; it’s all going fast.

borrow cash on the finest terms.

hurry now while stocks still last.

you, at least, are still alive.

name your pleasure, i will sell.

i can fix your wildest needs.

i got heaven and i got hell.

get out! get out!

my time is almost through.

after all i’ve tried for three years -- seems like thirty.

see my purse? i’m a poor, poor man.

i believe you can make me whole.

see my skin? i’m a mass of blood.

there’s too many of you, don’t push me.

there’s too little of me; don’t crowd me.

heal yourselves!

i don’t know how to love him.

i’ve been changed, yes really changed.

in these past few days when i see myself, i seem like someone else.

i don’t how to take this.

i don’t see why he moves me.

he’s a man, he’s just a man.

i’ve had so many men before. in very many ways, he’s just one more.

should i bring him down? should i scream and shout?

should i speak of love, let my feelings out?

i never thought i’d come to this.

what it all about?

don’t you think it’s rather funny i should be in this position?

i’m the one that’s always been so calm, so cool, no lover’s fool.

if he said he loved me, i’d be lost, i’d be frightened.

i couldn’t cope. i’d turn my head, i’d back away. i wouldn’t want to know.

he scares me so.

i want him so.

i love him so.

now if i help you, it matters that you see these sordid kind of things are coming hard to me.

it’s taken me some time to work out what to do.

i weighed the whole thing up before i came to you.

i have no thought at all about my own reward.

i really didn’t come here of my own accord.

just don’t say i’m damned for all time.

why are we the ones that see the sad solution -- know what must be done?

cut the protesting, forget the excuses. 

we want information, get up off the floor.

we have the paper we need to arrest him/her/them.

you know his/her/their movements, we know the law.

your help in this matter won’t go unrewarded.

we’ll pay you in silver -- cash on the nail.

i don’t want your blood money!

that doesn’t matter, our expenses are good.

i don’t need your blood money!

but you might as well take it -- we think that you should.

think of the things you can do with that money.

we’ve noted your motives, we’ve noted your feelings.

this isn’t blood money it’s a fee, nothing more.

i must be mad thinking i’ll be remembered.

i must be out of my head!

look at your blank faces! my name will mean nothing ten minutes after i’m dead.

one of you denies me.

one of you betrays me.

not i! who could? impossible!

cut the dramatics! you know very well who!

why don’t you go do it?

you want me to do it?

hurry, they’re waiting.

if you knew why i do it ...

i don’t care why you do it!

to think i admired you, for now i despised you!

you liar! you judas!

what if i just stayed here and ruined your ambition?

hurry, you fool, hurry and go!

save me your speeches, i don’t want to know! go!

you sad pathetic man/woman/person -- see what you’ve brought us to.

our ideals die around us, all because of you.

someone has to turn you in.

every time i look at you i don’t understand why you let the things you did get so out of hand.

you’d have managed better if you had it planned.

don’t disturb me now; i can see the answers.

knew that i would make it if i tried.

will no one stay awake with me?

will none of you wait with me?

take this cup away from me.

i have changed.

i’m not as sure as when we started.

then i was inspired ... now i’m sad and tired.

could you ask as much from any other man?

why should i die?

would i be more noticed than i ever was before? would the things i’ve said and done matter anymore?

if i die what will be my reward?

can you show me now that i would not be killed in vain?

show me there’s a reason for your wanting me to die.

you’re far too keen on ‘where’ and ‘how’, but not so hot on ‘why’.

alright, i’ll die!

why then am i scared to finish what i started?

i didn’t start it.

i will drink your cup of poison.

take me now before i change my mind!

must you betray me with a kiss?

we’re gonna fight for you!

put away your sword, don’t you know that it’s all over?

it was nice, but now it’s gone. 

why are you obsessed with fighting?

stick to fishing from now on.

tell me [name] how you feel tonight?

do you plan to put up a fight?

do you feel that you’ve had the breaks?

what would you say were your big mistakes?

do you think that you may retire?

did you think you would get much higher?

how do you view your coming trial?

have your men/women/people proved it all worthwhile?

come on [name], this is not like you.

let us know what you’re gonna do.

you know what your supporters feel.

you’ll escape in the final reel.

now we have him! now we have him!

[name], you must realize the serious charges facing you.

that’s what you say -- you say i am.

there you have it. what more evidence do we need?

thank you for the victim. stay awhile and you’ll see him bleed.

i think i’ve seen you somewhere, i remember.

you were with that man they took away. i recognize your face.

you got the wrong man/woman/person, lady.

i don’t know him.

i wasn’t where he was tonight -- never near the place.

that’s strange, for i’m sure i saw you with him. you were right by his side, and yet you denied.

it looked just like you.

don’t you know what you have said? you have gone and cut him/her/them dead.

i had to do it, don’t you see? or else they’d come for me.

that’s what he/she/they told us you would do ... i wonder how he/she/they knew ...

who is this broken man cluttering up my hallway? who is this unfortunate?

you look so small, not a king at all.

what do you mean by that? that is not an answer.

how can someone in your state be so cool about his fate?

please explain to me. you had everything, where is it now?

[name], i am overjoyed to meet you face to face.

you’ve been getting quite the name all around this place.

that’s all you need do, and i’ll know it’s all true.

you just won’t believe the hit you’ve made ‘round here.

you’re all we talk about! the wonder of the year!

oh, what a pity, if it is all a lie.

still i’m sure that you can rock the cynics if you try.

if you do that for me, then i’d let you go free.

i’d only ask things i’d ask any superstar.

what is it that you have got that puts you where you are?

i am waiting, yes i’m a captive fan.

i am dying to be shown that you are not just any man/woman/person.

has something gone wrong? why do you take so long?

hey! aren’t you scared of me!

you are nothing but a fraud!

take him/her/them away, he’s/she’s/they’ve got nothing to say.

get out of my life!

my god! i saw him! he/she/they looked three-quarters dead!

he/she was so bad i had to turn my head,

i know who everybody’s gonna blame. 

i don’t believe he/she/they know i’ve acted for our good.

i’d save him/her/them from this suffering if i could!

cut the confessions, for the excuses. i don’t understand why you’re filled with remorse.

all that you’ve said has come true with a vengeance. 

the mob turned against him/her/them -- you backed the right horse.

you’ll be remembered forever for this.

you’ve been paid for your efforts.

pretty good wages for one little kiss. 

but i only did what you wanted me to!

for i have been saddled with the murder of you.

i have been spattered with innocent blood.

i shall be dragged through the slime and the mud.

when he’s/she’s/they’re cold and dead, will he/she/they let me be?

does he love me too? does he care for me too?

my mind is in darkness now.

my god, i am sick! i’ve been used!

and you knew all this time!

i’ll never know why you chose me for your crime.

you have murdered me! you have murdered me!

we have no law to put a man to death.

talk to me, [name].

you’ve been brought here -- manacled, beaten by your own people.

do you have the first idea why you deserve it?

where is your kingdom?

i’m through, through, through!

there may be a kingdom for me somewhere if i only knew.

i look for truth and find that i get damned.

he’s/she’s/they’ve done no wrong -- no not the slightest thing!

this man/woman/person is harmless, so why does he/she/they upset?

he’s/she’s/they’re just misguided, thinks he’s/she’s/they’re important. 

you’ve got to be careful, you could be dead soon.

why do you not speak when i have your life in my hands?

how can you stay quiet? i don’t believe you understand.

you have nothing in your hands.

any power you have comes to you from far beyond.

everything is fixed and you can’t change it.

you’re a fool -- how can i help you?

you have a duty to keep the peace.

don’t let me stop your great self destruction. die if you want to, you misguided martyr! i wash my hands of your demolition!

die if you want to, you innocent puppet!

why’d you choose such a backwards time in such a strange land?

don’t you get me wrong -- i only wanna know. 

who are you? what have you sacrificed?

[name] superstar.

do you think you’re what they say you are?

tell me what you think about your friends at the top.

who’d you think, besides yourself, was the pick of the crop?

did you mean to die like that? was that a mistake?

they don’t know what they are doing.

where is my mother? where is my mother?

why have you forgotten me?

[whetstonefires]

fictober prompt #11:  “But I will never forget!”

“You win,” said the child.

“I win?”

“Yes. But I will never forget! My parents. Where I came from.”

“That’s fine?” He was aware he sounded less like the Dark Knight than the easily bewildered Lord Wayne, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Even if it wasn’t really easy to bewilder him, it could still happen, and it had. “It’s good, actually. I wouldn’t want you to.”

“Oh, right.” Dik Grayson folded his arms. “Because they’re why you want me.”

He winced a little. He hadn’t meant to give the impression by talking about the loss they had in common that if the young tumbler recovered from his grief he would lose interest in him. He hoped the edge of his temper would ease a bit, as time passed. His had, if only slightly, but then his parents’ killer never had been caught. He was hoping Zucco’s upcoming public trial would help. “That’s not exactly…”

“What they taught me. That’s what makes me valuable.”

“I would…say I value you for your own unique talents….”

“Stop it, I’m not stupid.” The child acrobat’s head dropped. Defeat and defiance mingled in every line of him. “I know what you did.”

Bruce was stumped. “And what did I do?”

The young face flashed up again, furious and covered in tears; he was weeping, but his voice didn’t catch at all. “You wanted me, so you got them out of the way!”

It felt surprisingly like being stabbed. “What?”

“Don’t think you’re the first one to try it! Everyone says, what a pretty little bird, I wish he were mine, and then some of the lords and ladies try to buy me. And some of you don’t like to hear no. You’re just the first one to pull it off.”

“It was Zucco. We proved it was Zucco.”

“Yeah.” The tears of fury were slowing, stemmed to bitterness. “Once I calmed down, I thought—that’s awfully convenient, isn’t it. It’s not like the circus sees that much coin, and we’re only here a few weeks at a time. It’s weird that a thief-king with that much pull would bother to set up such a fancy murder just to threaten old man Haley.”

“You…heard him confess, I’ve got him locked in the Tower of Justice awaiting trial right now—”

“Convenient!” The child repeated. “He’s out of your way and silenced as soon as he’s dead.”

“…We’ve abolished execution as a punishment in Gotham.”

Blink. Finally thrown off his stride. “Oh. Well, still! If you did it through an intermediary he won’t be able to point to you.”

“Dik. Dik Grayson, listen to me. I only wanted to help you. And punish a crime committed in my city. Those were my only motives.”

“Yeah? So why am I still here? Why not let me go with the rest of the Circus?”

Bruce took a bracing breath. At least he was getting to the root of the misunderstanding. “Legally, I couldn’t. None of them were your blood relatives, nor did they produce written proofs that your parents had willed you to their care.

“I wouldn’t normally enforce those rules on non-citizens unless someone was being hurt, but for Zucco to see justice you must give evidence at the trial, and once you are entered into the record as an unattached infant, protocol dictates that you must be found a legally responsible guardian. If I allow you to disappear, the case comes under suspicion for bad practice and possible conspiracy and may be overturned in the lower court on review, as your testimony will not be available but Zucco’s influence in the lower city will.”

This was rather more politics than he had intended to explain to an eight-year-old, but apparently if you didn’t tell children what was going on they cooked up elaborate paranoid fantasies.

…he’d been the same way, come to think of it. “I told you you would have to stay here in the city,” he reminded Dik, “if you wanted to see him brought to justice.”

The flea of a boy was goggling up at him. His eyes really were enormous. “I thought that was a bargain!”

“What?” Egad. Of course he had. Bruce pinched the top of his nose. “It wasn’t. Just a necessity.”

“So…if I go kill him now, you won’t need to try him. So then can I go?”

“If you go and kill him now I’ll have to put you in the Tower.” Bruce tried to keep his tone even. He managed not to pinch his nose again. He wasn’t really getting a headache, he just felt like he should be. “But���I don’t think you’re the kind who could kill a chained man in cold blood, Dik.”

The boy sighed. “No, you’re right. I couldn’t.”

They both stared at the paving stones between them. Thank goodness the child had chosen to do this in a private courtyard, where they shouldn’t have been overheard.

“So you’ll let me go?”

Bruce let out a long breath. “If you don’t mind the Zucco case falling through.” A caravan could only move so fast, and they’d only left yesterday; if he loaned Grayson a fast horse tomorrow morning Alfred could be back before dinner.

It would be a wrench, to have the thief-king slip this noose. It might be years before Bruce caught him so dead to rights again. But he wasn’t a tyrant. That was important. He wasn’t going to start stealing children against their will just to keep order in his own city.

The boy grimaced, torn between two unacceptable futures.

“You don’t have to stay with me, of course,” Bruce said. He’d considered it a bribe, at the time, though one that would profit him as well; hundreds of youths would be thrilled to be taken into his household, even as stableboys. But not everyone wanted the same things in life. “I could find you another guardian, if you don’t mind working for your keep, or you can go to the orphan’s house in the lower city. I hold it to strict standards,” he added, since this again probably sounded like a threat. “It’s clean, there’s as much food as you want, and no one will be permitted to beat you. They’ll keep you until you turn sixteen or find a trade.”

“I have a trade,” the boy grumbled.

Bruce winced again. He really had made a hash. Alfred was going to rake him over hot coals. “It’s not the done thing to bind a boy out to a master tumbler, but if you find one I’ll expedite the paperwork.”

“But still in your city.” Those huge blue eyes were narrow in calculation, drying, salt tracks beneath them white. “Under your control.”

“There’s a transfer system,” Bruce said. “At the orphan asylum. You’re a likely young lad, any city would—be happy to have you.” Want you, he’d almost said. Surely he’d chewed enough boot leather for the month already.

Please stay, he did not say. The place under his ribs that had felt so surprisingly stabbed was no longer joyful at the thought of having the boy close, but if he left now all of this had been for nothing. Just a dumb-show. A puppet play.

Dik Grayson’s fists were tremble-tight. Bruce’s knuckles ached with sympathy. “Will you swear.” The autumn-blue eyes were a thousand miles deep. “That you had nothing to do with it? Swear?”

“On my parents’ graves.” His most solemn oath, but hardly enough to a child who suspected him of dishonoring their memory so. “I neither wished nor brought nor condoned nor bought harm unto your blood or house. I swear it on my city’s future, on my honor, and the name of my house. May my blood turn to water and my tongue wither to dust if I lie.”

Once, the stories said, such oaths were not taken in vain, and one who swore falsely would suffer the penalty he named. Bruce made it a policy to always act as though that were still the case, but it wasn’t, and a man’s word of honor was worth only as much as the honor of the man.

But slowly, the boy nodded. And put out his hand. Bruce raised his eyebrows, but if the circus was old-fashioned in its manners so much the better. His hand enclosed Grayson’s whole forearm, while the small callused palm pressed barely above his wrist, but that changed nothing. “I’ll stay,” said the boy. “I promise by my name.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bruce said. It was one thing to ask an oath of someone you could bind in no other way. To take one from someone under your power, even without compulsion, seemed poor form.

Dik shrugged, and disengaged. “It’s even, like this.”

Not fair, because nothing between them really could be, the gap between Bruce’s power and his too absolute. But even. Because an exchange of promises was something you made with an equal. And the circus performers weren’t Bruce’s people. They didn’t answer to him, though his laws bound them within the bounds of his domain.

“You said I’ll need to earn my bread,” the child said, hands thrust deep into scarlet pockets. “I’m eight, so I figure that means scut-work. Nobody would trust me alone with geese yet, let alone pigs. If I stay with you, would you want me to perform?”

“Would you want to?” asked Bruce. Dik shrugged. “Of course you don’t want to lose your family trade,” Bruce allowed. “But if you stayed with me I rather thought I’d take you as an apprentice.”

It seemed silly now, the starry half-formed fantasies he’d had after running the rooftops with the child at his heels, perfectly coordinated and brilliant, silent as a bird on the wing.

And, currently, gaping. “What, at lording?”

“..if you like,” Bruce shrugged. “I haven’t any other.” It would put some hearts in Gotham to rest and unsettle some that needed it, and show certain parties what you got by pressuring a Wayne, even an affable and easily influenced one. “You’d probably be rather good at it.” The gaping had, if anything, grown worse. “But I meant at my other trade, in fact.”

Incredulity retreated a little, at this, and for the first time in this whole bedeviled conversation the boy seemed to brighten. “You’re serious.”

“Only if you’re interested,” Bruce said blandly. “I think my friend Sir Dent could use a message-runner, and Lady Kyle might need someone new to look after her cats, since you’re interested in animals…”

“Oh, shut up!” Dik clapped a hand over his mouth, and Bruce surprised even himself with an outright laugh.

“No, go ahead, please. It’s an important function of every member of my household to tell me when I’m being insufferable.”

And then the boy was smiling back at him. “You’re serious,” he said, settled this time, as he affirmed his trust.

“Mm. I’ll have you a knight inside ten years.”

The child laughed. “Me, a knight! What Mam would have said.” He waved a hand grandly, the gesture a little too large for the room even with his short arms; designed to be seen from a distance. “I’ll do it, of course I will. Obviously you need someone to translate you to normal people.”

“You’ll need to learn the law if you’re going to explain it to people,” Bruce pointed out, the flat stabbed place under his ribs starting, cautiously, to grow light again.

His new apprentice nodded, grinning confidence. “Every line.”

He put his hand out again—normally Bruce would formalize such an agreement with a parent, or whoever stood in place of one, but there was nobody—Master Haley had left the city already and, as Bruce had explained, under Gotham law had had no legal standing, though Bruce would have discussed this formally with the man as a courtesy if it had occurred to him.

They clasped forearms again, the size disparity no less ridiculous than before but less important, somehow. Bruce inclined his head with all due solemnity for the sealing of a contract. He didn’t want Dik to think ever again that he did not see him as an equal.

[spellsandpixiedust]

[ Paper Cages ]

Participants: Liam Talbot | James Stark

Mentioned: -

Chronology: From Safety To Where...? → Paper Cages → I’m Your Gun

Original Tag: Paper Cages

“Fifty… seventy… ninety… hundred and ten…” Pound note after pound note Liam lays out on the fine wooden counter in the claustrophobic little shop peppered with all sorts of things. If there’s a concept behind this business it’s astoundingly well hidden, probably buried underneath grandma’s unwanted brooch collection and the fine assortment of hunting knives on display. Even the ‘Curios’ sign outside doesn’t so much help to identify the shop as the actual pawn shop that it is. Or is it? Wouldn’t a fence’s lair be a much more suitable descriptor…?

“Oi! Ye’ve -ad enough already, ye soddin’ greedy twit! That’s thirty quid more than ye’ve paid me!”

“And now it’s fifty”, the Keith Richards double behind the counter replied sternly, “Listen, scally, you want your clobber back, you pay. You pay as I say.”

The Manc bloats his cheeks up to blowfish proportions, but swallows on a very Liam-ish comeback eventually. No good throwing a tantrum now. And what for anyway? He’s made his hotel-booty into cash, a first instalment to ransom his deposited stuff, and after he’s paid his extra Keith audibly bends down, vanishes behind the counter for a moment, before he reappears (this time his groan even more audible) to hand Liam his mobile complete with earbuds and charging cable. Not like the latter would be of any use where he was headed…

“Now sod off, kid. You and your…”

Boyfriend? Boyfriend?? Boyfriend??? Come on! Just say boyfriend!

“… trip sitter.”

Liam scrunches up his nose, turns around to catch a glimpse of Stark then turns back at Keith. Trip sitter?! Out of all possibilities this is what comes to mind? So he mutters a quiet “Fuck off”, raises the infamous two fingers and leads his trip sitter boyfriend out of the pawn shop.

“What a bloody wanker”, he gets retroactively het up. “Right, think I’ve got everything.” Everything but clothes without bloody bullet holes perhaps. “Hey, while we’re in London ye wanna do some touristy bollocks?“

  While Liam haggles with his antiquated dealer of antiquities, Stark roams the shop (as well as one can roam in a closet-sized place) and pokes into the displays of outdated gaming systems, third-hand stereo and musical equipment, and gaudy jewelry of uncertain provenance. His restless perusal may be partially to blame for Keith’s attitude, but only partially. The guy clearly doesn’t like people reclaiming their stuff.

 After getting used to Muninn’s caves the place is less than engrossing, so Stark returns in time to witness the last of their exchange. The peculiar suggested relationship earns a squint of confusion from him, too, when Liam glances back. Trip sitter? Because Stark looks so trustworthy and caring…?

 “Could be worse, he could'a called me your pimp.” They’re not even fully out of the shop when he offers the statement. Once they are out of the shop, he reaches into a pocket and offers something else - a hideously ornate, gold-plated, baroque-style butane cigarette lighter. Which he fully expects Liam to misplace after using once. The sad thing about it is, someone probably had it made custom and used it lovingly, judging by the wear. Even sadder, when that someone died and their next-of-kin was disposing of their useless belongings, the pawn star paid actual money for the revolting tacky thing.

 “Besides going back after dark and cleaning out the rest of the shop, you mean?” The haul wouldn’t be with the effort but it might be a fun date. “What kinda touristy bollocks do people do in London? Is there like a Joe Strummer shrine where we can leave offerings and snap selfies?”

“Hang on, I’m the businessman, ye’re the rentboy”, a rectification is in order, yet it does nothing to lighten his mood. And what lights a mood more than a lighter does? That and the prospect of a smoke, with which all doubts and offence will go up in smoke as well. Yes, it would’ve been nice if he wasn’t dubbed as irresponsible he needs someone to look after him. It would’ve been nicer if someone would see the one thing in them Liam still couldn’t voice himself. But it could’ve been worse.

He smirks at the hideous trophy and lights his cigarette, before he carelessly tosses the thing into the depths of his backpack, where it is doomed to get lost between holey shirts and stuff that deserved the label ‘curios’ more than the pawn shop does. At least it won’t get eaten by his pockets. Or whatever the fuck happens to any lighter he gets his grabby hands on.

“What for? Wanna nick an antiquated rotary phone and a cutlery set? Ye’re so classy. Unless ye’ve spotted decent clothing in there, I’m not going back.” And before the lamentation is allowed to continue Liam jams on the brakes and takes a drag, then he concludes in a half-chortle: “Anyway. Let’s head to Finchley Road then” - he pauses - “Wait. No. Edgeware Road. That’s it. The Joe Strummer Subway, where the man -imself used to busk.” And some Mancs dreamt of following his lead.

 “You sure? We could swap next time.” Not that either of those roles fits either of them, and Stark could think of more entertaining ones. As for ‘next time’… well, no doubt they’ll have cause to hide their true identities sooner or later.

 He follows Liam’s lead, lights a smoke for himself, then shrugs. “I was hoping to add to my collection of Delft figurines. Think I spotted a rare milkmaid back there. But you’ve got a point.  I could use a new coat.“  He glances down at the current one which, if it’s holding together, is only doing so thanks to the blood (and other substances that don’t bear thinking about) saturating it.  And that’s not even taking into account the slashes and rips in the leather.

 Stark is distracted from his consideration when the kid goes on.  “Seriously?  They gave him a subway?  Talk about classy.  Knight every-fucking-body else in the kingdom; name a subway after Strummer.”

Judging by the dark glare Liam shoots Stark, the role reversal proposition is not accepted. Despite the act of hooking up with blokes for a shag and to pocket some quid afterwards having been the little Limey’s MO for a time of emotional disarray. But that was not the point.

Liam shakes off the mental images, before they worm themselves deeper into his consciousness, and instead jumps on the bullshit bandwagon: “Yeah, I’m sure it goes well with yer Delft tea set.” If tea wasn’t regarded as poison, that was. Aside from the fact they both look like they couldn’t even afford half a Delft sugar basin’s lid. Grimy, battered coat or holey, ragged shirts - a new wardrobe’s definitely in order. So sightseeing and ‘shopping�� it is, the holy duality of touristing.

“Oi! What better way to honour a musician than with music?”, Liam interjects, “I’d not complain if I was honoured with me own corner at Piccadilly’s or somming. ‘s better thanWilliam Talbot OBE. Not like that’s ever gonna happen. Sure they keep files about everyone who got suspended for lese majesty.”

  Stark grins unrepentantly in return for that glare.  Snags Liam’s waist to draw him out of the path of a harried businessman too intent on his phone to see who he might be charging over in his determined hurry.  He just sort of forgets to release the kid afterwards.  “Right.  A tea set.  Probably better pick one of those up, too, if you’ll still insist on brewing the vile stuff when we get home.”  He doubts the Beat Hotel provides its guests with even Low Tea.

 “Whatever the fuck that is.  But I guess you’re right, it is a more fitting tribute.”  Doesn’t change the fact that this country seems to have its priorities ass-backwards.  He can’t say LA is any better in that respect, yet he still looks forward to going back now that Vidocq’s revived and returned.  On the other hand, he’s in no hurry to resume being harassed by Kasabian or degraded and underpaid by Wells, so another evening in Old Blighty will do no harm. “Tell you what, Sir William.  Let’s skip the memorial for now and find a drink or five.  Then a little later we can put those B&E skills of yours to work, finish packing for your trip.”

Though Liam stumbles and crashes into Stark upon the heroic rescue from stuffy businessmen, he immediately falls into step beside the other. But not for long. Casually he break free, misusing his sudden need to rummage through the sparse contents of his backpack - again - as an excuse. Only briefly he lets Stark catch a glimpse at the at least four boxes of various black tea blends adding up to round about a year’s ration. But tea bags, as vital as they are, is not what he’s looking for. Crouching, both hands in the maw of the ragged thing, and still not having made a find, he can at least try and educate the other mage: “Officer of the Order of the British Empire”, he mutters. But that’s when it dawns him the abbreviation was not the problem. Right when he thinks of an approach to the lese majesty issue, his fingers brush against his mobile and his train of thought gets dispersed.

At least he has the decency to get up again and recommence walking, while he tries to turn on his phone. In vain. He flips it over, removes the backing - and no, he’s still not paying attention to the pedestrian situation or where they’re actually heading while he surgically removes the battery, too, only to unearth what looks like a plain folded piece of paper or a makeshift envelope. The paper gets stuffed into his trouser pocket, the battery reinserted and - nope. Still dead.

“Fair enough. I’m in.” But what now? “Pub?” He shrugs. “Oughta have some decent ones in Islington. I dunno. Would look ‘em up, but me mobile’s not cooperating. Think yer phone’s battery fits?” - Yes Frankenphone is a thing. It is now.

 When the kid stops he pauses, then, realizing they’ll be here for a minute, takes care to stand behind him in the path of oncoming traffic. “You do know they started importing tea to the New World again, right? That whole revolution thing ended a while back.”

 Stark moves ahead of Liam as they start off once more, clearing a path, or at least making sure he doesn’t walk face-first into any lampposts.  One eye on the passing people - it’s near the end of the business day, the sidewalks are getting more crowded - he watches the mysterious phone evisceration with the other.  

 “You’re asking me?”  Regardless of his ignorance, he digs his own phone out of a pocket, hands it off to Liam so he can work his technological magic.  But a moment later it becomes a null point.  “Look, what’s that?”  Stark facetiously points out a sign on the next block.  “You might wanna double-check with your phone, but I think it’s a bar.  Do we need to look up its reviews online before you stoop to actually going in?”

“I want proper stuff” - since when there were tea-dealers cutting their products Liam doesn’t feel like disclosing, yet for his reasoning he has solid first-hand experience to justify his panic buying: “Even the Continent sucks in the tea department.”

Alas, even though he appears to be riding high on a wave of misguided ‘British do it better’-belief, Liam has to admit that he definitely sucks in the tourist-department. Every part of their tour had been a total disaster so far. From the run-down gaff in rain-stricken Blackpool to the underground deathtrap dungeon in the middle of fucking nowhere to the whale-song hotel in Bath. Naturally he’s cheated out of his chance to impress Stark in London as well.

“Tha- that’s not what I- ugh! Forget it”, he grumbles. Besides, how’s he gonna check for a better location when even the battery-frankensteining fails? (which doesn’t mean Stark gets his mobile back). “Right, since yer boozer sense is tingling” - or is it because the thing’s called ‘The Gunners’…? - “Let’s. But we’re not havin’ a piss-up. I want to show ye somming later.”

  The Continent. As if there’s only one of them.  "Whatever you say, Princess Di.“  In lieu of rolling his eyes, Stark looks aside, finishes his disappointingly bland Marlborough with one last long drag, tosses it into the street.  Does he really have room to nitpick Liam’s insistence on True British Tea when he’s spent most of three days being very vocally bereft of his Hellion cigarettes?

  Forcing his paranoid attention away from the ever-expanding flood of people, he focuses on his companion.  Stark recognizes the look.  The same stifled disappointment characteristically covered by surliness that the kid displayed after the older magician declared his mixology skills were unnecessary, among other instances.  He wants to play tour guide and Stark’s ruining his fun.  He hides his understanding - and soothes his rising twitchiness - by again scanning the crowds, but he does relent.  “Yeah, let’s.  Before we get drowned in this tide of humanity.  You can use that phone you just stole from me to plan an itinerary while we pre-game.  And maybe get something decent to eat.”  ‘Piss-up’ or not, if they’re drinking he knows Liam’s pride will push him to at least try to match his intake.  Better if he’s got some solid bar food for ballast.  He flinches away from yet another worker bee intent on the nearest subway entrance, takes the kid’s arm and draws him into the (luckily) sparsely populated pub.

As it is almost empty, the pub’s throwback-antique interior comes into its own; dark wood panelling and dimmed light (probably caused by too much dust sitting on the lamp shades) give the venue a sombre, almost claustrophobic feel. A contrasting pop of colour in jolly reds and whites has been strategically applied to breathe life into the pub where its black-and-white framed photographs and newspaper cutouts fail: a scarf here, a garland there, bunting and banners and a tricot. Yes, unmistakably, this is a football pub. As one would have known earlier if they deciphered the pub’s name correctly, or, well, took a glance at the very fake set of Premier League trophies on the shelf above the bar.

The barman, unlike his overly decorated place of work, is the blandest bloke out of all people present. So boring, if you’d glance the other way, you would have already forgotten how he looks. Apparently, though, the forgetting is mutual. He casts Stark and Liam a lazy glance, then turns his back to recommence chatting with his patron. And whilst Liam can very well cope with being called all sorts of shit names (even that of a dead princess), being ignored is unacceptable. So without hesitation he slams his hand down on the bar top and yells - obviously - a well punctuated “Oi!” to get the barman’s attention. “Ye gonna tap or nah?”

Since the barman generously indicates he’ll be at their service any time soon (though he’s still not moving), the younger mage takes the liberty to blame Stark for his inability to predict the future and thus their unfortunate situation of maybe-getting-served in a football pub with four red-and-white clad tossers transfixing the intruders with their stare: “Real smashing. I might just stay and watch the match later.”

 “Bitch, bitch, bitch…” As hypocritical as the comment is, it’s also strangely tolerant. Yeah, the place kinda sucks. The sudden silence, stares, and claustrophobia are only one step up the paranoid-discomfort scale from being surrounded by unknown people on the street. And Stark’s not opposed to improving the customer service in a more forceful way - for instance, climbing over the bar and helping himself to booze then claiming he thought this was one of those new-fangled self-service stations - but any of those tactics are more likely to lead to getting booted than getting served. He wants at least one drink before he starts a fight.  On the other hand, the trophies, splashes of dual color, and the oddly uniform clothes of the few customers mean nothing to him except it’s a sports bar - which, in America, just means a pretty reliable place to get a drink and some food, if not great conversation. So he takes the little Limey by the shoulder, maneuvers him to a stool, ignores their audience, and takes the one beside. “Watch and maybe you’ll learn something.”

  The edge of a thumbnail suffices to scratch a simple design into the aged wood in front of them, finalized with a squiggly arrow pointing at the World’s Best Bartender. Simultaneously, Stark whistles a melodic trill of five notes just loud enough for Liam to hear. While he maintains his conversation, the barkeep begins backing away. Irresistibly drawn towards his two newest patrons. When he reaches their side of the bar, he finally, reluctantly turns to face them. He looks mildly bemused, like he’s not quite sure how he got there, and suspicious along with it. Stark raises both eyebrows and gives a blindingly insincere smile of expectation. Whatever else the little spell did, it didn’t improve the guy’s temper. To cover the confusion he’s extra surly: “Right. What’ll it be then?”

 “Bourbon. Double, on the rocks.” If Stark’s lucky, the place will have actual imported bourbon instead of trying to give him some triple-distilled Irish crap. “You got any food back there, Sascha?”

 Suspicion and displeasure visibly increased, by the misnomer if not by Stark’s accent, the barkeep glowers and drawls painstakingly: “Could do…”

  “Fries, then - chips, whatever.“ Probably the safest bet, even if he’d like something more substantial. With a single laborious nod, ‘Sascha’ turns a questioning look to Liam, like he’s daring the kid to make it worse by expecting him to continue doing his job.

Despite a grunt in protest the Manc lets Stark take the wheel and - encouraged by the prospect of hoodoo happening - obeys and sits down at last. Not entirely a model pupil though, he sees the necessity to rest his chin on the bar top, too lazy to deal with the weight of his head himself, as he eyes the runes… symbols… somethings get carved into the the wood. No shower of sparks, no billows of smoke herald the success of the odd performance, which leaves Liam - illiterate to the world of magic - to frown and wait for the effects to take obvious shape. And they’re not long in coming either. The moment the barman unwillingly leaves his cosy chatter spot, Liam lifts his gaze, then his head too. Eyes ping-pong between the scratch marks and the barman, with the occasional side glances at Stark. In fact, he’s so busy looking and processing, he belatedly realises he gets to order as well:

“Uh… pale lager and… bangers and mash?” A question mistaken for his patron’s apparent inability to read the menu (rather than his actual state of boundless amazement) Sascha nods at the chalk scribbles on the blackboard panel beside them. Ah. Yeah,it is on the menu. When Liam’s done reading and he turns back, the barman’s gone to do his work the way he should have from the start. Hence the mages are left alone once again.

Immediately Liam takes advantage of their situation, leans over the bar to nick a piece of paper and a pencil from what’s probably the pub’s pub-quiz stockpile. Paper covering scratches he makes a rubbing with the pencil to copy the hoodoo work, before Stark gets his chance to erase all traces. To complete his notes the kid adds five horizontal lines underneath his piece of frottage art and - hesitatingly - adds five circles and a big question mark where the clef should’ve been.

“Ye’re a showoff and ye know it”, he states without looking up. Of course Stark is and the delight in his tone leaves no doubt that he likes it. “Can ye psychic anyone’s name?” Now he’s looking up. Worse, he’s pointing at the other patrons with his pencil. “Theirs?”

 Entertained as ever by the kid’s endearing curiosity and wonder, Stark’s enjoyment is derailed when he orders.  He looks from Liam, to the barkeep, to the indicated menu and - Yeah.  Bangers and mash. It’s written right there.  Along with a bunch of other weird damn phrases that shouldn’t refer to something you want to put in your mouth. He shakes his head to himself, looking away to watch Liam copy the spell.  “I could’ve drawn it for you.“  But not the whistled trill.  It takes him a couple seconds to realize that’s what the circles are meant to represent.

 "Sure, and you’re not?  I think Susan Fielding would call bullshit."  Stark reaches for his newly-arrived drink, swallows a good portion of it - holy shit, it’s realAmerican bourbon - and closes his eyes momentarily to enjoy the harsh burning that courses down his throat and up into his sinuses.  It’s not Aqua Regia, but it will do.

 At first Liam’s demand seems unrelated.  Eyes open to peer questioningly at the foursome indicated (because there are so many other people in here that the kid might’ve been talking about).  "Their names?"  Oh, Jesus.  Like the bartender is actually named Sascha?  His Hollywood education is going to start from zero, isn’t it? Below zero, even.  Stark glances sideways at his companion, disillusioned, but plays along without so much as a sigh.  "Sure.  Rick Blaine, Victor Laszlo, Louis Renault and Heinrich Strasser.  But he goes by Heinie.  Your turn - what the fuck is bangers and mash?”

Tinged with surprise and the ghost of a guilty conscience because of it, Liam’s face undergoes a performance in three acts: ‘Huh?’, ‘Oh.’ , ‘Oooohh.’ - Or for those not affected with amnesic dysphasia: ‘Draw what?’ , ‘Yeah, you could’ve.’ , ‘I forgot it’s not not me on me one own anymore.’

Though whilst his face is highly expressive his need to talk seems far less pronounced. That, or the kid lets himself get distracted far too easily. Latest action item on his agenda being the renewed fumbling with his backpack as he pockets the welcome addition to his improvised spellbook and, in its stead, produces the charging cable to steal electricityresurrect his phone (unconcerned that in order to achieve his goal he’s got to unplug the string lights illuminating the bar)

Instantly regretting his decision to take part in their conversation again, Liam squints at the patrons, then frowns at Stark. No, the dramatis personae of Casablanca don’t ring a bell, but he’s a feeling Rick, Victor, Louis and Heinie might as well be more likely John, William, Shaun and… John. “Why’re ye trying to take the mickey outta me?” - Because that’s so fucking ‘hard’? Liam pouts. Doesn’t help Stark brings up Fielding again.

Hence reluctant the reply he comes up with: “’s somming ye probably wouldn’t dare to have a taste of.” Right, maybe that’s a little unfair, “Sausages with mash… -ed potatoes. Yeah, ha-ha, we’re callin’ sausages bangers” (though the real reason behind its naming isn’t as immature) “Ye do realise ye’ll get yer ‘fries’ with vinegar though, innit?”

 “Gotta do something to entertain myself while you’re over there sulking.“ Actually, it might have more to do with the fact that he’s not paying enough attention to Stark. Even if attention-hounding is typically more Liam’s game. “Besides, you make it so easy, and I’m a weak, weak man.” The words have an unmistakably suggestive undertone, coupled with a knee knocking (gently) against the kid’s leg beneath the bar.

 Maybe he feels a tiny bit contrite, however: He turns to the football club again, squints at them for an extended moment - not thinking about how challenging that might look - then leans back and amends: “Dave, Alex, Barry and…John."  Oh, look, Liam’s ‘psychic’ too! "Last names are harder unless I’m actually taking to someone.”

 Of course ‘bangers’ earns a juvenile snort of amusement, though it’s not really any worse than the American 'weiners.’ As one might expect, the forming grin falters as Liam goes on. “Vinegar? Are you shitting me?” He’s not quite disgusted, mainly just bewildered about why anyone would ruin perfectly good French fries that way, and after a moment the uncharacteristic effervescent mood lets him shrug in dismissal. “I can deal with vinegar. Still gotta be better than strangler fungi.” Such stoicism from the guy who literally runs away from spilled tea. “So what about ‘bubble and squeak’?”

Guiltily Liam looks up from his phone and its promising battery symbol on screen. One percent, two percent… Hey, maybe once it’s past the double digit mark he might dare to turn it on again. Until then, and not least because Stark’s complaining (oh, look, such a rare sight!) he puts it aside in favour of giving his best attention to the suddenly so needy. A snort in amusement for the teasing and a coy smile for the knee knocking prove his attention has been successfully captured, yet diverted once again when the subtle token of affection has Liam nervously glance over his shoulder to check whether Dave, Alex, Barry and John (he knew it!) noticed.

“Innit?”, Liam mumbles, relieved to find none of the footie fans is going to say anything. Yet. “Quite redundant too, if you could just rummage through someone’s belongings and catch a glimpse of their ID.” He smiles triumphantly over the brim of his pint glass before he takes a sip to go with his victory. Some people may be kidnappers, but other people are just a “Nosy parker.”

Or spreading bullshit as they go. Because on Stark’s unanticipated stoicism Liam calls bullshit like nothing else. “What’s strangler fungi?” - oh no, that’s on the bullshit-menu, too, isn’t it? Or not. Hence before he makes an even bigger fool out of himself, he moves on to the bubble and squeal problem: “Oh, that. Nah, that’s nuthin’ to eat. We just put it on the menu to see if any unsuspecting tourists fall for it and order some. Then we have good ol’ laugh.” Bullshitting’s contagious. Who would have thought?”

To Be Continued...