duck-duck-chicken

[duck-duck-chicken]

i think waiting together is a love language. wait for the train with me, just so that we can talk a little longer. wait for dinner with me, and we’ll slow dance in the kitchen. wait for me when i can’t speak after crying my eyes out, just hold me and we will figure it out. wait for me when things get rough, i know i can get through this (with you). wait in the car with me, i need to finish listening to this song. wait for the first snow with me, cold noses and bright eyes.

let’s keep waiting for each other, i kinda really like you.

[duck-duck-chicken]

Dangit!

Finch loiters by the front door of the library, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Peers in through the glass, brow wrinkled, blue eyes fraught with what -- for Finch -- passes for deep thought.

When Patty asked him to return her book to the library (some big ol' thing, no pictures and a couple of inches thick, because Patty was -- like-- a genius), he'd agreed. Figured he could just slide in real quick and drop it in the return slot, then go on his way, unnoticed.

No chance of that now. Miss Molly the librarian's right out there at a table in the middle of the room. Big as day and pretty as a picture in her sundress. And fooling with what looks like a balloon and some kind of gloppy stuff. Finch waffles for a minute, uncertain.

It ain't that Finch dislikes Miss Molly. Far from it. It's just that every time he's around her his tongue gets a little tangled, and his hands -- big as oven mitts, but surprisingly deft -- get clumsy. He looks wistfully through the glass, then down at the book in his hands, wishing he'd told Patty to return her own goldang book.

But he didn't. And so there ain't anything to do now but pull up his big-boy pants and go on in. (And really, despite the flutters in his belly, he'd kinda like to see the other side of Miss Molly -- catch a look at her smiling face, since all he can mostly see from here is her back and a bunch of pretty dark hair. She's always nice as pie -- one of the things he likes about her, even though she makes him a little nervous.) Once he's inside, though, he purely forgets to be nervous. Even when she puffs a breath out to blow a strand of hair out of her eyes, and asks for his opinion. Because now, up close, he can see what the goopy stuff is, even before she speaks up, and it lights his eyes up. "Is that paper mache?" he asks her, delighted. "Can I do some?" They don't look like jellyfish, not really -- they look like balloons covered in gooey newspaper. But maybe she ain't all the way done yet. And Finch does love him some paper mache; it reminds him of all the fun him and Q had when they was small, squishing the stuff into knight's shields and crazy helmets with horns and wings, for their pretend swordfights. At the last minute, when Miss Molly looks up at him, he remembers his manners and snatches his feed cap off, with a little guilty flush. "I don't rightly know about scales and all," he tells her, a little dubious, twisting his cap in his hands. "But I'm pretty good with that stuff, if you want a little help."

location: Bleeding Hearts Springs Library status: open!

Crafting was something that Molly had always enjoyed but hadn't consistently found the inspiration to jump into as often as she used to. No one in the Springs was any the wiser but at one point at one of her old libraries in Nashville she was a bit of a crafting queen. There was a time, about a decade ago, when it was unusual to not see Molly putting together some kind of fun, hands-on activity while working the front desk. Though what she had created was meant to be for kids, adults of all ages ended up taking a piece of her creation home.

Some years ago she had lost that spark and had feared it might not ever return. Yet here she was, almost two years post divorce and crafting at the front desk of the Bleeding Hearts Springs Library. And not just any simple kind of crafting - Molly was full on testing a Paper Mache creation complete with sticky, gluey hands not too far from the computer at the circulation desk.

Molly Hiatt felt right at home for the first time in way too long and didn't have much of a care as to who might walk in and see her as relaxed as she was. Upon her arrival to the Springs she kept her hair tight in a bun and blouses buttoned right to the top.

This summer had brought about a bit of a new Molly, one that wore her hair in a haphazardly loose bun with strands framing her cheekbones and tops and dresses fashioned in a way that hung freely from her body. It was a stark contrast from the tightly wound librarian who snuck into town about two years ago. And yes, she's pretty sure there's a few tiny globs of glue in her hair.

She's humming to herself as she dips pieces of newspaper into the glue before placing it carefully across the balloon before her. Just to her right is a bowl of colorful streamers. It isn't until she's biting her tongue in concentration that she spots someone out of the corner of her eye and remembers that she's still working the front desk. "So, tell me..." she says, gently dropping another piece of drenched newspaper over the balloon before meeting her gaze with theirs, "On a scale of 1 to too ambitious, where does my Storytime craft idea for Paper Mache jellyfish fall? Because I really want to place a few around the library this summer and it would take all month if I tried to make a dozen on my own." Perhaps an, 'I'll be with you in just a moment.' or 'Thank you for being patient!' would've been a more appropriate greeting, but in this small town Molly wasn't interested in being anything other than genuine and right now she was genuinely curious.

[duck-duck-chicken]

Greg beams. He takes the proffered bluebell between two big fingers -- carefully, so as not to crush it. His flower crown's gotten bare in a few spots; he uses the bluebell to fill in a gap, tucking it in carefully, eyes rolled upwards in concentration. Then --

"Thank ya kindly, Missy Crane," he drawls. "It ain't a note wrapped around a marigold, but I'll take it," he adds, eyes bright, happy. As he usually is -- a gentle soul, prone to find the good side in nearly everything. (Aside, of course, from full-sized ducks, and terrifying cryptids.) He takes a half-step back and offers her a sweeping bow, Disney-movie-prince style -- surprisingly graceful for such a hardy tree-trunk of a man.

Both unlucky and lucky for little Henry -- in that order. The duckling squeaks, nearly tumbling from Finch's shirt pocket as he bows; he catches the fuzzy little fellow neatly in one big palm. Whoops. "Sorry, Henry," he says, tucking the little guy back in carefully. "My bad."

To Missy -- standing by with head tilted, springtime-lovely and vanilla-and-smoke-sweet, he offers an arm. "Heck yeah. I'd love to. "m pretty good with a baseball," he says, modestly. "And ring toss too." They chit-chat, talking about family and pets as they head for the makeshirt midway and the game booths. Finch inquires politely after Mr. Silas and Vincent the Rabbit; fills Missy in on the latest goings-on at the Finch place and on Opal's latest clutch of eggs, due to hatch any time now.

"We ain't sure who the daddy is, if there is a daddy. Guess we'll find out soon enough," he tells her, looking down with an equable shrug. And -- as they arrive at the midway, "Hey -- uh -- maybe you oughta hang onto this little fella," he tells her, scooping the duckling out carefully and holding him out to Missy. "If I'm gonna be throwing baseballs and all that. Besides, seems like he likes you," he observes, as the duckling whistles and flaps, exercising his fuzzy little wings.

2 notes

Post

When a voice sounds behind Finch, he doesn't even have to turn around to know who it is. "Hey Little Bit!" he drawls through the last bite of the apple fritter he's just inhaled. (Alright, two apple fritters really, but who's counting? They're good, dangit.) And turns around, grinning straight down. Finch would know Missy Crane's voice anyplace; the Cranes have lived in the Springs since -- well, just about as long as the Finches have; Finch has has known Missy since he was a boy. And he'd know her scent, too -- mostly yummy vanilla, with a whiff of cigarettes mixed in. "Whatchoo got there?" he asks, lowering his shades and leaning down a little to peer into her cupped hands. And then -- "Oh, c'mere, you little shit. Uh -- not you," he adds quickly, blue eyes round and apologetic and aimed at Misty. "Him." The him in question is Henry, fuzzy and yellow and about the size of a real actual peach. And an escape artist -- always turning up outside the fence, where he's not supposed to be. (Which is how he earned his name -- Henry, after Henry Houdini, a famous magic escaper guy Finch saw one time on the History Channel.) "You're gonna get yourself squished one day, doin' like this," Finch lectures the duckling, and holds his hand out. "It's kinda hard to be mad at him, though," he admits to Misty, as she deposits the duckling in his big work-worn palm. He tucks Henry away in his shirt pocket, fuzzy yellow head poking out, black eyes bright as buttons. "He's still cute," Finch confides, a little grumpy. "They stay cute for a little while at least; until they get big and turn into actual ducks." And become pains in Finch's sizeable backside; he hasn't met a duck yet that wasn't at least a little bit dickish. "Thanks for saving his ornery little butt," he tells Misty. "You sure look pretty today," he notices belatedly. And she does - hair all braided up nice, little flowers stuck in it here and there. "Where you headin' next?" Finch has no particular place to be -- he's already spent an hour helpin' Miss Apple out in exchange for some goodies, and Q's busy taking Miss Cherry for a twirl over by the bandstand. And Meemaw -- well, Meemaw's over gossiping with Miss Loretta. Once they get going they can jaw for hours; usually do.

[duck-duck-chicken]

The Lion King (1994) — dir. Roger Allers and Rob Minkoff

[duck-duck-chicken]

Posey's not offended by Finch's innocent curiosity. Well -- that's a relief, for sure. He brightens a little, then reaches out to catch her pointy princess hat as it lists, threatening to tip over and fall clean off her head.

It's nearly a foot tall -- good Lord, the stuff Princesses had to wear, it's a caution, Finch can't fathom how on earth they managed to do anything in those fancy getups! In Finch's big paw it might as well be a child's paper party hat. He puts it back where it belongs, balancing it carefully on Josie's dark head. "Naw," he assures her, watching the pink rise in her round freckly cheeks as she looks up, up, up at him. "It's okay to have a lil secret sometimes, long as it ain't anything bad."

Her question -- delivered all coy, head tilted -- catches Finch by surprise. Maybe it shouldn't, but it does. "Aw -- shoot," he mumbles, chin down. He doesn't quite blush -- too sunbrowned from outdoors work and too stubbly for any real pink to show through -- but his eyes go a little round and he ducks his head. He snatches at his feed cap, meaning to twist it between his hands -- a habit. But it's not there, and he comes up empty-handed except for a couple of stray flowers caught between his fingers. "Oops," he says, with a sheepish glance back at Posey.

"I dunno," he says finally, looking away, one big workboot scuffing the dirt. He tucks his hands into his armpits -- a little sweaty -- then moves them to his pockets. "There was somebody in high school, but that was awhile back; you was probably too little to remember. You know how it goes -- stuff happens, people grow up, move away."

He shrugs, one big meaty shoulder rising and dropping again. "Been on a handful'a dates since then, but you know how it is here. Small town; been knowing everybody here since they was in diapers. Or else since I was. Or both. Makes things complicated."

Finch isn't good at complicated. He's as simple and plain and open as a sunflower growing by the side of the road; complicated makes his head hurt. It's easier to just be single, spend his time working and hanging out with friends and family.

Truth is he's kinda had his eye on someone for awhile. Been a little sweet on somebody. But he doesn't tell Josie. Hasn't told anybody, really -- not even Q, which is a rarity, since he tells Q everything. Figures it would only make things messy. Better that he just keeps his mouth shut, except for maybe an unsigned marigold note. Just live life, take familiar faces he's known forever out for a few friendly, platonic, drama-free two-steps on the dance floor at the Stag on Thursdays and Saturdays. Leave it at that.

Which, come to think of it -- he glances up, listening. One song, playing over the outdoor speakers, ends, and another one starts. "Whyncha come take a quick twirl with Big Peach?" he asks Josie, grinning, one big hand held out. "Ain't danced with you since you was little enough to stand on my feet," he adds -- although she still is, really.

Meemaw always says lordy, boy, can't take you anywhere. It's usually accompanied by a fond headshake and a smack on the arm.

Finch is prepared to admit, without any ill feeling, that she's right. Josie agrees; by the time he's finished spinning her, wearing a big grin as she squeaks and bats at him, his flower crown's sitting cockeyed in his messy curls, slipped down over his forehead. And it's knocked his shades off in the process; they hang from the bright-teal neoprene lasso around Finch's thick neck.

"That's what Meemaw says too," he agrees, grinning affably at the old nickname -- conferred when Josie Posey was just learning to talk. He stoops, as requested, hands on knees as she puts his crown to rights. Mostly, anyway; it's coming apart a little on one side, a few blooms sticking up. "Royal guard bendin' down, your highness," he tells her. Her sweet face goes from effortful concentration, tongue poked out, to pink and embarrassed as he straightens up. Both hands disappear behind her back; she flaps one airily, explaining away the paper half-tucked around the marigold. Mighty lord; good crops; strong calves. And a little princess curtsey thrown in.

Finch is a little dim, but not that dim. And a iittle sorry he embarrassed Josie Posey; he hadn't meant to. "Aw shucks," he mumbles, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I didn't meant to be nosy; you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. There's nothing wrong with being sweet on somebody though."

He blinks, forehead furrowed. "Not that I'm sayin' you are, or anything," he adds quickly, when her pink cheeks start to go rhubarb-red again. "I got my own to do," he admits, poking at the grass with the battered toe of a work boot. The marigolds and papers peek out just above the edge of his shirt pocket -- papers still pristine, unmarked. "I just gotta find Patty first, so she can help; otherwise the spellin' an the handwritin' are gonna give it away too easy."

[duck-duck-chicken]

When a voice sounds behind Finch, he doesn't even have to turn around to know who it is. "Hey Little Bit!" he drawls through the last bite of the apple fritter he's just inhaled. (Alright, two apple fritters really, but who's counting? They're good, dangit.) And turns around, grinning straight down. Finch would know Missy Crane's voice anyplace; the Cranes have lived in the Springs since -- well, just about as long as the Finches have; Finch has has known Missy since he was a boy. And he'd know her scent, too -- mostly yummy vanilla, with a whiff of cigarettes mixed in. "Whatchoo got there?" he asks, lowering his shades and leaning down a little to peer into her cupped hands. And then -- "Oh, c'mere, you little shit. Uh -- not you," he adds quickly, blue eyes round and apologetic and aimed at Misty. "Him." The him in question is Henry, fuzzy and yellow and about the size of a real actual peach. And an escape artist -- always turning up outside the fence, where he's not supposed to be. (Which is how he earned his name -- Henry, after Henry Houdini, a famous magic escaper guy Finch saw one time on the History Channel.) "You're gonna get yourself squished one day, doin' like this," Finch lectures the duckling, and holds his hand out. "It's kinda hard to be mad at him, though," he admits to Misty, as she deposits the duckling in his big work-worn palm. He tucks Henry away in his shirt pocket, fuzzy yellow head poking out, black eyes bright as buttons. "He's still cute," Finch confides, a little grumpy. "They stay cute for a little while at least; until they get big and turn into actual ducks." And become pains in Finch's sizeable backside; he hasn't met a duck yet that wasn't at least a little bit dickish. "Thanks for saving his ornery little butt," he tells Misty. "You sure look pretty today," he notices belatedly. And she does - hair all braided up nice, little flowers stuck in it here and there. "Where you headin' next?" Finch has no particular place to be -- he's already spent an hour helpin' Miss Apple out in exchange for some goodies, and Q's busy taking Miss Cherry for a twirl over by the bandstand. And Meemaw -- well, Meemaw's over gossiping with Miss Loretta. Once they get going they can jaw for hours; usually do.

location: Town Square (Rain of Petals Parade) status: closed, for Greg (@duck-duck-chicken)

Now, how did this damn duck get here?

Okay, duckling, but the sentiment remains the same, his-- hers? Missy doesn't know their life story, but there's a masculine energy emanating from him, so she'll go from there -- little body waddling through the cobblestone walkways. He pauses at her boot, pecking its beak against the dark leather. A furrow of her brow, and she bends down, head tilting to the side to take him in. It's a feat of bravery, she'll give him that. The amount of people he had to narrowly dodge is impressive -- how has he not gotten squashed or, more likely, taken by Miss Josephine Sutton and hidden underneath the Healing Hive Stall? A question for another day, and maybe a future present for the girl.

The walk from Swan Lake is certainly too long for this little duckling to make, so it's a fair assumption, in Missy's eyes, where exactly he came from. With a hum, she scoops the little guy up, his fuzzy body soft against the skin of her palms, and she's off. A side quest, but not necessarily an unwanted one.

And, she's off, her skirt swishing around her ankles as she's on the hunt for Big Peach himself, little apologies spilling from her lips when she almost shoulder checks people. Sorry, she has precious cargo in her hands, the yellow fella whistling in her hands. At least Greg's not a hard man to miss, about a head and shoulders taller than your average bear, and Missy makes her way over to him, seemingly no Quentin attached to his hip.

"Finch - is this fella yours?" She asks, her neck craning up, up, up to look at Greg, her palms unfurling to reveal the yellow, fuzzied head. "Saw him on a death run in the center of Town Square. Figured he waddled off your farm, or somethin'."

[duck-duck-chicken]

Meemaw always says lordy, boy, can't take you anywhere. It's usually accompanied by a fond headshake and a smack on the arm.

Finch is prepared to admit, without any ill feeling, that she's right. Josie agrees; by the time he's finished spinning her, wearing a big grin as she squeaks and bats at him, his flower crown's sitting cockeyed in his messy curls, slipped down over his forehead. And it's knocked his shades off in the process; they hang from the bright-teal neoprene lasso around Finch's thick neck.

"That's what Meemaw says too," he agrees, grinning affably at the old nickname -- conferred when Josie Posey was just learning to talk. He stoops, as requested, hands on knees as she puts his crown to rights. Mostly, anyway; it's coming apart a little on one side, a few blooms sticking up. "Royal guard bendin' down, your highness," he tells her. Her sweet face goes from effortful concentration, tongue poked out, to pink and embarrassed as he straightens up. Both hands disappear behind her back; she flaps one airily, explaining away the paper half-tucked around the marigold. Mighty lord; good crops; strong calves. And a little princess curtsey thrown in.

Finch is a little dim, but not that dim. And a iittle sorry he embarrassed Josie Posey; he hadn't meant to. "Aw shucks," he mumbles, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I didn't meant to be nosy; you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. There's nothing wrong with being sweet on somebody though."

He blinks, forehead furrowed. "Not that I'm sayin' you are, or anything," he adds quickly, when her pink cheeks start to go rhubarb-red again. "I got my own to do," he admits, poking at the grass with the battered toe of a work boot. The marigolds and papers peek out just above the edge of his shirt pocket -- papers still pristine, unmarked. "I just gotta find Patty first, so she can help; otherwise the spellin' an the handwritin' are gonna give it away too easy."

location: rain of petals parade status: closed (@vespcrtines) Stealth isn't Finch's strong suit. It's hard to sneak up on anybody when you're not only the size of an ox, but also prone to snickering and giving yourself away. So the music and the busy crowd at the Parade festivities provide a rare and happy bit of camouflage. Finch -- decked out in flower crown and Hawaiian shirt -- is just leaving Q, who's busy taking Miss Cherry for a twirl. He's hunting for Patty, and licking the crumbs of an apple fritter off his fingers, when he spots her. Josie Sutton --decked out in pale yellow fairytale princess gear, pointy hat and all, standing near the bulletin board. She's all grown up now, of course. But to Finch, who's known her since she was a baby -- she'll always be little Josie Posey, the bright-eyed little muffin chasing barn cats around the yard with Patty. She's gazing into space, thoughtful, a marigold in hand. It's too good an opportunity to waste. Finch hunkers down -- to whatever degree a near-six-and-a-half-footer can reasonably hunker down -- and creeps up from an angle, scooping her up off the ground and spinning her around with a whoop, skirts flying. And nearly causing her to lose the marigold and the pen. "Who's the lucky guy?" he asks, grinning, then stops. "Or girl. Uh - the lucky person," he corrects himself primly, setting her down again. You know what happens when you assume, he reminds himself, hearing the words in Meemaw's voice. Actually he doesn't recall what exactly it is that happens -- just that you're not supposed to do it.

@vespcrtines

[duck-duck-chicken]

location: rain of petals parade status: closed (@vespcrtines) Stealth isn't Finch's strong suit. It's hard to sneak up on anybody when you're not only the size of an ox, but also prone to snickering and giving yourself away. So the music and the busy crowd at the Parade festivities provide a rare and happy bit of camouflage. Finch -- decked out in flower crown and Hawaiian shirt -- is just leaving Q, who's busy taking Miss Cherry for a twirl. He's hunting for Patty, and licking the crumbs of an apple fritter off his fingers, when he spots her. Josie Sutton --decked out in pale yellow fairytale princess gear, pointy hat and all, standing near the bulletin board. She's all grown up now, of course. But to Finch, who's known her since she was a baby -- she'll always be little Josie Posey, the bright-eyed little muffin chasing barn cats around the yard with Patty. She's gazing into space, thoughtful, a marigold in hand. It's too good an opportunity to waste. Finch hunkers down -- to whatever degree a near-six-and-a-half-footer can reasonably hunker down -- and creeps up from an angle, scooping her up off the ground and spinning her around with a whoop, skirts flying. And nearly causing her to lose the marigold and the pen. "Who's the lucky guy?" he asks, grinning, then stops. "Or girl. Uh - the lucky person," he corrects himself primly, setting her down again. You know what happens when you assume, he reminds himself, hearing the words in Meemaw's voice. Actually he doesn't recall what exactly it is that happens -- just that you're not supposed to do it.

@vespcrtines

[duck-duck-chicken]

learning to enjoy the rain

[duck-duck-chicken]

Finch has given the back of his own skull an almighty whack against a very large oak tree. Luckily, the head's not a vital spot for him.

For once, the thick skull everybody says he has is paying off! Yiss! Bonus. Another bonus: his vision's starting to clear. Which is also a minus because the CRYPTID is still RIGHT THERE wriggling in the mud, as pale and squiggly as a huge, terrifying....uh...pale squiggly thing. (Finch's vocabulary's a little iffy at the best of times; sheer terror and a minor concussion are not improving the situation any.)

Finch can barely stand to look at the thing. Q is braver. Or more foolhardly -- six of one, half dozen of the other, as Meemaw would say. Deciding he's climbed sufficiently high on Finch to save himself, he swings the headlamp around and dares to look directly at the cryptid, spotlighted in the bright beam.

"Throw the snacks! Throw the snacks!" Finch wails, but Q doesn't comply. He's quiet for a second, perched halfway up Finch like a parrot on a pirate. And then he speaks.

Finch, still in full cringe, freezes - the rusty gears in his head clicking into ticky-tacky motion. Does this mean --- He gasps and straightens up so fast he nearly dumps Q on the ground -- indignant! Betrayed! "You KNOW a cryptid? Personally?" he demands, wounded to the core. "And you never told me? Dude, that is SO wrong! Are we even friends right now?"

It takes a patient explanation -- repeated once or twice, with accompanying hand gestures -- to get the confusion straightened out. And for Teagan to prove she's human. "So -- you're not ACTUALLY a cryptid then...right?" Finch asks, still wary, eyes narrowed. "You got some ID or somethin'?" He's skeptical. Of course he is, because what kind of self-respecting cryptid, out in the woods trolling for a midnight people snack, is going to ADMIT it's a cryptid?

There's no ID; Finch is forced to settle for a pinky swear. He listens as Teagan explains how she came to be in the mud in the woods at midnight. And then laughs, a big belly laugh. "C'mon man, that's silly. Everybody knows sleepwalking's fake; that's just on TV."

@petaledarmor @wldngmn

The flare of neon green -- bright enough that for a second Finch can see the inside of his own skull -- gives way to nothing. He freezes and emits a wheezy high-pitched squeak, not unlike a dog toy being trod on. Scrabbling madly for the strap of the goggles, Finch tears them off, taking a handful of curls with them. It doesn't help: bright-green nothing is now jet-black nothing. Fuck! Oh shit! Finch is blind! He is fucked, he is SOOOOO fucked, he's gonna have to get those weird glasses and a dog, which -- I mean kinda cool, a dog, right, but still -- BLIND, dude! And -- worse -- the cryptid's still RIGHT HERE somewhere, in what's now a field of black decorated with gaily colored dancing spots. Before Finch can unstick himself from his spot, the cryptid SHRIEKS, the most horrifying, unearthly, turn-your-knees-to-water screech. No -- wait. Shit! That's Q, Finch would know that sound anywhere, it's Q's oh-shit-a-spider screech. Except this time it's a fucking CRYPTID, and it's got him in its clutches and he's toast; Expedition GQ is about to become just Expedition G! Still seeing spots and already frantically backpedaling, Finch reverses course. "Noooo! RUNNNNN, bro! Save yourself!" he shouts. It's unclear whether it's heroism or sheer panic that propels him forward at speed, but whichever it is, it propels him straight into Q. A grappling match ensues, two oversized terrified men -- each wearing a single glove and hyperventilating -- trying to hide behind each other at the same time. The whole mass of panicked bro-dom freezes when Q shouts again, a terrified wail. "I don't know! I don't know! What's WHAT?" Finch wails back. The dancing spots swirl away just enough to give him a blurry glimpse of something white and slimy-looking on the ground nearby. Oh GOD and little baby Jesus and all the little angels! Finch's life, such as it is, flashes before his eyes. And with an adrenaline-fueled burst of strength, he levitates himself and Q an inch or two off the ground and leaps backwards, straight into a very large and very solid tree trunk.

@petaledarmor @wldngmn

[duck-duck-chicken]

Always know the clowns. 😉

💜🖤

[duck-duck-chicken]

No one tells you how hard it is to rewire your brain to allow amazing things to happen after experiencing trauma or pain. Blessings exist, good people exist, and a softer life exists, Let it happen.

[duck-duck-chicken]

[duck-duck-chicken]

Just before everything fades into a lovely soft gray, Miles catches a sideways glimpse of skinny ankles and erratically laced black Converse hightops, sticking out several inches past the end of a neighboring hydromassage bed. He huffs a small laugh, which becomes a yawn. And then he's gone, down the rabbithole of sleep.

Good sleep, deep and restful, but not dreamless. Bits of today and other days, shattered into bits and then reassembled into a semi-nonsensical mosaic, scroll past behind Miles' eyes.

The dream's a benign one this time. Lucky; waking up from one of the seriously non-benign ones in a public place is embarrassing. It's why Miles rarely spends the night with casual lovers, and why he has only availed himself of the hydromassage beds here once before. When the dreams are particularly bad, it's mortifying; the looks on the faces of anyone present when he wakes -- lurching upright, heart hammering and sweat-damp -- are hard to take, even if they're entirely well-meaning.

Last time here at the gym it was a gamble; he was tired and sore enough to chance it anyway, and got lucky. Today he chances it again, and his luck holds. No torn limbs, no copper-and-cordite stench, no guttural shrieks. Just kittens and the International Space Station and sugary breakfast cereal, all linked in some way that -- in typical dream fashion -- seems utterly logical and unremarkable.

Perky, upbeat music plays over the PA system of the ISS as Miles, munching on a fistful of dry cereal, floats backwards through an airlock. An orange kitten, prickly with static, drifts past, content and purry, making air biscuits. Everything begins to pixillate, dissolving a little at a time, reverting to soft gray again, except --

Except the music. Which is suddenly horribly, horribly familiar. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo. Fuck. Miles cracks one blue-grey eye open, still foggy.

And there's Mars, hanging over him upside down, messy blond locks dangling. He grins like a demented spider monkey, eyes bright, phone in hand. "You," Miles rasps, voice thick with sleep, rubbing his eyes, "are a sadistic son of a bitch." Reaching blindly overhead, he gives a halfhearted shove to whatever bit of Mars is handy, then rolls off the bed and onto his feet, now pleasantly loose-limbed. And also filled with an inexplicable craving for Apple Jacks.

The spark of delighted surprise that flares in Mars' eyes when Miles recognizes the song-lyric quote and volleys it back is so bright -- so astonished -- that it's a little insulting. Miles glances up at him sideways, brow wrinkled; he huffs a snort that is equal parts affront and amusement. "What?" he rasps mildly, a brow arched. "I don't live under a rock, you know." Mars' stream-of-consciousness prattle is always liberally sprinkled with these sorts of things -- song lyrics, obscure movie quotes, puns and so on. Miles can't quite make up his mind about the nature of this. Sometimes it seems purely accidental, just a random side effect of the way the lanky blond goth's peculiar brain works. Other times it seems deliberate: a game, a challenge meant to keep the people around him on their toes, see if they can keep up. If it IS a game, it's a provocative one: friendly but taunting, occasionally spilling over into irksome. Still, Miles cannot help himself -- despite his grumbling, he always feels a tiny irrational burst of pride when he catches one of Mars' silly references and bats it back. It's a bit like playing Jeopardy, except there's no Alex Trebek, only a clownish, gangly blond lunatic covered in tattoos. I'll take What the Fuck is Marsden On About Now for $300, please. A clipboard is mounted on the wall near the doorway into the area where the tanning booths and hydromassage beds are. Mars scrawls his name on it, then passes it over; Miles follows suit, filling in the line underneath in small, neat, backslanted cursive. Inside the doorway, the mood changes; the noisy clanging and shrieking neon colors of the main gym give way to soothing dark colors, ambient music and easy-on-the-eyes dim lighting. Miles drops his bag and settles into the sinuous leather curves of one of the chairs, shifting until he finds a comfortable position. "Thanks, much appreciated," he tells Mars, who unfolds his long body into another. Massage of any kind nearly always puts Miles to sleep, and fairly quickly -- it's predictable as clockwork. Today's no exception; he drops into a snooze, limp as a wet noodle and off in dreamland, barely a minute after the jets start moving, dozing off to the sound of Mars' voice layered over soft, meandering synthesizers.

[duck-duck-chicken]

The flare of neon green -- bright enough that for a second Finch can see the inside of his own skull -- gives way to nothing. He freezes and emits a wheezy high-pitched squeak, not unlike a dog toy being trod on. Scrabbling madly for the strap of the goggles, Finch tears them off, taking a handful of curls with them. It doesn't help: bright-green nothing is now jet-black nothing. Fuck! Oh shit! Finch is blind! He is fucked, he is SOOOOO fucked, he's gonna have to get those weird glasses and a dog, which -- I mean kinda cool, a dog, right, but still -- BLIND, dude! And -- worse -- the cryptid's still RIGHT HERE somewhere, in what's now a field of black decorated with gaily colored dancing spots. Before Finch can unstick himself from his spot, the cryptid SHRIEKS, the most horrifying, unearthly, turn-your-knees-to-water screech. No -- wait. Shit! That's Q, Finch would know that sound anywhere, it's Q's oh-shit-a-spider screech. Except this time it's a fucking CRYPTID, and it's got him in its clutches and he's toast; Expedition GQ is about to become just Expedition G! Still seeing spots and already frantically backpedaling, Finch reverses course. "Noooo! RUNNNNN, bro! Save yourself!" he shouts. It's unclear whether it's heroism or sheer panic that propels him forward at speed, but whichever it is, it propels him straight into Q. A grappling match ensues, two oversized terrified men -- each wearing a single glove and hyperventilating -- trying to hide behind each other at the same time. The whole mass of panicked bro-dom freezes when Q shouts again, a terrified wail. "I don't know! I don't know! What's WHAT?" Finch wails back. The dancing spots swirl away just enough to give him a blurry glimpse of something white and slimy-looking on the ground nearby. Oh GOD and little baby Jesus and all the little angels! Finch's life, such as it is, flashes before his eyes. And with an adrenaline-fueled burst of strength, he levitates himself and Q an inch or two off the ground and leaps backwards, straight into a very large and very solid tree trunk.

@petaledarmor @wldngmn

Shit. Shit! Teagan goes from assessing her surroundings and then to assessing herself. She's still in her nightwear: a plain light blue tank top and black shorts, and her hair is an absolute mess.

Given the array of branches tangled in there, Teagan figures she must've gone through the field. Especially because her feet are muddy and her knees are a little scraped. Heavens, she probably looks like a freak in the dark, she thinks.

"Okay," She says to herself, spinning around to see where to. There are no lights or signs, nothing Teagan can really use to find her way. She wonders if she should just pick a direction and go, but just as she goes to take a step, she hears a couple of voices coming from behind her. People are a good sign, right? It's all Teagan has, regardless of the risk.

Using what little light the moon is shining, Teagan takes a few hesitant steps. Her body is shaking like a leaf. Not from a chill, no. The weather is actually quite perfect for a dip. Teagan wishes she was walking toward the lake with some friends instead, like the good ol' days, but her night has other plans, obviously. Like walking toward possible danger, towards strangers. Ugh, who is she kidding? She needs to relax. It's the Springs! She'll be fine.

Teagan continues to quietly tiptoe, reaching some thick brush she wasn't expecting, but she doesn't have too much trouble finding a break. There's a sudden light, and Teagan almost sighs in relief until she steps in something wet. There's a disturbing squelch and then Teagan squeals, running full force now into the source of the voices she just heard.

Next thing she sees is, well, nothing. Because she rams into a body and gets knocked back for a minute. Or two. She has no idea. All she knows is she has a roaring headache when she comes to.

[duck-duck-chicken]

miles: thank you for the sweeties miles: lovely surprise miles: fair warning tho miles: i may be cursing your name a week from now miles: when I've eaten half my body weight in maltesers and flake and cannot button my trousers miles: :-)

@wldngmn