#Jimmy Glass Jazz Bar

[simping-for-kamski]

12 Steps of Xmas - ch 3

3. Denial

Hank was tempted to go to Jimmy’s bar, get a few glasses of Whiskey for dinner before crashing home, likely waking up at 2 AM and snacking on a noodle box from the Thai. Instead, he tried to make an effort. For Cole.

Of the various restaurants he walked past, the Kebab n’ Jazz caught his attention. The door counted three different signs forbidding entry to androids, and a whole collection of anti-android stickers. Hank pushed it, scanned the place and decided it looked decent. There was a bit of a cabaret feeling to the room, with mediterranean accents, a small stage with a vacant piano, and soft jazz pouring from the speakers.

Hank reached the counter to place his order for kebab and fries. As he waited, the front door’s bell chimed and another customer came in.

“Same as usual,” he said. The voice sounded familiar by now, and Hank turned around.

They were both surprised to see one another again.

“You’ following me or something?” Leo asked.

“No, but this is getting to be weird,” Hank huffed.

“Yeah. It’s either that or it’s fate,” Leo snorted. He bit his lips, grimacing. “Did you order falafel?”

“Kebab,” Hank said, nodding toward the meat roll.

“Take falafel next time,” Leo advised. “Everything’s good but if you come here, you wanna come for the falafel.”

“Honestly, I came for the plastic-free environment,” Hank admitted.

“Yeah, it’s a great complement to organic food,” Leo grinned.

They got their servings and somehow, ended up sitting together.

“So, you’re really an anti?” Leo asked.

“I don’t know.” Hank shrugged. Was he? “Maybe I’m just your typical middle-aged white man. Maybe I’m just what I swore never to become when I was about your age.” He forked up meat, fries and sauce. “You then?” he asked Leo through half a mouthful.

“Might have taken part in some radical actions a few years back,” Leo answered, plucking a falafel with his bare fingers. “Vandalizing androids doesn’t change a thing though. I hate that they’re here. We deserved better. They’re not machines emulating humans, they’re the literal embodiment of capitalism. It’s the fucking end of mankind, and we brought it to life,” he said and bit on his falafel. He said those things so casually, but there was something heartfelt and honest about the words.

“I’m sorry,” Hank murmured.

“For what? It’s not like you invented androids,” Leo argued. “Kamski did.” He sneered, as did Hank—he immediately remembered the guy from interviews way back when he was still CEO of CyberLife. Weird chap. “I’ve never met him but I know he and my dad were kinda close. Had to send him an invite for the funeral. Bastard said he couldn’t come—declined with a fucking sms.”

Hank’s jaw went just a bit slack and he quickly swallowed his mouthful. “I didn’t realize you were high society…”

“I’m not,” Leo denied. “My dad all but disinherited me. If the police hadn’t shot his android and destroyed it, that piece of plastic would have inherited nearly all of his wealth and estate while I’d get the scraps.”

“That’s messed up…” Hank blemished. “We don’t know each other that well, but no matter your issues, you didn’t deserve to be treated that way by your own dad.”

Leo gave him a lopsided smile. He might look like shit, that smile was beautiful and brought light and life to his face. Hank cleared his throat.

“So, you come here often?” he asked, realized what that sounded like, and they both laughed. Leo really had an expressive smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “I come here often.” He glanced towards the stage. “I play gigs when I need money.”

Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “You play?”

“The piano, yeah.” There was something in Leo’s eyes, some kind of glee with a hint of desperate need to… please? Get approval? Validation? Hank got a faint reminiscence of the way Cole looked at him sometimes, when he’d had a rough day at school but put up that proud mask, acting the happy tough boy part, and all it took to make it real was Hank telling him “Hey, buddy? You know dad’s damn proud of you?”

Hank looked at the piano at the back of the stage, then back at Leo, his gaze a blatant invitation. “Your phone number?” he asked as he tapped the Swish icon on his phone, ready to tip the young man, but Leo shook his head.

“Nah, don’t; I’ll play for free tonight,” the boy assured him.

Hank nodded. “Just your phone number then?” he asked cockily, pulling his contact list instead.

He wasn’t all too sure about that move or what drove it, but he didn’t look past. Leo laughed nervously, hesitating for one or two secs before entering his number and leaving the table to join the piano.

He was good at it. Music with soul, for real. It was nice to just sit back and listen, and watch as the young man transformed himself behind the keys, like they freed him for a while. Hank smiled softly. He craved for a glass of Whiskey, he did, but he put it off, getting drunk on the music instead, gazing at the young man, the movement of his shoulders, the relaxation lifting some of the crispation off his face.

It was much nicer being here than being home.

READ IT ON AO3

[diyeipetea]

Jimmy Glass: conciertos fin de semana (4 al 6 de agosto de 2022. Valencia) [Noticias de jazz]

Jimmy Glass: conciertos fin de semana (4 al 6 de agosto de 2022. Valencia) [Noticias de jazz]

Entre el 4 y el 6 de agosto de 2022 tendrán lugar tres conciertos en Jimmy Glass (Valencia). Conciertos de fin de semana en Jimmy Glass Jueves, 4 de agosto de 2022 / 22:15 Liutauras Janusaitis Trio Liutauras Janusaitis, saxo tenor; Viktorija Pilatovic, voz; Alberto Palau, piano Abierto a las 21:15 / concierto: 22:15 (1 pase de 80 min con descanso de 10 min.) Concierto sin entrada, pero con…

[valenciabonitaoficial]

Uno de los mejores clubs de jazz del mundo está en Valencia

Jimmy Glass Jazz Bar. Fotografía de portada: Antonio Porcar – aporcar.com Medios como The New York Times, El País, El Mundo, Levante-EMV, Lonely Planet, Downbeat, Cuadernos de Jazz, Las Provincias y muchos otros, se han hecho eco de la trayectoria y la programación del Jimmy Glass durante sus más de 26 años de historia, abierto desde 1991. El Jimmy Glass, situado en c/ Baja, nº28 de Valencia,…

[power-chords]

An idea I have entertained is that Vincent is the guy you call when you’re out of options. When he says to Max, “Take comfort in knowing you never had a choice,” one wonders if this is part of Vincent’s whole marketing scheme, a slight alteration on pre-existing advertising copy. That’s his tagline. Maybe you go to him if somebody else botched the job the first time around, or the timeline is too demanding, the circumstances unusually extreme. Nobody else is up to the task, or would dare to assume that level of risk. He’s your Plan B. (Another eerie echo, the spiel almost rehearsed: “El Gordo got in front of a window, did his high dive… we’re on to Plan B.”)

He comes at a premium. You don’t get to meet him. You don’t get to talk to him. You’ll never know his real name, and even the fake ones are just mononyms, a rotating selection of ominous calling cards. His reputation, or the reputation of the enterprise or the fence who employs him, speaks for itself — he’s the guy who gets it done, and there might be some collateral damage, but there definitely won’t be any loose ends. He’s creative, brilliant, resourceful, and utterly ruthless.

I ran a tally last year on one of the evenings I watched it: Vincent kills 14 people over the course of the movie. (And he’d have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for that meddling cab driver!!!) He even killed the one LAPD detective who had clued in on his cute little disappearing act: enlist an unsuspecting cabbie, waste him afterward, and those hapless dimwit cops will just assume the guy went Travis Bickle postal.

A phrase that Michael Mann repeats consistently when describing the antagonists (antiheroes?) in Heat, or the real criminals they were modeled after, is selectively sociopathic. Neil McCauley, for example. The way he refers to Vincent, on the other hand, is distinct: I wanted to present a character whose sociopathy was total. (This is the initial impression we are given, but as the film unfolds, we realize that not even Vincent is 100% of the way there — he’s very close, but there’s a missing piece, a hairline fracture, and it’s what makes him such an interesting and tragic figure.) By Mann’s own account, he would be uniquely suited to such a brutal sub-specialty: murderous fixer-upper who makes your problems go away by any means necessary.

And he and Max are vocational counterparts as much as they are moral and existential foils. Thematically, it fits. If Max is the best (the greatest, the most) at what he does, which is driving a cab in LA… what does that make Vincent? What does the best contract killer do — what kind of skill, expertise, and intestinal fortitude does that job demand? What would make Jason Statham’s eyes linger a beat too long, with curiosity and skepticism, maybe even amusement? (“Really? This is the guy? But he’s so little.” lmao)

But seriously: Mann’s concept of the profession, especially as it pertains to criminality, is one of misdirected or co-opted ingenuity, discipline, and drive. It’s a parallel prison, a cage made of glass and steel; either you can’t see the panes that are boxing you in or you can’t pry open the bars to squirm free. For Max, the cage is his cab, and he doesn’t even know it’s there until Vincent jimmies the lock and slinks in beside him for a night. He says he’ll start a limousine company someday. He’s been saying that for 12 years.

Vincent doesn’t see what his cage is, either. Until one dent materializes in the steel facade. And then another. And another. Max prying around with his conversational crowbar, looking for a way in, insisting there is one; or the kickback from the rounds fired into Daniel at the jazz club, close range, a little too close.

What are you, one of those institutionalized raised guys…? Anybody home…?

To me this is all a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a bigger picture, and it suggests a much grimmer, grislier depth to the backstory we know exists for Vincent, that probably sits in some drawer somewhere in the Michael Mann estate. Don’t talk to me about it, I’m fucking Kermit the Frog over here, screaming internally.

Of course, if my theory holds water, I have to wonder: what happens to a guy like Vincent if he can’t make good on his guarantee? If he doesn’t fulfill his end of the contract, who collects? What collateral has he pledged? Yikes.

[spideyswebhead]

The Woman Behind The Bar | Dog Date

Paring | Connor x F!Reader

Summary | A series of one-shot’s of Connor getting with the woman serving Hank at a new human/android bar that had opened. Connor is able to get a date from her by setting up a playdate with their dogs.

Word Count | 3.1K

Tagging | Fluff, Doggy Dates,

(Gif by @itselainelen​)

The first time Connor came into this bar, he was originally trying to find his partner.

Connor would think after being Hank’s partner for a while (they would be hitting their one year anniversary in exactly 3 months and 5 days) it would be easier to find the lieutenant when he didn’t want to go into work. But alas Connor was having a hard time finding the older man.

His drinking has gone down from what it was like in the beginning when Connor met the Lieutenant, and Connor has convinced Hank to take better care of him but there was still room for improvement of course. It seemed the little android was helping the old police officer into a better lifestyle compared to the concerning depression he was in originally.

But some old patterns were hard to break, especially for an old dog like Hank Anderson.

Connor searched the usual bars Hank was at, even Connor’s fifth search at Jimmy’s Bar who shrugged at him when he asked where he was. Connor tried to think back to where his partner could be when he remembered a bar Hank had mentioned. He saw it while driving home while Connor worked late and said it looked interesting. The android immediately went down that direction after he pulled up the directions.

Hometown Blues was written in cursive with neon lights, the blue light so bright it was impossible not to spot a mile away. It didn’t seem too busy so Connor knew for sure the lieutenant would be in there without worry of rowdy crowds. It seemed to be a human and android bar, with the new development of entertainment for both humans and androids. More of these kinds of things were popping up. A small intrigue peaked in Connor of checking out a place like this, having not been in one yet.

He stepped inside and looked around, some jazz music was playing in the background but not loud enough nobody could have a conversation in here. There were a minimal amount of people here, he scanned and only found 4 people in this room, two being androids. He didn’t care to see who the two other people were as he made a beeline towards the bar where he recognized the jacket an older man was wearing. “There you are, Lieutenant.”

“Shit.”

“I’ve been trying to contact you, there was some new info on the case.” Connor tells him as Hank nurses his whiskey.

“I know and I’ve been ignoring it.” Connor furrows his eyebrows and scowls at his partner's reluctance to work now.

“But it’s new information, this’ll get us closer to solving it.”

“Connor,” Hank turns in his seat to look at the android - his LED was spinning yellow Hank noticed. “We’ve been working at this for over a month nonstop, some humans need a small break.”

“I see he’s found you.”

Connor looked away from the Lieutenant to the sight of the bartender working here tonight, cleaning off one of the glasses, a teasing grin on her face as she looked at Connor and Hank. Connor would’ve scanned her but she was wearing a badge on her chest that displayed her name. Hank has informed him that humans don’t particularly like being scanned so it must be best for him to keep that stuff down to a minimum. Find things out about humans organically compared to when they were on cases “He was telling me a little android may be looking for him to take him away.”

Little? Connor thinks to himself. “I’m just getting the Lieutenant so we can continue to do our job.” Connor says.

“And I would like a break tonight.” Hank grumbles into his glass before he takes another sip.

Connor frowns at the lieutenant, he knows they have been working endlessly, but they were so close to solving it! Connor couldn’t stop now. He looked at his glass to see he was almost done. “If I buy you one more whiskey, will you come with me then?” The android asks the older human, it worked last time it was worth a shot to see if it would work again.

Hank seemed to mull this over for a second before he sighs and grumbles an agreement. Connor pays the bartender after he pulled out his wallet and handed her the money, she then poured more whiskey into the Lieutenant’s glass. “It was good to see you again, Hank.” She tells him, giving him a friendly smile. “Nice to finally meet you too, Connor.” Connor watches her move down the bar to tend to someone else, his LED spinning yellow as he watched her leave them. How much as the Lieutenant talked about him with the bartender?

The next time Connor see’s the bartender was when Markus and his group of friends convinced him to join them on a night out, Connor barely spent time with any of his own kind, either with Hank or working in the station and burying himself in his work. “Go out.” Hank had told him, in a tone that left no room for argument. “Have a life, boy, working isn’t the only thing to life, Con. Have fun with Markus and his friends.”

“What about you and Sumo?”

“We’ll be fine.” Hank pushes Connor towards the door. “We’ll watch a movie and have the night for ourselves. Now go have fun!”

Connor now sat in the android and human combination bar with Markus, Simon, Josh, and North. They were at a little table, the four of them conversing with each other as Connor kept quiet, he felt odd being here, he didn’t know them well and with the way North kept looking at him, he didn’t exactly feel welcome here. Markus would keep ensuring there was no bad blood between them after what happened in the original Jericho, but it was obvious North and other androids haven’t forgiven him. He didn’t blame them at times.

He decided one moment to get up from his seat and try one of the android friendly drinks they make here, they seemed to be all thirium based and safe for androids to consume, Connor couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t interested to try them. “Well look who it is!” exclaims the working bartender and Connor looked over, immediately recognizing the woman before when he fetched the lieutenant a couple weeks ago.

“Oh. Hello,”

“Hey! Nice to see you again. How is Hank? Finally letting him have a break?”

“He is fine, reluctantly I am letting us have a break. He’s home now with Sumo probably watching a movie.”

“Sumo?” She raised an eyebrow at such a name. Connor showed the picture he had of Sumo that he kept with him and the bartender immediately swooned seeing the big doofy dog. “Oh my goodness, he’s so big!”

“Yes, he is a very good dog.” Connor says, for the first time tonight, starting to feel comfortable as he talked about the Saint Bernard that was back at Hank’s.

“Hey, I have a new puppy and I need to have him socialize, and nobody I know has any dogs, we should set up a little playdate.” She offered. Connor’s thirium pump jumped at the offer and couldn’t help but think Sumo would like that type of thing. He only ever sees him and Hank, occasionally other dogs, but he typically sticks to his two owners.

“Sure,” He says, giving an awkward forced smile. He still wasn’t used to these human norms.

“Fantastic! But what should I get you? You came over for a reason.” She says with a grin.

“Right,” Connor looked up to the menu and just picked the first android safe drink he saw on there. She nodded and quickly prepared it and handed the blue drink with a napkin. Connor took the drink with a thanks and returned to the table where the other androids were, setting the drink and napkin down. Markus was the one to greet Connor back.

“What did you get?”

“Some android safe drink.” Connor tells Markus as he picks it up, taking a sip. Immediately his system broke down the contents of the drink, it was mostly thirium but there were hints of alcohol and blue raspberry flavoring. Not able to taste anything, Connor couldn’t really tell if he enjoyed it or not.

“Did they write something down on your napkin?” Simon says as he looks at the writing on the napkin. Connor looked down as he set his drink down, seeing the handwriting. The black ink was scratchy, like the person was struggling to write on the napkin, and was obviously human too.

‘I don’t give out my number, but if you want to seriously set up that puppy date, here’s my social! @.xxxxx

Let’s sets up a date there ♡♡’

“Did you seriously get a date by setting up a playdate with your dogs?” North says, seeming surprised for the first time with Connor. He was honestly surprised too.

Connor didn’t have any social media.

Hank looked flabbergasted when Connor came back with the bartender’s social media tag on a napkin and asking for his help, since none of the other androids he was out with had any social media themselves, or knew much either. Hank for sure had to have something and be able to teach him. “I deleted my social media, but I guess we can try to set you up.” Hank had said, long since quit that once he was older.

Connor was confused by the language and everything once Hank was done and handed him his phone to message her from. Connor held it and looked at the social media home page, confused by all the ads and what random people were posting or a second before he searched for the bartender by writing down the tag. Immediately finding her as he recognized her in the profile picture.

Immediately the first thing he saw on her page was that she was in a car, a huge grin on her face while hugging a 10 week old german shepherd that was sitting in her lap, the caption just some emoticons that he didn’t understand. He had to admit, the picture was cute. The second thing he saw was a name, (Y/N). He didn’t know if it was her actual name or a nickname she chose to display. He hoped it was a nickname for her safety.

He looks back at the top of her profile and sees a spot that says ‘message’, he taps on it and begins writing.

‘Hello, it’s Connor-‘ Connor stopped as he resisted the urge to do his old greeting. Something old in his programming that’s been hard to break. ‘- from the bar.’ and he pressed sent, and waited.

Connor didn’t get a response back from the woman until much later, Hank long since gone to his bedroom and probably asleep and Sumo was fast asleep at Connor’s feet. The large dog laying on his back with his paws in the air. Connor could sense the heat coming off of the large dog on his feet. He was interrupted watching some infomercial that was playing on the TV when a notification popped in his vision, @.xxxx had messaged you.

‘hey! I’m so glad you messaged me I hope I don’t wake you up but here’s my schedule so we can plan around that’

Connor looked at her schedule and how late they go and tried to see if it would match with his work schedule, eventually finding a date a couple days from now where they both have a day off. Something the Lieutenant makes him take so he can ‘get a life’ and enjoy his deviancy.

‘Android’s don’t sleep but thanks for the concern. It seems we can go on Wednesday since we both have a day off then, we can meet at this park, me and Sumo go frequently.’

‘sounds like a plan! lets meet that afternoon’

“Sounds good,’

As they both waited for Wednesday to pull Connor was finding himself messaging (Y/N) more and more, getting to know the woman who has been serving his partner for the past few weeks. He learned this is her first dog she’s own and she’s only been bartending for a couple of months, it took her until Tuesday to figure out he was the android that helped with the Revolution Markus led last year. Connor was finding himself smiling to himself as he read how excited she was in not only knowing him but also that Markus and the other android’s were in her bar that day.

Hank looked at his partner across from him, seeing the tiny smile on Connor’s face as he stared at his computer screen. The old man was sure Connor wouldn’t be smiling as he read case files, and the last time he saw that smile was back at the end of the revolution. Pride swelled in Hank’s chest as he returned to his monitor.

Once Wednesday rolled up and it being Connor and Hank’s one day off. Normally Connor would spend this time with Hank, watch some movie he wanted to show him, or Connor would do some errands so Hank could actually relax. He constantly says how Connor overworks him too much. But today Connor didn’t do any of that.

He got Sumo ready for the day, getting the dog his food and water and taking him on a nice walk. Sumo was an old boy now but he still got excited seeing other dogs, so it was best to get some of his energy spent so he didn’t hurt himself. Throughout the day he could feel the excitement of seeing Sumo with a puppy but also seeing (Y/N).

“Ready, Sumo?” Connor speaks to him, it was an hour before he would expect to meet with (Y/N). He had called a taxi to drive them there, he didn’t want to overexert the old dog by walking there. Once he got the notification the taxi was here, he clipped on Sumo’s leash, called out to Hank he was leaving.

The android helps the dog out of the taxi as they arrive and walks up to the dog park, seeing there were some other dogs that were running around or playing with their owners. It was a good time for (Y/N) puppy to come and play with Sumo. He let him off leash to check everything out while they waited, Connor keeping an eye on the fluff ball wander around.

Eventually (Y/N) did arrive with her puppy who was romping ahead of her with their leash clipped on, (Y/N) seeming to try and keep up with the energetic puppy. “Hello, (Y/N).”

“Hi!” She says with a smile to Connor, her puppy immediately running up and sniffing Connor’s feet. He couldn’t help but smile at the young puppy. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too,” Connor says, turning to look at (Y/N) instead of the puppy. “Sumo is around here somewhere,” He looks around, finding Sumo was sniffing a bush. He got the dog and left Sumo and the german shepherd to introduce themselves together, smiling as he watched them sniff at each other and the german shepherd try to initiate play with the older dog.

They sat together on a bench as they watched their two dogs play together, Connor smiles as Sumo acts like a puppy himself as he plays and chases the german shepherd. “I’m still so new to taking care of a dog, thanks for helping with this part.” (Y/N) says, giving Connor a smile. “I’m glad to see Sumo and Zeus like each other.”

“Happy to help anytime, (Y/N).” Connor tells her. “I like dogs, happy to be around them and help as much as I can.”

“That means I can ask any dog related question.”

Connor thought about it, his LED spinning yellow. “Guess you could.” He says, “not the usual questions I get, but happy to answer any.”

“Okay, Zeus is going through this phase where he’ll just pee on everything…” She started to ask him questions about Zeus and after a couple questions Connor couldn’t help but find himself smiling at (Y/N) as she asked dog questions, and actually listened to his answers and didn’t seem to be half paying attention or interrupting him. It happens a lot more at the DPD, even Hank would do it at times and tell Connor to stop talking, instead (Y/N) let him ramble on his answer, at one point she even brought out her phone to write down what he says. His chest continued to feel full as they continued to talk about dog behavior and other advice he has about them.

The more time went on and the sun began to set, setting a golden glow across the world, making (Y/N) glow in the sunlight and bouncing off her skin beautifully. Connor was having a hard time being not distracted by her, he made a mental note to ask Hank about this later. These new feelings making surface. The hours had gone by so much that Zeus and Sumo had fallen asleep at their owners' feet, Zeus laying on his back and Sumo was resting his head on Connor’s foot. He was 90% sure that Sumo has been drooling on his shoe this whole time. He would most likely need to clean them when they get home.

He could hear a muffled alarm going off and he was confused where it was coming from when (Y/N) pulled it out of her jacket pocket and looked, her eyes widening. “Oh my, is that the time?” She slides her thumb across the screen and slides the device back into her pocket, looking up into Connor’s eyes. “I need to go get ready for the night shift now, but thank you so much for this! I’m glad to see Zeus and Sumo like each other.”

“Yes, I’m glad too.” He says, reaching down and scratching behind Sumo’s ear, who grunted at the contact and glanced up to the android before settling on his foot again. “We should get together again.”

“Yes! It’s been nice getting to know you, Connor. Thank you for all that advice.” The woman says as she clips on Zeus' leash. “Let’s plan for another time again soon, see you!” She waves goodbye, Zeus waking up from his deep nap and flipping over and standing up. Connor watches her leave and go towards her car and he couldn’t help but smile seeing her form slowly get out of his sight.

[rosyfingereddawnn]

spellbound

pairing: jimmy page x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of substances, one (1) swear and a little nsfw at the end

words: 3k

summary: when in new orleans, there’s always something new and exciting to experience. when the boys take shelter in a quaint jazz lounge, they discover a hidden gem.

author’s note: this was an idea born from @timetraveller4 and her lovely mind, so thank you for that ash <3 no beta as always, and i really hope you enjoy :)

masterlist

It was Bonzo’s idea, originally.

The drummer had proposed that the band, accompanied, of course, by the infamous Richard Cole, go to a lounge for the night. See what the music scene was like, outside of their little bubble.

Touring had become almost monotonous, the endless flow of groupies blending into a hazy background of alcohol and drugs. They were in New Orleans for the night, and needed a release from the antics; a release of pressure.

Walking along the cobbled streets, lit only by tall, blinding streetlights, the hunt for the perfect spot continued. Rain twinkled like stardust upon them, landing in their hair and falling down their backs. Jimmy shivered, burrowing further into his coat, a rich navy blue, butterflies made of sparkling sequins fluttering across his shoulders. Cigarette dangling from lush, pink lips, he sighed out a faint white cloud of smoke. His long, dark hair stuck to his face and neck, and a swear burst past his lips. His curls hid emerald eyes from view like a curtain of darkness, and he shook his head.

It’ll be fun, he said. Don’t worry about it, he said. Just relax.

Robert, unaware of the glare the raven-haired guitarist was sporting, strolled ahead, eyes catching on a glowing sign, slick with rain and slightly weather-beaten. The place must be old, he thought.

Sliding closer, he gazed up at it, ocean eyes squinting against the rain that seemed to pour harder, faster, the further they ventured from their hotel. The sign, neon lights blurring into haloes of colour, read ‘The Whispering Wind’. Underneath sat a truly artistic rendition of wispy winds fading into a cloud, the pure ivory of its light cascading across the damp sidewalk like a graceful stream. You could almost feel the warmth and hospitality behind the closed doors, and Robert, whose smile seemed to light the path better than any streetlamp could, turned to his companions.

“This looks like a fine place, doesn't it?”

“Let’s go inside. Better than staying out here,” Jonesy replied, slipping past the singer to grasp at the ornate golden handle of the mahogany door. The bassist pulled the door open and stepped through, and almost immediately, he was enveloped by the comforting heat that seemed to settle into his chilled bones. “Definitely better.”

One by one, the boys stepped into the lounge, smiling as they took in the atmosphere. By the door sat a long bar, maple wood shining in the dim light filtering out from the fixtures hanging from above. Paintings of old Hollywood royalty decorated the taupe walls, while a spotlight affixed to the ceiling bathed the wooden surface of the stage against the wall in faint yellow light. The ruby red of the curtains complimented the exposed maroon brick of the opposite wall, and booths, with scarlet upholstery streaked through with pristine gold, littered the floor.

It was cramped and dimly lit, certainly not fit for the rock gods it sheltered. It was perfect.

Jimmy stood just outside the door, taking a final drag of the cigarette burning between his lips. Glancing around the cove of the entryway, his eyes locked onto a poster plastered across the wet brick of the building. The silhouette of a woman stood against a simple black background, gripping a microphone stand in manicured hands, mystery and class in the subtle curve of her lips. Half of her body was painted in a silvery light, and Jimmy stared at the long crimson dress she was wearing. Tantalizingly long legs are just visible from the slit that splits the gown.

In bold white lettering, a collection of dates are scrawled across its surface, but it’s the name that rippled across the paper that caught his eye.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Hm…”

Must be tonight’s performer, he thought. She’s gorgeous, from what Jimmy could tell; the sultry gaze, the teasing uptick of her rosy lips. The guitarist just hoped that she’s as talented as she is beautiful.

Jimmy let the cigarette in his hands drop to the floor, crushing it under his heel, smoky ash mingling with the scent of petrichor. Grasping the frigid metal of the door handle, the man’s ebony curls flew in every direction as he shivered once more. Slipping through the open door, a wave of comfort rushed over him, warmth settling into his core. The light din of unimportant conversation settled over him like a plush blanket, calming his perpetually racing mind.

Jimmy, spotting his friends at a table far back from the stage, sidled up to the bar, signalling for attention. Ordering his favourite of gin and tonic, the dark-haired guitarist walked back over to join the group, sitting down right next to Robert. The blond glanced over at him and grinned, wrapping a tanned arm around his shoulders.

“It’s a wonder you’ve stopped frowning, Pagey.”

“I was warned I’d get stuck like that, you see,” Jimmy grumbled, the hint of a smile that graced his lips shattering the image of dissatisfaction. “Hasn’t happened yet, but who knows what the future holds.”

“Ah. If it weren’t for your sunny disposition, we’d be in trouble.”

“You—”

The retort died on his tongue, and his mossy green eyes went impossibly wide.

An alluring voice, smooth and rich, rang clear and sharp through the air, charming the patrons of the lounge. The rasping tone made Jimmy’s mind go utterly blank, too entranced to react. Mingling with the droplets that danced from the black grand piano, the performer made his heart pound in his chest like a bass drum. Shaking Robert’s arm off, he turned to face the stage, and promptly forgot how to breathe.

“I put a spell on you, because you're mine. Oh, mine…”

Up on the stage, stood the most beautiful woman Jimmy had ever seen. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, a lovely contrast to the skin of her exposed shoulder. The woman fluttered around the stage, her dress, the colour of a midnight sky, swaying as she moved. She was full to the brim with restrained confidence: she knew she could dazzle the audience, but really, she didn't need to. They were already eating out of her palm.

Jaws hit the floor and every eye in the room was firmly trained on her, and the graceful smirk painting her features served as proof. She was a siren, and the audience her doomed admirers. Jimmy couldn't tear his eyes away through the whole performance, and his distracted clapping as she curtsied alerted his bandmates.

“You okay, Jim? Looks to me like,” Bonzo started, glancing over at Robert with mischief shining in his dark eyes, “You’ve got yourself a little crush, no?”

“I’m… She’s just—”

“Perfect? Gorgeous, talented,” Jonesy interrupted, catching the guitarist’s attention. A smug grin at home on his lips, the bassist shrugged, turning to face his friend. “And… standing right over there.”

Following the path pointed out by Jonesy’s outstretched finger, Jimmy’s eyes locked on a familiar figure, floor-length gown shimmering in the dim light. Stood at the bar, she rested her arms on the surface as she leaned closer to talk to the bartender. Throwing her head back in a genuine laugh, she bares her throat, and Jimmy’s mouth goes dry. The performer takes the drink offered to her, a glass filled with what looks to be whiskey in her manicured hands. A finger lazily traced the rim. The beautiful woman turned towards them then, locking eyes with the guitarist over her shoulder. She winked, and walked away, a ring of condensation on the tabletop all that was left of her.

“Hey, Cole,” Jimmy whispered into the silence that had fallen over the table, and turned to the man, whose only response was a telling smirk. “Would you… Could you, uh…”

“On it, boss.”

In a split second, the man shuffled away from the table, his parting gift a wink at the sable-haired guitarist.

------

As you step on stage, the crowd’s chatter continues, and you smile to yourself. Nights at The Whispering Wind were always like this: the snippets of conversation fading into a symphony of white noise. It calms you, being so used to the bustling New Orleans streets. This is a little slice of paradise, in your eyes.

You flatten down your dress, velvet soft against your hand, and gaze over to your pianist. Nodding back, he launches in, soft at first, but crescendoing soon after. His hand raised in the air, he looks over to you.

Your cue.

You take a deep breath, lungs filling with smoky air, and sing your heart out. Light and shade battle for dominance as you play the audience like a fiddle. Your voice, full of lust and desire, floats around the room, and you smirk to yourself, looking at the sea of faces in front of you. Everything is hazy, the spotlights blurring your vision, but you can swear someone is staring at you. A man, it looks like. His dark hair shines in the faded light, and his eyes sparkle with intelligence and, interestingly enough, appreciation. It takes effort to tear your eyes away from him, but you succeed, and belt out the last line. Your smile rivals the bright lights shining down on you, and you curtsy. The cheers of the audience serves as your soundtrack, as you step off stage, scurrying over to the bar. It takes a special effort not to gaze at the mystery man as you pass.

“Lovely evening for a drink, isn’t it? I’ll have whiskey, neat.”

“Coming right up, Madam,” The bartender winks at you, a smile blossoming on your face. He sets the drink into your waiting hands, and leans against the counter, smirking at you kindly. “Wonderful show, tonight. You’re a talent, my dear.”

“Well, thank you,” you reply, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. Your smile grows brighter, and your giggle is featherlight as it floats past your lips, “It’s what I love to do.”

Your conversation is interrupted by the sounds of whispers from behind you, and you look over your shoulder. Those eyes, the bright shade of green you had seen from the stage, were looking right back at you. He looks shy, nervous even, almost hiding behind his tawny-haired friend. From your spot at the bar, you can tell, now, just how handsome he truly is. His dark hair falls in tastefully mussed curls, and his skin looks clear, almost like porcelain. His lips are petal-pink, and look soft. His jaw is sharp, and he’s rather thin; scrawny even, but he’s still gorgeous.

Holding his gaze, you wink, and his eyes go impossibly wider. You tip the bartender and walk away, a “thank you” thrown over your shoulder. A safe distance away from the mystery man and his posse, you chance a look back, and spot a man standing from the table, patting the black-haired beauty on the back. To your surprise, he weaves through the crowd towards you.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he says, catching up to you. He smooths down his button-up shirt, and sends a charming grin your way, holding out a hand to shake. “May I ask your name?”

“It’s Y/N. And yours, if I may?”

“Richard Cole.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cole?” This is met by a chuckle from the man, his hand going up to stroke his dark beard.

“Well, lovely, do you see that man over there, with the black hair?” You follow his outstretched hand, and your eyes fall upon your mystery man. He’s looking back at you, hands fiddling with each other. His gaze finally drops from yours, and the tell-tale blush rising on his cheeks makes you laugh softly. “He’d love to have a chat with you.”

“If he wants to talk to me, he can come over here himself and tell me that.”

Cole chuckles, and shakes his head fondly. Glancing over at the mystery man, he waves him over. From your spot, you can see the way he approaches on shaky legs, and you smile, recognizing him instantly. With a pat on the back of the curly-haired man, Mr. Cole is gone, and you're alone together. This is going to be fun.

“What’s your name, darling?” You ask, though you already know the answer. It’s not every day that a world-famous musician stops by ‘The Whispering Wind’, after all.

“I-it’s Jimmy… uh, Page.” His hands, you notice, are clenched into fists, and he shuffles from foot to foot. You press closer to him, and he blushes harder, cheeks almost aflame.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jimmy. I’m—”

“You’re Y/N, aren't you? I saw the poster outside, and I thought you were beautiful,” Breath hitching as he realizes what he just said, Jimmy slaps a hand over his mouth. His emerald eyes signal that he’s embarrassed, but you can only giggle. “I only meant that—”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not too bad yourself.”

Jimmy’s thin hand flies up to scratch the top of his head, and his hair falls in his face, effectively blocking him from view. You can see the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

“Thank you. I, uh… you’re an amazing vocalist. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you, your stage presence was… arresting.”

“So you admit to staring at me?”

“Well, I… You…”

I’m just playing, Jimmy,” Your laugh twinkles as it fills the silence, and Jimmy’s lips quirk up in a small smile upon hearing it. “If anything, I should be the one staring. Led Zeppelin’s a big deal, y’know.”

“You… you recognized me?”

“You boys aren't exactly rising stars. Being as famous as you are, I didn’t think you’d be this humble.”

He chuckles under his breath, and looks up at you through his eyelashes. It seems he’s grown more confident now, and you smile, gaze drifting down to his mouth. If you leaned in, just a little, your lips would meet, and you could finally know if his are as soft as they look.

“We’re in New Orleans for another day, uh… I was wondering if, well… God, I’m terrible at this.”

“Jimmy—”

“Could I… take you out, sometime?” His halting, nervous speech only makes him more endearing, and you gaze into his eyes as he squirms. Jimmy sputters, trying to take his words back, but you silence him with a hand on his bicep. Lean muscle ripples under your hand, and you smile at him.

“Jimmy.”

“Oh God, I’ve fucked it all up, haven’t I? J-just forget what I said, I don’t know what—”

“It’s—”

“Seriously, it was probably a mistake to ask you that. I mean,” Jimmy’s head droops, hair shielding him once more, and you can’t help the fondness that rushes through you. Unaware of the smile that nearly splits your cheeks, he presses on, hands flying back and forth to prove his point, “You’re absolutely divine, and I’m just— Uh...”

Close enough that you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him, you put a hand to his shoulder, wiping off imaginary dust from his coat. Your fingers catch slightly on the bedazzled butterflies that adorn it. His eyes follow your hands as they dance and twirl across the fabric, and you can hear his sharp intake of breath echo in the slight space between the two of you. A lone finger finally finds his chin, and you lift his head to look at you.

“Eyes on me, chéri.”

His gorgeous green eyes meet yours from under his curly fringe, and you push a stray lock to rest behind his ear. His cheeks redden even more, something you hadn’t thought possible, as he stares into your eyes.

Pressing close to him, his scent surrounds you, and your lips brush against the curve of his ear.

“Tu veux un rendez-vous? Tu dois travailler pour cela, chéri.”

You pull away, and he is left with the ghost of soft lips against his cheek, the scent of your perfume floating after you as you walk away. Jimmy stands in place, too stunned to even react, until a hand at his back makes him jump. Glancing over his shoulder, he spots his bandmates, smirks at home on their faces. Jonesy pipes up, looking him up and down.

“You okay, Page? You’re looking pretty red…”

“It seems, and correct me if I’m wrong,” interjects Bonzo, as he slips an arm around Jimmy, guiding him back to their table. Jimmy slumps into a chair, stunned into silence, a hand raising to his cheek. Bonzo chuckles, and continues, “Like your crush just got a lot more serious.”

------

Safe behind the door of his hotel room, Jimmy trudges to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Slipping out of his clothes, that he folds neatly on the bed, the guitarist steps in. Steam curls in tendrils around the small bathroom, and Jimmy takes a deep breath. Hand settling on his cock, he begins stroking it slowly; experimentally. The pleasure feels incredible, euphoric even, as his mind drifts to the intriguing woman he had met just an hour ago. Her image is seared into his mind, and every touch she had given him felt like a wildfire licking at his skin. His groans match the speed of his hand as he speeds up, gripping the tiled wall for support.

The scent of her perfume, something floral, unplaceable, lingered in his nose, and he wishes to see her again. To have that scent invade all of his senses, again. Jimmy’s whimpers, quiet, yet keening, echo off the walls, as he reaches his peak. He imagines her there with him, raking a hand roughly through his hair, her hands roaming every inch of skin they could reach.

His muscles twitch as warmth spills over his hand, a soft grunt slipping past his gritted teeth. He’s in ecstasy, something better than any drug. Something he doesn’t ever want to come down from.

As he recovers from the high he had just experienced, his gasping breaths fill the space. Knees trembling from exertion, he grips onto the slippery shower wall, and whispers into the steam that fills the room.

“Y/N…”

------

(the french sentence: you want a date? you have to work for that, darling)

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 @earthfire-75 @thatiloveyouso @jonesyjonesyjonesy @jimmypages (let me know if you want to be added!)

[blackmidiarchive]

“BLACK MIDI, NEW ROAD” CHRISTMAS EXTRAVAGANZA! AT THE WINDMILL, BRIXTON (19/12/19) – LIVE REVIEW - Jimmy McCormac

‘SOLD OUT. Please don’t even ask’ is pasted on the ramshackle door of The Windmill. It is packed. Innumerable print outs of christmas songs litter the stage. Every ‘BM’ chord is written in bold. A nod to Black Midi’s ‘BmBmBm’. There is a real homeliness to the venue. Not at every gig do you see a man and his dog sitting at the bar.

Opening up, Wood plays a low key solo set. He’s sat on a bar stool with his guitar playing slowed down doo wop. He delivers lyrics about how he “stripped out his insides” telling someone “he loved them in front of Black Midi”. His legs are trembling along to his nervous shudder of a voice that goes in and out of a yodelling type falsetto. Although brief it was an intimate, theatrical moment of brilliance. The guest live.

Following a short break, an insane, progressive jazz jam is formed. The only few absences come from Ellery and Kelvin. A real shame. Especially when Kelvin was in the audience (only making a very brief appearance). Nevertheless the group still deliver. Sounding a bit like Miles Davis electric period mixed with King Crimson. Evans sax playing is in free form ‘Bitches Brew’ and ‘On The Corner’ style. To the point where he had to stop for a coughing fit. While Kershaw’s keys are very reminiscent to its predecessor, ‘In A Silent Way’. The other members play in tones not unalike John Mclaughlin, Johnny Sharrock and Greg Lake. The members jumped off each others energy. Wayne and Simpson play mind altering rush hour traffic drums. Both fighting bits of the streamer backdrop off their bodies. At one point Wood throws his guitar down to become a conductor. He raises his arms convulsively up and down. In response Simpson and Wayne deliver dynamic shifts in tempo.

The members interchange with some dangerous leaps from stage monitors to get their pint fix. One streamline jump from Simpson made me question if he trained for the olympics. The substituting members somehow carry the jam forward seamlessly. Their devoured bottles of becks are now smashed, lining the front row of the audience. The pint glasses from band members and audience alike are piled up shrinelike on the speakers.

Mid way through the set Greep leaps behind the drum kit while Wayne gets a pint. He grabs the mic and shouts “For one night and one night only. Geordie Greep on drums!” as if he is some kind of circus announcer. Wood makes a secondary announcement for those at the back. Greep delivers a collected drum solo alongside Simpson. This soon turns into a wild solo. While he does this he never removes his winter coat. Nuts.

In a third set the group play some festivities. A few eyebrow raisers in the mix. The band deliver their own version of Fontaines DC ‘Boys In The Better Land’. They replace ‘the better land’ with ‘the christmas hats’. I suppose this gives them an excuse to cover it. Vocals are switched between Wood and Greep as they commemorate their label mates. Speedy Wundergrounds Dan Carey stands next to me open mouthed. He quotes it as “fucking amazing”. Greep delivers bluesy licks teasing his later ‘Christmas Blues’. A piece where he puts on his best Robert Johnson impression. Another set highlight.

They play BCNR’s ‘Sunglasses’ and Black Midi’s ‘Ducter’, replacing the lyrics with ridiculous festive ones. ‘I am invincible in this christmas hat!” for example. Between a beer flying moshpit, a monitor convulses violently half way from the stage into the front row. It is saved milliseconds before a deafening floor smash by good samaritan audience members.

Covers of ‘Last Christmas’, ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’ and other festive classics are performed to finish the set. Picton takes the lead on many of these, ending up in a humorous falsetto on ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’. Hereby Morgan struggles to keep his composure. He’s in a fit of laughter. Greep starts an alienistic ramble. “Christmas, christmas. Geordie! It’s been said many times, many ways! Merry Christmas oo-ee. Black Midi. Black Country New Road. Sponsored by The Windmill”.

Following the set everyone converges for drinks. The band members and fans discuss everything from business deals to Scott Walker. A fan goes round with his polaroid camera taking pictures with everyone he meets, and many leave the venue in festive spirit.

3 pints later Picton sets up a drum machine and macbook, Greep a microphone. They introduce themselves as ‘DJ Dairy and MC Spritz’. The most bonkers freestyle is performed over popular instrumentals. “Lets go lets go! Change the beat yo” Greep shrieks. He goes on to ask the audience questions. “Who would win, Tyson Fury or Mahammid Ali?”. Without a chance to respond he answers ‘Mahammid Ali’. He takes fast shots of straight whiskey.

This is followed by inviting fans up to ‘freestyle’. Over these ‘freestyles’ remarks are made from the pair. Somewhat alike to DJs over dodgy bootleg records. ‘Lets Go Motherfucker. Lucas from Manchester’ , ‘Anthony Joshua! Anthony Joshua’. Picton is waving his hands in the air rollercoaster style and they both sing fragmented versions of Kanye West songs.

Later Wayne staggers on stage and him, Greep and Picton form a trio of out of tune drunk singing. The song is ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ by Elton John. Greep and Wayne share a microphone. They have their arms around each other and swing backwards and forwards. Following suit are May and Kershaw (now in the audience), their pints clutched between their hands.

In the early hours of the morning a fan has collapsed on a sofa in the back room needing his friends to lift him up. Another fan lights a cigarette inside the venue, getting in an argument with a woman at the bar. Then there’s me. I missed the last tube and ended up in an abandoned old bank. No further questions. I present to you a normal night at The Windmill.

Web archive link: https://web.archive.org/web/20210819205610/https://newsoundsmag.co.uk/2019/12/23/black-midi-new-road-christmas-extravaganza-at-the-windmill-brixton-19-12-19-review/

[deadlynightshade-and-hyacinth]

I’m Gonna Crawl

CHAPTER 7 

I left the bathroom, confident that I no longer needed to purge and plopped myself onto the lounge couch. A heavy stupor was dawning on me. I cringed at the thought of making a drunken fool of myself. This was not professional etiquette. ‘I should have stayed home and let Stewart take the job’, I reluctantly thought to myself. And then I thought of James. As much as I needed to pull myself back together after the massacre my life had become, I knew that sitting at home staring at the four walls of my bedroom would only harm me further. 

I felt a heavy stir in my stomach. As much as I wanted this silly game with James to end, I knew deep, deep down that I was enjoying it as much as he, if not more and it killed me that he knew it. In my chest the feather of a feeling, as much as I wanted it to be microscopic, was big and expanding vigorously the more James wriggled his way under my skin. 

I picked myself off the couch and found the bedroom. I fell onto the bed, groaning at my ridiculous pash and let myself slowly fall asleep.  

Yellow moonlight had loomed into the plane windows when I opened my eyelids. I left the bedroom and padded into the ‘club’, my head still swimming with the tiny amount of alcohol still swirling in, my blood stream. There was a dull throb in my head that I didn’t want to deal with once it got worse so I drudged behind the bar and found a bottle of Jimmy’s whisky. There was a quarter of it left so I decided to skip the glass and just drink from the bottle. 

 No one was around, the concert must have still been going so I took a swig from the bottle and sat at the organ and fingered the keys. 

I had been writing poems and songs since I was a young girl, it was calming, relaxing, my way of letting go of feelings and emotions I held deep within myself. No, I had never thought of trying to be someone, I never sought fame, never wanted it. Writing was purely a way to find peace within myself, to quiet the voices that so menacingly haunted my psyche.  

I started playing a song I had written almost a year ago when I knew who Daniel was but didn’t care. When I knew the abuse was deficient but accepted the love, I thought I deserved, thought I needed. I closed my eyes and felt the music flow through me. ‘Terrence Loves You’. When the cue came, I started singing. 

“You are what you are. 

I don’t matter to anyone 

But Hollywood legends 

Will never grow old 

And all of what’s hidden 

Well, it will never grow cold 

 But I lost myself when I lost you 

But I still got jazz 

When I’ve got those blues 

And I lost myself when I lost you 

And I still get trashed, darling 

When I hear your tunes 

 But you are who you are 

I won’t change you for anything 

For when you are crazy 

I’ll let you be bad 

I’ll never dare change thee 

To what you are not 

 But I lost myself when I lost you 

But I still got jazz 

When I’ve got those blues 

I lost myself and I lost you too 

And I still get trashed, baby 

When I hear your tunes 

I put the radio on 

 Hold you tight in my mind 

Isn’t strange that 

You’re not here with me 

But I know the light’s on in the television 

Trying to transmit, can you hear me 

Ground control to Major Tom 

Can you hear me all night long? 

Ground control to Major Tom 

Well I lost myself when I lost you 

 But I still got jazz when I’ve got the blues 

I lost myself and I lost you too 

And I still get trashed, honey 

When I hear your tunes 

 Mmmm mmm mmm 

Mmmm mmm mmm 

Mmmm mmm mmm 

Mmmm mmm mmm” 

There were three loud claps. I snapped my eyes open. Jimmy was standing at the edge of the room glowing, his hair a wet matted mess, black velvet suit clinging to his skin. I quickly stood up and stumbled into the piano. He strode over and held his hand out to help me but when I dismissed it, he jerked his hand back and frowned. 

“Where is everyone?” I asked, embarrassed. 

He grabbed the bottle of Jack and gulped the last of it down. “Back at the hotel.” He murmured nonchalantly as he padded behind the bar and grabbed another bottle. He found his way back to the piano and smiled. “Play it for me.” His eyes found mine. 

I breathed a small laugh and shook my head.

He rolled his eyes and shoved the bottle at me. “I missed you at the show tonight.” His tone was sarcastic. 

I glared which made him smile. I grabbed the bottle and took a swig of it. 

“Did you write that song?” He took the bottle back and copied me. 

“Mhmm.” I murmured, uninterested. 

“Do you have any more?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning on the organ in front of me. 

“When is everyone coming back?” I ignored his question. 

“Play something for me.” He held my gaze intently. 

I sat down on the bench, stunned under his hypnosis, unable to reject his gaze. He took quick solace in my ineptitude, in the fact that he could hold me in his gaze without faltering. 

He leaned across the organ and whispered. “Play.” 

I motioned for him to pass the bottle back over. He held it out, his long fingers stinging me as I clutched onto it. He pulled his hand away and watched me, amused. I took a deep breath and took as big a sip as I could manage. I swallowed, fire running down my throat then I tipped the bottle up again and repeated, the fire easing, flames coming to a halt and turning into warm liquid. Jimmy chuckled darkly and took the bottle back. “Before you drink me out of whisky.” He smiled. “Play.” He gave me a nod. 

I pressed my fingers to the keys and narrowed my eyes at him as I started. 

“Blue hydrangea, cold cash divine 

Cashmere, cologne and white sunshine 

Red racing cars, sunset and vine 

The kids were young and pretty 

Where have you been? 

Where did you go? 

Those summer nights seem long ago 

And so is the girl you used to call 

The queen of New York City 

  But if you send for me, you know I’ll come 

And if you call for me, you know I’ll run 

I’ll run to you, I’ll run to you 

I’ll run, run, run 

I’ll come to you, I’ll come to you 

I’ll come, come, come 

Oh-oh oh, oh-oh oh 

 The power of youth is on my mind 

Sunsets, small town, I’m out of time 

Will you still love me when I shine? 

From words but not from beauty 

My father’s love was always strong 

My mother’s glamour lives on and on 

Yet still inside, I felt alone 

For reasons unknown to me 

 But if you send for me, you know I’ll come 

And if you call for me, you know I’ll run 

I’ll run to you, I’ll run to you 

I’ll run, run, run 

I’ll come to you, I’ll come to you 

I’ll come, come, come 

Oh-oh oh, oh-oh oh 

And if you call, I’ll run, run, run 

If you change your mind, I’ll come, come, come 

Oh-oh oh, ah-ah ah 

 Blue hydrangea, cold cash divine 

Cashmere, cologne and hot sunshine 

Red racing cars, sunset and vine 

And we were young and pretty” 

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of me through the entirety of the song. He had a peculiar look on his face. “You have me entranced in your voice.” He admitted, his cheeks turning pink. “Little siren.” One side of his mouth turned upward into a crooked smile full of youth. 

I gave him a disapproving look as I stood up. 

“Sit.” He demanded; his eyes dark. 

I narrowed mine back at him. “I’m done.” 

 “I’m not.” His gaze burned intently. He took a swig, placed the bottle back on the bar, walked around the organ and sat on the bench beside me. “Show me the first one.” 

“Isn’t everyone going to be here soon?” My voice wavered with his close proximity, our shoulders and hips touching, the static and tension palpable. 

“No.” He breathed, facing forward. “Now the first one.” 

“Why is no one coming?” I turned my face to look at him. “Shouldn’t we be heading to Baltimore?” 

He sighed heavily, impatiently and turned his face to me, meeting my gaze. “Why must you defy me?” I gave him a look of querulousness. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling then back to mine. “They decided to stay at the hotel tonight. We don’t have a show tomorrow.” He looked at the clock on the wall then back to me. “Today.” He corrected me. 

“Then why are you here pestering me instead of some poor mindless victim?” 

“You’re far more intriguing.” He flashed his crooked grin. “I initially came to spring you, take you back to the hotel but you’ve distracted me. He looked at the keys and pressed down on one filling the quiet room with a loud chime. “Now I’m not sure if I want to leave.” He looked back at me. 

I looked away, afraid of the feeling rising in my chest.  

“Besides we have the place to ourselves.” He lifted a finger to my chin and forced me to meet his eyes. “A big jet plane with everything we need. Liquor, food, music… a bed.” His eyebrows jumped.  

“I was serious earlier when I said-” I started but he moved his finger from my chin to my lips, stopping me from finishing. 

“No, you weren’t.” He murmured; his grin cocky. “You wanted to be serious but you can’t get me out of your head, can you?” His smile was wicked. He could see my frustration building. “Calm, love, your secret is safe with me.” He winked. I stood up and headed toward the exit but he followed quickly and caught my hand at the threshold. I turned, annoyed, to face him. “Stay.” He breathed; his face somber. “I get it. You don’t want me… I’m fine with that, really… Can I at least have your company?” His eyes begged. “I was only playing.” He flashed wide puppy dog eyes. 

I pursed my lips, glaring at him. 

“Besides if we go back to the hotel, you’ll just be stuck in a smaller room with me.” He added, cocky and confident. 

“You’re incorrigible.” I pulled my hand from his and begrudgingly found my way back to the liquor. I turned to face him “You try anything again and I’ll castrate you.” 

That made him smile wider. “Okay, but you’ll have to kiss it first.” 

“I’m leaving.” I gave up. If he wasn’t going to be on his best behavior then I knew for damn sure I couldn’t be. 

“Come off it, I’m only joking.” He paused. “Half joking.” His face turned serious. “I’ll be good.” He held a hand to his heart. “I promise.” 

“You swear to me that you’ll keep your hands and your lips to yourself?” 

“I swear to you that these hands,” He held them up and closed the space between us. “And these lips…” He bit down on his lower lip and dragged his teeth across it. “Will not touch you…” His hypnosis was strong. “Unless you ask.” 

“You had to add that in there?” I raised my eyebrows at him. 

He shrugged, his lips twitching. “Because if you asked me to touch you, I wouldn’t be able to resist.” 

A feather dropped from my heart down to my stomach. “Is there a car outside for us?” 

 He made a face that indicated he had done something wrong. “I might have shooed them away for the night.” 

“You trapped me here with you?” I was astonished. I smacked his shoulder. “You are such an asshole.” 

“I thought if you decided you didn’t want to stay then I would leave you with no choice but to…” He tried to hide his smug smile, rubbing his arm absentmindedly. 

“If you break your promise,” I leaned in. “I will go into that airport and take the first plane back to Boston then you’ll be stuck with Stewart in my place.”  

“Stewart?” He muttered, his tone matching my distaste for my coworker.  

I nodded, big threats in my eyes. “Stewart.” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded, tucking his hands behind his back. 

*** I do NOT own any song mentioned in this chapter. They were written and performed by the beautiful Lana Del Rey ***

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Wes Buckley

Wes Buckley is a cosmic folk songwriter from Western Massachusetts, whose homespun, all-natural music spins off into unexpected revelations, epiphanies and absurdities. He recorded a split with Michael Hurley in 2014 and has released some home-made CDs, but The Towering Ground on Belltower Records is his first official full-length. Jennifer Kelly reviewed it for Dusted last month, observing that “The mystic and the mundane jostle elbows, line to line, verse to verse.” Here he lists some of his favorite drumless music.

If they ever outlaw drums — revolt! But while you’re getting organized you could still listen to most of these…

Mike Cooper — “Knew Strings”

This tune and record continue my endless quest to hear something I can’t quite put my finger on. It started I think with this deliberate exploration of drumless jazz trios while I was painting an entire inn. Led me to ’80s Chet Baker with Phillip Catherine and Jean-Louise Rassinfosse. This sorta led to drumless duos which I will get into more of, both drumless duos, trios, and then solo artists. I like drums but I was questing.

Jimmy Giuffre, Paul Bley, Steve Swallow — “Sensing”

I don’t think I should go much further into the drumless schtick without mentioning Jimmy Giuffre. His Saturday and Sunday records with Steve Swallow and Paul Bley are magical. Yes, I love Free Fall. But another endless quest is the music of older people. Not necessarily ones that came back and reformed the band but ones that have been polishing the glass for many decades without a care in the world as to who is paying attention. Single minded types. There’s real magic in those records. This is some late era JG. So, Jimmy was part of the Music Inn lore here in the Berkshires in the ’60s. All the legends came up from New York and played but Jimmy went a step further and moved here. Passed away right here in Pittsfield and that’s why I have it mind to bring more light to his work locally. We need a Jimmy Giuffre Day and music festival at least. Disgraceful it doesn’t yet exist if you ask me.

Cecil Taylor — “Indent: First Layer”

Indent by Cecil Taylor. I keep returning to this record with big headphones lying in bed going places. It feels so important to me but I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to anyone before.

Bill Orcutt — “Odds Against Tomorrow”

Someone else who I would imagine feels the same… Bill’s latest is gorgeous. Bought it in LP form at my local shop so it’s a part of my LP listening which is sort of a different station in the house. Right in the dining/living room zone which usually means being aware of other people when I put on music and I’ve noticed this is a Sunday record. This falls under the list of drumless solo recordings.

Anthony Braxton and Eugene Chadbourne — Duo (Improv) 2017

Duo (Improv) 2017 by Anthony Braxton Eugene Chadbourne

I must say the pinnacle of the drumless duos so far on my path is the 8 hour box from 2017 by Anthony Braxton and Eugene Chadbourne. In the booklet there is an hourglass between them in the studio. Consequently, I noticed that each piece (8 of ’em) are an hour long. I don’t know. Something about that seems so intense to me. We’re going to improvise together for eight hours using an hourglass to guide the pieces and when the last grain falls…

Okkyung Lee — “The Crow Flew After Yi Sang”

I make some of my own instruments with piezo pickups I’ve soldered and they are, barring the cigar box guitars, basically electric percussion sculptures. The series started with circular wooden platters and the first one was called The Pizza. The second one was all painted red and called The Borscht. I use lots of pedals and compose with them via cut up. I could imagine a Okkyung Lee collab with that stuff going pretty well. This cello sounds like someone sawing their own throat with a piano string, it’s truly gorgeous.

Doc and Merle Watson — “Summertime”

Yeah, I listen to music with vocals too. Here’s one of my old fav’s. I recall learning all of the songs on Elementary (poorly) through the years and am still looking for my partner in crime to start a duo that does this kind of stuff at apple picking days at the orchard and such.

Mississippi Fred McDowell — “Jesus Is On The Mainline”

This is a whole live record of Fred on electric guitar with bass and it’s a source of great power in my opinion. It journeys without fear, is fully aware of itself, and as a recording captures the exacting and indivisible nature of earth and wind. And technically speaking, if you're like me and need a slide guru look no further.

Jonathan Richman — “Wait! Wait!”

I wouldn’t want to finish the list without breaking the rule a couple times! One of my favorite duos — Tommy and Jonathan! Ishkode Ishkode and Jonathan’s other latest records on Blue Arrow is a joyful place that I return to without fail. His new one, SA, we have at the vinyl station too though it’s more a making dinner and singing along record. Two things I must do daily.

Billie Holiday — “The Same Old Story (Take 1)”

You might have heard of Billie Holiday. She shouldn’t be left out of any list. This is the one for me. The band, the intro, the piano solo, the swing, the session, the lyric, the delivery. I listen to this over and over and over. When the horns come back in on story and the whole groove locks in I’m in ecstasy, but it’s new to me.

[supermanshield]

But not all of them, he loves

~~~

If anyone’s heart is big enough to love two people, it’s Clark’s. 

~~~

This deals with polyamory and open relationships. Clark/Lois and Clark/Bruce. The main focus of the fic is Clark/Bruce, but it’s angsty.

Words: 2,896

A/N: The timeline/continuity on this is weird, maybe. The boys are still quite young (I imagine them at the end of their 20s in this), have maybe been superheroing for a couple years max. There is a league.

Read on AO3

______________________________________________

Jimmy’s chosen the place. He’s absolutely star-struck and aware of the company he’s in, but keeps it cool as he leads their little party into a relatively quiet bar in downtown Metropolis. Barry had suggested a karaoke place in Tokyo, and Clark had to remind him that not everyone he wanted to invite would be able to fly, run, or teleport there. So, Barry is here, in civvies, and Hal with him. Behind them enters an eerily human-looking J’onn, and John Stewart, even though he’s not in the league anymore, but he tells a damn good story and Clark wouldn’t want one of his closest friends to miss his bachelor party. Pete has flown out here all the way from Smallville, just for him.

As if by miracle, Bruce has shown up too, although he keeps looking over his shoulder when they’re still out on the street, high-collared jacket and baseball cap obscuring his face. Clark is happy to see him take it off once they’re inside, but some of that fades when he notices the stiches above one of his eyebrows and makeup covering a bruise on his left cheek.

When they’re all finally settled around a large table tucked into the back of the bar – it’s quiet, even for a Friday, but you can never be too careful, and Clark is happy he let Jimmy choose the location because he obviously knows his way around Metropolis nightlife – Oliver walks in, large grin plastered onto his face. Bruce looks as if he wants to castrate him, grumbles something about discretion and leaving any society reporters at the door. The two billionaires argue back and forth a bit, Clark hears Oliver mention something about it being fine that he parked his helicopter on top of the Metropolis branch of Wayne Enterprises, and yes. They’re complete. The night of his bachelor party is underway.

Lois is with Diana, Cat, and a couple of other friends. Clark has offered to let everyone choose, they didn’t have to do the traditional men-women thing, but Diana said she would choose Lois’ bachelor party over his any day of the week. To which, of course, Lois was absolutely rub-it-in-your-face for about a week. That Wonder Woman wanted to party with her, and not with him, and somewhere, Clark can’t wait to hear what they’re getting up to right now. Everything at its time, though.

He orders everyone a round of drinks, Hal claps him on the back (which he immediately regrets and Clark is the one to apologize), there’s toasts.

“Are you nervous, man? I know I was,” Hal starts. “They say nothing changes, it’s just a piece of paper, blabla, but it does!” Everyone laughs. “I’m telling you, the moment you get back from your honeymoon, you’re knee deep in domesticity and no more going out.”

“I don’t think that will be much of a problem with Lois, Hal. Although we did have that a little bit when Jon arrived. But Lois couldn’t wait to get back out.” It’s Clark’s turn to laugh.

“If anything, she’ll start dragging you out to more things,” Jimmy adds gleefully and winks at Clark.

“Anyway,” Oliver starts, holds up his glass. “Last night as a free man!” Clark’s never really understood that. Lois has already captured him a long time ago in so many ways. All of them he loves, but he raises his half-empty glass anyway.

The table settles into a comfortable chit-chat, more jokes about Clark, stories of the early days of the league, memories and laughs. Somehow, his gathered and stray group of friends mixes surprisingly well, for which he’s grateful. Maybe this really won’t be so bad, and tomorrow will be the best day of his life (or so they say).

-

Amid the chatter, he looks at Bruce on the other side of the table, utterly out of place between their friends in a dark brown bar and jazz music playing softly. As Clark talks and laughs with the others, Bruce looks back at him. The gaze unsettles him, as it always does, makes him question things, as it always does. It shouldn’t. Not anymore.

(He’s chosen. A long time ago in fact. Lois is the one that waits for him, all the time. That doesn't turn him away. The one to make him laugh and feel at home in a city where no one knows each other. The one that holds him at night when the world has been too much. Bruce can simply never be that.)

---

“We should stop,” Bruce breathes, inch away from his mouth and the wall of the cave wet behind his cape.

“She’s okay with it.”

“To what extent?”

Clark sighs, swallows. “I don’t know, exactly.”

“That’s something you might want to consider discussing.” Bruce turns away before he can come up with a reply. The rock crumbles under his hand and Bruce tells him to leave when he reaches the computer.

---

“… and then Hal went and actually asked her for it! You should have been there!” The group’s laughter pulls him out of his thoughts and he laughs along meekly when Pete taps him on the shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.”

“Not getting cold feet are we, Clark?” Oliver asks.

He looks at Bruce. “No.”

-

The night eventually takes them back out onto the streets, half of them already stumbling as they make their way out of the small bar, but the cool night air sobers them up. Jimmy hangs onto Clark’s shoulders, Barry tries to jump onto his back for a piggyback ride, but Clark is fast to blur away, too fast for Barry, who, despite his fast metabolism, is a little intoxicated.

“So, what now? Night’s still young.”

“That it is, Hal. If you’re on the west coast.” Oliver has his hands in his pockets, Bruce’s cap is back over his eyes.

“Hey, supes can just fly around the world and spin back the clock a little, yeah?”

“You know I can’t actually do that, right? Ask Barry.”

“Nope, not tonight. I’ll throw up.”

“Not to mention you’ll mess up big time.”

“Any other good joints around here, Jimmy?” John asks.

“Plenty. What do you say, Clark? Another bar? Something more adventurous?”

“I have an apartment close to here,” Bruce cuts in. “Bar’s fully stocked.”

“Of course you do.”

“Don’t you?” Bruce raises an eyebrow at Oliver. “Comes in handy when I have to keep an eye on a certain Superguy around here.”

The small crowd looks at Clark, awaiting answer. “Sure,” he shrugs. “It has a nice view.”

---

Lois is pregnant at home on the couch and he’s in an unfamiliar bed, away from her. The apartment feels cold, not kept by Alfred, and only illuminated by a bright moon streaming through the sheer curtains draped across large windows. The bed sheets are white, the walls light, and the corners angular, modern. A bigger contrast with Bruce’s bedroom at the manor is near impossible.

“I don’t know what you want anymore, Clark,” Bruce says as he rolls away from him, sits up. “Don’t you like this place?”

“Bruce. You bought a penthouse in downtown Metropolis. For what? To be closer?”

“It seemed convenient.”

“Don’t talk to me about convenience when I could fly to Gotham in less than a minute.”

“You know what I mean.” When the baby arrives.

“Bruce,” he starts again. But gets stuck, because what does that mean? He swallows, makes a decision in the span of a second. “I won’t be here. He’s going to need a dad. Lois needs me.”

“Okay. That’s clear.” Bruce gets up. “Okay,” he says again as he walks to the bathroom.

Yet after that, there’s the bed, cold and warmed up by their bodies on a chance night, or a take-out dinner on the couch, a documentary running quietly on the large flatscreen TV while they talk. Lois never asks, but only because she knows. Jon grows healthily, strong, Lois falls asleep in Clark’s arms, and he feeds Jon in the middle of the night.

---

Now, the apartment smells clean, the fridge is empty but the pantry fully stocked. And the bar, as Bruce said. Two couches face each other in front of large windows, Clark knows which door leads to the bedroom. He doesn’t look at it.

Bruce switches on all the lights, it floods the place in yellow. It’s bright in a way Clark’s never seen it, he realizes. He pulls out a couple of bottles, asks the others what they want. A mirror of Brucie Wayne, host and not how Clark has ever seen him, here.

“You been here before, Clark?” Jimmy asks.

“Yes,” he admits.

“Sweet place.”

The group gets comfortable on the couches, Bruce suggests they could play pool, and Clark has a hard time imagining Bruce doing anything so casual. He wonders if he’s good at it, if he’s played here before, with anyone else. The pool table is new.  

John draws up some kind of a tournament, teams are formed and bets are placed. Clark sits on one of the couches next to Bruce, watching the others play, another beer in hand and Bruce has started a glass of whiskey. He’s savouring it, clearly enjoying the flavour and laughs at Barry’s jokes, J’onn’s overly serious tactics at the pool table. Clark can’t get a grasp on how normal Bruce looks, how calm, as if nothing will change tomorrow. Here, of all places and it’s somehow not fake.

He realizes, Bruce brought them here to abandon the illusion that were those slow, quiet nights. It’s a normal apartment, he says with this. It will be, now. After tomorrow. A comforting thought as much as a terrifying one.

The cashmere of Bruce’s turtleneck is soft under his fingers when he reaches out to him and there’s a glint in his eyes that Clark is unable to read, hasn’t seen in a long time.

“Can I try a glass of that too?”

“I didn’t know you were into whiskey.”

“Hey, it’s my bachelor night. I got taste buds.”

Bruce smiles. “Sure.”

Clark leans against the large island counter as Bruce reaches for a whiskey glass that he could have easily found himself.

“It doesn’t have to end,” he says to Bruce’s back.

“Doesn’t it.”

The soft kitchen light hits Bruce’s shoulders just so, accentuates his jaw, and makes him yearn for simpler times. Bruce on one of the bar stools, humming as he tastes the food Clark’s cooked for him, same light, same cashmere sweater. Who was the one to complicate it anyway? Briefly, Clark wonders if he’s made a mistake by asking Lois to marry him, but no. Bruce is the mistake. Clark was just the one to make it.

“I mean,” he starts. “I don’t know. What difference does marriage make, anyway?” Clark laughs. It comes out hollow.

“This ended a while ago, Clark. Tonight is merely closure.”

Bruce is right, of course. “Okay.”

Bruce hands him the glass, their fingers touch, and that’s it. He sends him a look, one that says are you, though? but Clark doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just walks back to the living room. It’s his turn at pool.

-

Not an hour later Clark finds himself on the bed, the carpet in front of him only illuminated by the faint light reflected off the clouds over Metropolis. Raindrops stick to the large windows as they trickle down, and isn’t that ironic? Rain in Metropolis the night before Superman gets married.

“Thought I might find you here.” Laughter and yelling drift into the room before Bruce quietly shuts the door again.

“I just needed a minute to come to terms with the fact that we just... broke up, I think?”

Bruce stays in the middle of the room. “You knew that would happen. You chose.”

“I did.”

“Then stop with the guilt. I’ll be fine." His expresssion softens. "I have a kid to take care of now, too.”

“He’s great,” Clark smiles. “I know you will be.”

“Worried about yourself then?”

“I think I’ll just miss you. Miss this.”

Clark gets up and walks past Bruce. The glass of the window is cold under his touch, the street far below them. Bruce's fingertips white, his palm pressed flat again the glass, same view. He kisses Bruce's neck, tells him he loves him. He chooses those moments carefully, when it barely registers, when Bruce is almost physically unable to respond. But he makes sure he knows, anyway.

“Me too.” Bruce’s hand is on his arm now, turning Clark towards him. Bruce has captured him too, in many ways. But not all of them he loves.

(It’s hard to love Bruce Wayne. It’s hard not to love him.)

A tentative smile forms on Bruce’s face. “Last night as a free man, right?” Bruce’s offer is tempting, they’re already crowding each other’s space, heartbeats loud and it won’t take much more now. But that will only make it harder. Clark shakes his head. Still, he hugs Bruce closer, caresses his temple, mindful of the stitches on his brow. Bruce leans into the touch.

“Why does it feel so wrong to love two people, Bruce?”

Bruce huffs. “Society. Most people don’t have a big enough heart. Plus, partners cannot deal with the jealousy.”

“But you do.”

“I’m not Lois, nor is she me.”

They could never replace one another. Clark’s breathing feels restricted, his throat thick, in spite of Bruce’s comforting presence. “What if I don’t want to choose?”

“Then don’t.” Bruce’s hand moves up along Clark’s arm. “Then don’t.”

He isn’t sure who starts the kiss, but their noses touch, breathing the same air, lips brush. There’s no tongue. It’s not a start, not tonight. It’s an end.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry for loving you. Sorry for choosing Lois. Sorry for everything we did together.

“Don’t be.” Bruce is the one to make sure there is some breathing room between them again, his hand lingers. “You and I both know I've always been number two. And I... was okay with that. It was enough. In fact,” he chuckles. “It was almost too much.”

The cave is only illuminated by the blue light of the computer monitor as Clark lifts Bruce out of his chair, already fast asleep. Alfred watches from a distance and thanks Clark for arriving so fast. On those night, he sleeps next to Bruce, just to keep him in bed. On nights that Bruce pushes him away, stuck in a case and his anger almost palpable, even Superman admits defeat. Clark waits for him upstairs and eventually leaves through the window before dawn to go back to Metropolis, bed unslept in.

He’ll make sure Bruce is fine without him. Alfred knows who to call.

“I want to move out to the farm with them. Jon needs room to grow. Rao knows I did.” He smiles at the memories of Kansas, yellow fields and endless sky where he learnt to fly, where he could be himself.

“Stubborn. Thinking you can take Lois out of the city.” Bruce doesn’t know they’ve already talked about it. “But that’s good. I’ll make sure to visit with Dick and Alfred.”

“We can play baseball.” Outside, the rain has stopped, the sky slowly turning lighter.

Bruce throws him something as he walks back to the door. The key to the apartment. “Stay here tonight.”

“It’s morning.”

“Whatever. I’m going home, I’ll see you at the wedding.”

“Catch some sleep,” Clark tries before Bruce opens the door, but he’s already gone.

In the living room, the others are in various states of consciousness. John and J’onn, back in his alien form, are still wrapped up in their game of pool, Barry and Hal asleep on the couch and Jimmy and Pete passed out on the other. The coffee table between them is littered with beers and glasses. Oliver has his forehead on the cool marble of the kitchen island. He turns his face to Clark.

“Bruce just left without saying anything. What happened?”

Clark thinks, shrugs. “Not important. He gave me the key, we can stay here until we’re ready to go to the wedding in a couple hours.”

“A couple hours…” Oliver groans.

“Is that an early wedding gift, Clark?” John asks from over by the pool table.

Clark looks at the key in his hand. “No,” he chuckles. “I’m pretty sure he’ll want it back.”

“I’ll never understand the guy.”

“Don’t even try. That’s what we have Clark for,” Oliver says to the marble counter.

“I mean, I like to think I’ve got a pretty good grasp of him, but he surprises me too.” His soft insides contrasted by a hard shell, blackened by trauma and the night. His cryptic language that is like a puzzle for Clark to unfold, understand, reciprocate. They’ll still have that, have friendship. And the memories of time spent together.

In the distance, he hears Bruce’s heartbeat speeding back to Gotham. With him, doubt that leaves Clark, replaced with a light and excitement. He looks out the window up at the blue sky over the city. He’s getting married today.

He regards his friends, a bunch of gathered individuals, outcasts like himself who have found each other through Clark, through the purpose of trying to do good. “Who wants breakfast? I’ll go get eggs.”

[unholyseattle]

BELLEVUE / EASTSIDE

Bellevue is a city in Washington state, across Lake Washington from Seattle. Downtown Park has a large lawn, gardens and a waterfall. Nearby, the Bellevue Arts Museum features craft and design exhibitions, plus a sculpture garden. The Bellevue Botanical Garden highlights Pacific Northwest plants, and includes woodlands and wetlands. KidsQuest Children’s Museum has interactive science, tech and art exhibitions.

MAP OF BELLEVUE / EASTSIDE

Thanks to Bellevue’s diverse population, international cuisine abounds. For Taiwanese specialties like soup dumplings, Din Tai Fung (700 Bellevue Way NE, Ste 280) is worth the wait, while the related jian buns from Dough Zone (15920 NE Eighth St, Ste 3) are delectable. Inside modern Monsoon (10245 Main St), where Vietnam meets the Pacific Northwest, the Drunken Chicken strikes just the right balance of crunch and flavor. For sushi in a fashionable setting, look no further than Flo Japanese Restaurant & Sake Bar (1150 106th Ave NE). On the sweet side, the Insane Sundaes from Vivo 53 (504 Bellevue Way NE) are works of art. Take plenty of pictures before downing the Candy Esplosione, a sundae topped with a lollipop, M&Ms, rock candy, pretzels, a chocolate peanut butter brownie, and so much more. Also on the fun end of the spectrum, Lunchbox Laboratory (989 112th Ave NE, Ste 105) serves up creative cocktails and boozy shakes, like the tasty Cinnamon Toast Crunk (vanilla ice cream and Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal with a test tube of cinnamon whiskey). Slightly more understated, the sea salt caramels with a glass of tawny port is the perfect ending to a meal at Purple Cafe & Wine Bar (430 106th Ave NE).

Whether you just want to do a little window shopping or you have your heart set on something specific, Bellevue has the store for you. The Bellevue Collection* (575 Bellevue Square) is an excellent place to start, with about 200 retailers—think everything from Amazon Books and The Container Store to Apple, Microsoft, Anthropologie, and Nordstrom. At The Shops at The Bravern (11111 NE Eighth St), find all the designer labels your closet could crave, including Gucci, Prada, and Jimmy Choo. Outside the malls, Main Street (known as Old Bellevue) houses a variety of cute shops. Whisk (10385 Main St) carries all the kitchen supplies your chef heart could desire. Down the street, Title Nine (10237 Main St) is a friendly place for women to get high-quality activewear, glassybaby (10230 Main St) sells coveted handmade candleholders that are a great Northwest souvenir, and home goods shop Hedge & Vine (10028 Main St) carries an array of eclectic wares.

No matter the time of the year, Bellevue Botanical Garden (12001 Main St) always has something in bloom among its 53 acres. Indoors, relax in a sensory deprivation tank at Float Bellevue (11101 NE 12th St) or indulge in hydrotherapy at Yuan Spa (1032 106th Ave, Ste 125). In the evenings, let your competitive side shine with a game of bowling at vintage-meets-mod Lucky Strike (700 Bellevue Way NE, Ste 250), take in live jazz at Bake’s Place (155 108th Ave NE, Ste 110), and see an aerial performance every Friday and Saturday around 8pm at lounge Suite (10500 NE Eighth St) inside the Hyatt Regency. If you’re here in late July, don’t miss the BAM ARTSfair from the Bellevue Arts Museum* (510 Bellevue Way NE), an annual tradition that dates back to the 1940s. During the event, 300 designers and craftspeople gather to display their handmade art that represents everything from classic to modern craft. And the annual Bellevue Strawberry Festival is a summertime tradition that celebrates the fruit and the city’s strawberry farming roots.

[sagiow]

We run a very tight ship - Chapter 4

kickass awesome moodboard courtesy of @jomiddlemarch​

Read the first three chapters here or on AO3

“Welcome aboard, Miss Green. Ready to set sail for the grandest of voyages?”

Emma smiled tightly, forcing her eyes to follow her lips, and knowing they failed. Instead, she averted them, hiding their escape behind a wholly unnecessary adjustment of her glasses. She stood between the First Mate and the chaplain in the haie d’honneur greeting her family aboard the most luxurious ship of their fleet, in the most breathtaking of atriums, by the grandest of staircases - so the heavy-handed brochure said. Captain Summers bowed low to the young lady, and lower to her mother beside her.

“Captain Summers,” she offered her hand daintily, never more the great lady then among her grossly underpaid staff. “I trust everything has been arranged as instructed?”

“To the letter, Mrs. Green. Your guests have been given all the best cabins, the most prestigious reserved, of course, for the bridal party. I must say, your daughter has truly outdone herself with the decoration and planning. Alexandria Line’s future is bright indeed,” he enthused, to Emma’s inner cringing. Dial it down, dude.

“Well she better has!” snapped the bride-to-be. “My wedding is the event of the year in this town and probably all of Virginia: it has to be absolutely perfect in every way. A question of Green family pride, which I’m sure she has very close to heart,” she added sweetly, as a cat offering a cleanly killed prey to its owner, and Emma braced for her to start eating the head. “After all, it’s probably the only Green wedding she’ll ever have the chance of organizing.” Crunch, there it is.

Ignoring her gift, Emma distributed programs to the guests, the embossed letters popping elegantly from the cotton cardstock. “We will let y’all settle in and hope you join the Captain tonight at eight for a welcome dinner,” she explained, her voice pleasant and professional, just greeting regular guests onboard as she did twice a month, every month of the year, year after year since her very first summer job as a stewardess; despite her mother's protests, Papa Green knew the value of learning the ropes from the very first rung up. “Do spend tomorrow getting acquainted with our wonderful Empress Queen and her numerous amenities; I personally recommend our luxurious spa and state-of-the-art virtual golf course. The rehearsal will be held on Tuesday, giving us Wednesday for any and all last-minute adjustments, and we’ll have the ceremony on Thursday. Reverend Hopkins is our onboard chaplain, and will be performing the service.”

On cue, the tall man next to her stepped forward, his hands clasped piously before him, visibly not as comfortable with discomfort as she was. “It’s a great honor to be marrying you, Miss Green,” he said, but cut himself short. Oh no, you beautiful doofus.

“You'll be what now, Reverend?” exclaimed the groom-to-be, his arm wrapping around Alice’s waist possessively. “Maybe buy me a drink or two before you marry my fiancée?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stringfellow,” the chaplain stammered. “I misspoke. I meant-”

“Oh, lighten up, buddy. I’m just fuc- sorry, screwing with ya. Just don’t misspeak – or stutter, ugh-  during the actual wedding, will ya?” 

God, please do, she prayed intently, while Frank turned his devilish dark eyes to her.“Hey, Soon-to-be-Sis, you better have stocked up on that premium bourbon I asked for, and left a case in the Honeymoon Suite. Which, as I also specifically requested, now better have mirrors on the ceiling and a heart-shaped hot tub."

"Oh Frank, no!” gasped Alice, shoving him away forcefully. “I insisted on 1896 Paris Art Nouveau, not 1986 Niagara Falls By-the-Hour Motel!”  

“Just fucking with you, babe,” he replied with a slap to her ass. Always the gentleman, Frank. “No, seriously though, Em, one major problem with that that fancy schedule of yours: when the hell’s the bachelor party?”

“The bachelor party’s anytime we’re not in her fancy schedule, Bro!” shouted a man descending the stairs. He was not clad in the cruise line’s signature green and white uniform, but in the most garish Hawaiian shirt and ostentatious sunglasses Emma had ever seen, as did the rest of the group of young men behind him. This time, she did not bother to hold her irritated sigh.

“Jimmy my boy! I knew there’d be no better best man for me! Finally, some good fuckin’ plannin’!” The two men embraced, slapping each other vigorously on the back. “You,” Frank then pointed to a helpless steward. “Take my stuff to my room, she’ll tell you which. And you,” he added with another clap to Jimmy’s chest. “Take me to the booze.” And without as much as a goodbye to their families, they stormed off across the atrium, a frat boy riot of jeers, shouts and high fives.

Slowly, Emma returned her attention to her overly merry mother, her smug sister, the clueless captain and the confused churchman. “Well, boys will be boys,” dismissed the matriarch, to relieved chuckles all around. “But they are right. There is so much to celebrate! Young love, and such a brilliant match! Alexandria Line and Stringfellow Sails coming together, what a dream! Come, dear, let’s get you settled in.”

With a gracious gesture, she motioned for the remainder of the bridal party to follow them and she closed the parade with a touch to Emma’s arm. “Do come by shortly, darling, I want to review the menu for tonight,” she said. “I do hope you’ve given our family’s famous desert its rightful place of honor.” That ancient apple nightmare? Yeah, rightfully in the trash, Mother, but she only agreed meekly. 

The families gone, the crew followed suit with visible relief, until Emma was left with the silent reverend, who shuffled his feet, perhaps regretting not having managed to vanish along with the rest.

“Uh... my congratulations.” He somehow made it sound like both a question and an apology. “They seem... swell.”

She could only do what she was taught best to do in such cases: smile and nod. And scream internally so loudly that each and every one of her cells shook.

“I can hear that,” he said, startling her. How the fuck- “The hamsters spinning, in your head. Something’s bothering you. Anything I can do to help?”

She looked at him, at the kind concern she’d seen so many times offered to the crew members on their long voyages away from friends and family, now focused solely upon her, and it was both wonderful and terrifying at once. She tucked an imaginary loose wisp of hair back into her bun and shrugged. “It’s nothing. Just the pressure of planning this event. It’s different when it’s... personal." Like your harpy of a baby sister marrying your jackass of a high school sweetheart.  

“I can imagine. Tall order you’ve got there. What was it, 1896 Art Deco?”

“Art Nouveau,” she corrected. “She’d have decapitated you for that mistake. Actually, no, that’s too swift and painless. Eviscerated’s more like it. With a blunt butter knife. Or her bare hands, if she hadn't just gotten her nails done.”

“Lovely. I see why the hamsters scamper thus; you’ve let the viper into their cage. You need a mongoose to chase it off: I might have just the thing.”  

Curious, she let him continue, cradling the leftover programs against her chest to muffle the embarrassingly loud drumming that emanated from it. “I have to cover for José at the jazz bar tonight, you should come by. I’ll make you the special drink I concocted for the occasion: the Blushing Bride. Now I see the name’s totally wrong. And the formula, too; I think it’ll need less subtlety and a lot more bitterness. Will you please help me?” he asked, leaning closer, with that somewhat shy smile of his that just begged to be kissed.

Instead, she pushed her glasses up her nose from the half-millimeter they had slid down, and felt in horror her body do that weird half-shrug, half-nod shuffle that it thought conveyed casual nonchalance. Real smooth, nerd. “If I’m released on time from that sure-to-be-extensive menu review... sure.”

“I’ll have you paged urgently at ten, something about the swan that’s being fattened for the wedding dinner,” he winked. “Or the peacocks they probably requested to act as ringbearers or footrests. Ha, Peacocks... that should be our safeword – uh, shit, no, uh... I meant code word. Code!” Oh no. He’s even more beautiful when he blushes.  

Oh shit. He said safeword... as in sex. Kinky sex. With him.  

Oh fuck. Now I’m blushing too. And my palms are sweaty. That’s gonna stain the paper. And leave marks. That he can probably see. Nooooo.

“I’ll... let you get to it, then,” he stammered again, backing away before waving awkwardly and turning to sprint. Don’t look at his ass, don’t look at.... oh fuck me, I'm staring at a pastor’s ass. I’m going to Hell. I’m getting brutally murdered by my family first and going straight to Hell afterwards.

I just have to find a way to stop the world’s worst wedding first, and have less than five days to do so, and a beautiful chaplain-cum-bartender that’s familiar with safewords to not fuck along the way.  

I'm so unbelievably screwed.

[havencfear]

@walkingmxuth​ sent: [ dance ] + a kiss on the cheek for jimmy and johnny

--> [ dance ] for your muse to dance with mine.

Jimmy didn’t dance. He said that every time one of them brought it up and asked after a set, but he just... Didn’t particularly like it. Unless, of course, there was alcohol involved and Jo happened to put on some music he could dance to. If those two things were met, he’d start dancing -- and tonight was no exception. When he was three Manhattans in and Jo turned the stereo on just for the ones left in the bar -- which consisted of the bartenders, the band, and a few stragglers. Most of the time he’d drag one of his friends, usually at random, to dance with him, but he didn’t have the chance to do that today. He spun around and Johnny was standing behind him, something he hadn’t anticipated. They hadn’t danced together in a long while since, not since the time Johnny had fallen over mid-song and hurt himself. He’d acted fine, but when Jimmy came by the next morning to make sure he was okay for work, he could tell it wasn’t good. So Jimmy had avoided it, completely consiously, to avoid hurting his closest friend again -- until now. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to -- he really wanted to, but he couldn’t risk hurting Johnny again. And before he could even ask about it, to make sure it was actually okay, Johnny’s hands were on his hips and he said something ridiculously incorrect in Spanish ( he’d called Jimmy night, but Jimmy wasn’t one to correct Johnny on anything regardless of language ) causing him to laugh so hard he dropped his head to rest his forehead on Johnny’s shoulder. And then they were on the dancefloor, dancing to a much slower song that he was sure wasn’t playing when he first started dancing. It was soft, minimal movement, which Jimmy almost preferred -- he was able to make sure Johnny wasn’t going to get hurt this time. That was always his biggest fear, being the reason his friend got hurt. The song was nice, a jazz version of some popular song he didn’t know too well, and he noticed other people getting up and dancing around them. He was starting to question why he avoided dancing with Johnny again in the first place, but it was all to easy for him to remember the sound of Johnny falling to the ground and the severe impact it had on him the next day. Thankfully, they made it all the way through the song without any issues, the two with matching smiles as he stepped away, Johnny talking soft as he asked ‘ that wasn’t so bad, wasn’t it? ’ and Jimmy shaking his head as he adjused his glasses. It wasn’t bad, far from it, and Johnny hadn’t fallen that time. It was certainly a win in Jimmy’s book. 

Not long after that the bar was clearing out, Jimmy standing at the door and waiting for Johnny to finish his goodbyes to walk home. As part of their routine Jimmy had perfected to make sure that Johnny was always safe, Jimmy made a point of walking Johnny home after work every day. It wasn’t too long of a walk, and usually he loved it -- with the exception of nights it rained, and even then it was still a highlight, but thankfully tonight was clear. It was like the universe was smiling down on Jimmy for the first time in close to a year, something he wasn’t sure if he should be aprehensive about or not. They talked about anything, Johnny driving most of the conversation as they walked, and eventually they made it to the door. Johnny had taken his pills and he could tell he’d be asleep as soon as he got inside, so Jimmy didn’t bother trying to help Johnny inside. Instead, he pushed up onto his toes and pressed a featherlight kiss to Johnny’s cheek, flushing a little. “ Thanks for dancing with me tonight. ” He smiled.

[rocket-roach]

Bruce Wayne has to go undercover working at Bat Burger. He hates his life. He tells no one, but somehow, everyone finds out anyway.

allow me to share some of my experiences working in retail pharmacy through bruce suffering in fast food

word count: 2164

“I’llbe dark for the next few weeks. Do not try to contact or find me. I can’tstress this enough,” Bruce said as he spun in his chain to face his assembledkids. “Gotham is resting on all of your shoulders. I know you can handle it. So,take care of her, okay? I’ll be back whenever the mission is done.”

Dicknibbled on his lip as his eyes flashed to the batsuit encased in glass.

“Do youwant me to go out as Batman?” He asked as his brothers and sisters eyestraveled to the offending case.

“No,”Bruce stood. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve gotten them quiet, and they shouldstay that way for a while. But don’t start any big cases until I get back. Thisis just patrol.”

Jasonpulled a pack of blue Camels out which was quickly followed by his Zippolighter. He lit up, blowing a smoke ring towards the roof of the cave. “What’sthe mission?”

“Stopsmoking in the cave. It upsets the bats. Also, that’s classified.”

“Classifiedfrom family?” Tim asked as he headed towards the fire extinguisher.

“I gethow the Justice League feels now,” Steph added.

“We’llkeep Gotham safe,” Dick said as Tim sprayed Jason with the fire extinguisher.

Withthe arrival of Bruce’s third decade of his vigilante career, he was getting damngood at putting on wigs and applying fake beards. He pulled the carefullyrumpled and wrinkled big box store button up from his suitcase and lookedaround at the crappy bedroom he’d rented in the larger, shittier two bedroomdeep within Gotham. He’d found this place after scouring Craigslist. It was 750square feet, with a gunk covered stove, blackened oven, and dish filled sink.Additionally, the bathroom appeared to have been designed in the 1920’s andthen had never been cleaned. His roommate was one Isaiah Addams.

Arecent grad from Gotham University, Isaiah was a country boy trying to make itbig in the big city. He was working at Big Belly Burger as well as a dive bardown the street. Isaiah was simple, ineffective, and for the sake of this case,an ideal roommate. But Isaiah only knew Bruce as Paul Scott, a down on his luckrecent divorcee who was out a wife, a job, and a house.

“HeyPaul?” Isaiah asked as Bruce finished checking over the resume he printed.

“Yeah?”

“Areyou uh, hungry? My friend Deb recommended this ramen place down the road. Shesaid I needed to try real ramen. I guess Maruchan isn’t the gold standard.”

“Thankyou, but I think I’ll pass. I need to save money until I can find a job.”

“Yourloss, man. By the way, Bat Burger is hiring. They’ll take anyone with a pulse.Have a good night.”

Brucewaved as Isaiah grabbed his keys, and slammed the rickety front door shut.Bruce ran a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. The apartmentreeked like the backed-up sewer that ran beneath it, and the stench of sewerwater was helping Bruce get further into character.

Thenext day found Bruce sitting in the chaotic closet that was the manager’soffice. Zach was a burly man, nearly too large to fit in the room. With eachmovement, the black swivel chair groaned.

“Yourresume’s impressive,” Zach started. “But you don’t have any food serviceexperience.”

“I’m aquick learner. I have some retail, customer service experience. To be honest,working in food is something I’ve always wanted to try. I’m always on time.”

“Youlive close?”

“Justdown the block.”

Zachsighed as he placed the resume on the television tray that was apparentlyserving as a desk. “Well, jobs yours. You can start today. Janey can starttraining you. You just missed the lunch rush, but by dinner we’ll have youflipping burgers.”

Janeywas a single mom of three, with only a GED and a 1990 silver Toyota Camry toher name. Her teeth were yellow from the cigarettes she’d been smoking sincesixteen and her hair had been permed into oblivion. But she was patient, whichmade his training go exceptionally.

“Alright,so Paul. You’re gonna get complainers. Old people, mainly. They’ll throw a fitif you so much as look at the burger wrong. The easiest thing to do is justredo it. But sometimes, they’ll throw a fit for a voucher. Cashiers can’t give‘em vouchers, and they know that. They’re gonna scream for the manager andZach’s always here. Just get Zach, sweetie. It’s less of a headache.”

Paulnodded, filing all this information away. He looked around at the fewcustomers, each sitting in their own booth, chowing down on the grease filledburgers with relish. Janey carried on through the training, showing him how tooperate the registers, which codes to call when he needed change, or when therewas too much cash in register. Then she moved him back into the kitchen. Oldfridges and even older ovens lined the walls, covered with black grease. He wasafraid to look into the grease traps.

Janeypassed him off to Daniel, the cook for the midshift.

“Youever flip burgers before?”

“No,”he answered honestly.

“Youabout to learn.”

Eventually,Daniel banished Paul from the kitchen. He had burned just one too many burgers,and that was how he found himself standing back at the register next to Jackie.It was five o’clock.

Brucewatched as the parking lot began to fill up with the cars of the people justgetting off work from Gotham’s downtown. Janey took a steadying breath, and thesmell of her most recent cigarette filled Paul’s nostrils.

DickGrayson walked in, his eyes rimmed by dark circles.

“Lemmeget Bat-beef deluxe with cheese and no tomatoes, please, Janey.”

“Surething, hon. You want to Jokerize that?” Janey asked as she typed in the order.

“Pleaseand thank you,” Dick narrowed his eyes as he took in Paul. “Haven’t seen you inhere before.”    

“He’s anew hire. Name’s Paul. Little shy but got a good head on his shoulders. Paul, Iwant you to meet Dick. He’s a cop.”

Dick’seyes were still narrowed.

“Paul,huh?”

“Uh,yes sir. Today’s my first day.”

“Anyoneever tell you, you kind of look like Bruce Wayne?”

 Afterthat, and a few more days of training, Paul offered to take theovernight shift. As he wiped down the tables, counting the customers in therestaurant, the amount of food they’d ordered, he decided that there was no waythis franchise was making enough money to stay open twenty-four hours a day andpay workers and other bills. When he was back in his mold-ridden apartment, headded notes to the ever-growing file he kept stashed underneath his mattress.He dressed in the ill-fitting batsuit and began his trek towards his job.

Theyellow streetlamps were bright enough to see the sidewalk, but not brightenough to illuminate the cracks and uneven slabs. He had a few skinned knees toprove it. But tonight, had been fall free. He stretched his arms above hishead, his neck cracking loudly as Sal, a regular, stomped back up to theregister.

Heslammed a half-eaten Mister Freeze dog onto the counter.

“I onlygot half a dog!”

Brucewatched as the ketchup oozed. “I gave you the full dog you ordered, Sal.”

“Don’t‘Sal’ me, Paul. You only gave me halfa dog. I want my money back. And a voucher. You know what? Get me your manager.I want to talk to Zach.”

“Hewent home for the day.”

“Thencall him! I can wait.”

“It’stwo in the morning. Zach won’t be in till about eight. I can get you Jazz,she’s working now.”

“No. Iwant to speak with the store manager. I want you fired.”

Brucealso wanted to be fired.

“I’llbuy his dog,” a deep voice that Bruce knew very well, cut in. “Sal, do you wantanother Freeze dog?”

“No!”

Redhood turned to face Sal, his hands drifting towards his hip holsters.

“I’mgonna ask one more time.”

 Brucequickly picked up on Janey’s tactic of going outside for a smoke. He didn’t smoke;maintaining his peak physical form and all that, but getting the fresh, sewagescented air of Gotham did help clear his head. Usually. When Jason wasn’tsmoking a cigarette three feet from him.

“Howlong?” Jay asked.

“Howlong what?”

“Don’tplay dumb, old man. I know who you are. Who you really are.”

“I’mPaul,” Bruce wanted to yell at him.

“Okay, Paul,” he said after blowing a smokeright. “Why are you here?”

“I needmoney,” Paul was starting to get a little pissed.

Jasonlaughed as he crushed the butt under his boot. “I need money, too. Yet, Ididn’t realize we were so destitute that you had to pick up a side gig at BigBelly.”

“I haveto go back to work,” Bruce’s face was pinched. If his damn kids didn’t stop,the whole thing would be blown. “Have a good day, sir.”

“’Sir’,” Jason started laughing. “You’re agoddamn hoot, Paul.”

 Paulwas locked into his room, buried in his notes when he heard Isaiah shouting forhim. He ignored him, hoping that Isaiah would shut up and let him work inpeace. It usually worked in the past. Usually. But soon the sounds of a scufflereached his bedroom.

Aheadache bloomed behind his eyes as he heard Tim Drake shouting his way toPaul’s room.

“Listen,kid, I dunno ho yougot in here, but you have to leave!”

“Isaiah,right? I just really need to talk to Bru- Paul. He’s behind… on his loanpayments.”

“Youlook like you’re twelve!” Isaiah said.

“Internship,”Tim fired back before he jimmied open Paul’s lock.

Paulhad been desperately trying to shove all his papers under the mattress, butthis damn kid was too fast. He darted over, snatching up as many papers as hecould. Bruce lunged for him. Tim dodged.

“Goddamnit!What part of ‘Dark, do not contact me,’was unclear to you all?” Bruce nearly snarled.

“It wasfine until we realized you’re trying to dethrone the Falcones. They knowsomeone is working against them from the inside, Bruce,” Tim waved as hescanned Bruce’s notes. “You’re writing as Paul, not Bruce. There are key factsmissing from this case—”

Brucewalked over to Tim. He grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt, and bodily liftedhim into the air. It was only then that Tim saw the anger bubbling in Bruce’seyes. He’d thought his dad would have been happy to see him after so many weeksgone, but Bruce just tired, frustrated, and bordering on pissed.

“Gohome,” he said lowly. “Tell everybody else this area is off limits. If I see any of you, you’ll all begrounded for the rest of your lives. Clear?”

“Crystal,”Tim gulped, slowly curling into a small ball.

   Paulwas coming up on two months on being undercover. After his conversation withTim, his children’s visits had cut down significantly. But tonight, as he threwthe heavy black trash bags into the dumpster behind the building, he noticedone small shadow that was out of place. He wiped his hands on his pants legs, looking up at his daughter.

“Cass.”

Theshadow disappeared for a moment, then appeared right in front of him. Her darkeyes were staring intensely at him; and with that Bruce realized she was aboutto ream him out. Her hands began flying, and it took every ounce of Bruce’sstrength not to immediately head home and start packing up his stuff.

“Iknow. I’m nearly done.”

“You’relying. To me,” she said.

“I’llkeep trying till you buy it,” He smiled sheepishly.

“Even Icould tell that you were,” Damian’s voice reached him from above.

Brucelooked up, mildly impressed with his youngest’s ability to sneak. He wasgetting better. Glacial blue eyes flickered to Cass, and she was grinningproudly.

“Oh,god. You two have been teaming up,” he groaned. “Fine, two more weeks. I’llhave it all wrapped up.”

It didn’ttake two weeks. It didn’t even take one. The Falcone’s goons blew up hisapartment as he was leaving for work that night. Isaiah, thankfully, had gone outto sing in the subway. Bruce sighed as the flaming remnants of his notesfloated to the ground. He went to work after giving a statement to the policeand ignoring the way Gordon kept staring at him.

The doorcreaked open.

Insidesat Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Orphan, Robin and Spoiler. Hog tied at theirfeet sat the Falcone family, gagged and growling.

“Paul,”Nightwing smiled. “Did you know you were working for the most notorious crimefamily in Gotham?”

[erinelezabeth920]

Love in the Time Of

Nostalgia. Do you remember the last trip you went on? Maybe it was a road trip, or a flight above patchwork plains? Or maybe a visit to family, the old and familiar grating with the growth of life? Do you remember that feeling of just... moving? The passing trees, the stirring as the landscape shuffles and re-arranges itself into your own soul puzzle. It’s a wanderlust- inherent, vital and deep. I remember wind on the mountains- Wyoming maybe or wildflowers in a spring breeze in Colorado. I remember a trumpet in New Orleans in the rain, walking the streets in a whisky daze, taking in melodies that wedged their way into my body like the droplets that fell from the sky. Last night I drank rose and watched an episode of Ken Burns’ documentary on country music. They were at the beginnings, origins until 1930s or so. The sound of the banjo, harmonica, fiddle, mandolin all merging from different areas of the word- the banjo out of Africa and the Caribbean into the horrors of slavery, used to uplift out of a deep and lasting persecution until even the whispered legacy was taken and mangled for white gain. The mandolin from Italy and continental Europe, and the fiddle from the English ballads, Scottish Highlands all merging for something completely new. As I watched, and the melodies faded in and out, I remembered nights in the mountains trying to strum my little guitar under a desert moon. I remembered Indiana, driving through rain listening to bluegrass. I remembered stories my mother and aunts told me of my grandfather, who died when I was in high school. He used to sit on the porch through summer nights and strum his guitar, singing all the old country ballads out of the hills and radio of the 1930s, occasionally throwing in a yodel to the fireflies dotting the upstate New York corn fields. Add that to the Irish and Scottish heritage that runs through my veins, and I’m drawn to the fiddle and picking like a moth to light. I had been listening to an episode of ‘Dolly Parton’s America’ while I cooked dinner; pasta and vegetables while the rain pounded outside. From my headphones, Jad Abumrad had been describing Dolly’s ‘Tennessee Mountain Home’ and the essence of nostalgia in country music. A longing for simpler times. ‘Country music,’ he had said as I strained the pasta into the sink, “is immigrant music.” He went into it a bit. Country music, at its core, is about a longing for something that is gone. A home that once was. A front porch. The sound of a river, or the whistle of a train to unknown places. A sense of home that can’t even be expressed except through a melody that you somehow feel you’ve known your whole life. Once the podcast ended, I sat with my glass of wine out of a can and pasta in front of the TV.  Andy was hosting a DnD sesion in the bedroom. I scrolled until I found the PBS episode. I drank my wine and slurped pasta as we went deep into black and white photos and voiced-over stories as Ken Burns does. The origins of those old folk songs we know well, (think “O Brother Where Art Thou” soundtrack), one song taken from the other until they’re blended into our conscious and unconscious history. “Music,” Jad had said, “is the soundtrack to our lives. Wherever we go, its with us. And that’s how we mixed.” Jimmie Rodgers circa 1929 travelled around “catching songs.” He’d drive sometimes 90 miles into the hills to listen to someone singing in their kitchen, gather it up in a flutter of shifting memories and dust, and put it down to record. When “Mule Skinner Blues’ began playing over some old photos, I yelped, “Holy crap that’s Dolly’s song!” I knew it was an old folk tune, but I didn’t realize it was Jimmie Rodgers, the OG of country according to most. Dolly took the original lick and turned up the volume to 10. “That song,” Jad had said at one point, “is fire.” Twenty or so minutes later, as the episode credits rolled, lo and behold Dolly’s version began playing. I let the credits roll until finished. Then I turned off the TV and sank into the couch. Silence. 

“Okay Google,” I called to the kitchen, “...play ‘Mule Skinner Blues’ by Dolly Parton.” 

Jad’s right. That song is fire. 

When it finished, too lazy to bother, the Spotify algorithm marched on with the next song. It was Dolly’s voice, but she was singing ‘The Story.’ “Isn’t this Brandi’s song?” Andy asked from the computer where he was now playing video games.

“I think so?” I googled it. Brandi Carlisle, 2007. Dolly Parton cover. “Damn,” I said, “Dolly’s covering Brandi? That’s epic.” “Okay Google, play ‘The Story’ by Brandi Carlisle.” Dolly’s version was fine, but Brandi is the new queen. I laid on the couch and listened. As her gritty, smooth voice washed over me, I remembered Chattanooga, Tennessee in early September. I remembered sitting in a lawn of a big park, festival lights strung through the heavy leaves, a wide river, humid skies, a big moon. The day had been sweltering, but by the time Brandi came out for her headliner it had cooled to an ease. The grass was full of people, standing, sitting, or somewhere in between. The air dripped and hummed and turned indigo as she sang her first note.   Google then moved on to Joni Mitchell. Good job algorithm, because I happened to remember that Tennessee night in September, Brandi telling us that Joni was her idol. She was going to have a chance in a month or so to play the album ‘Blue’ all the way through for Joni herself. ‘I’m going to royally fuck up,” she told us. “I need to practice on you.” So she did. I closed my eyes. The moon reflected in scintillations on the river. I thought she sounded like warm honey. I went to get up, to turn off the music and go to bed. It was late and I had to work in the morning. As I walked over toward the kitchen the little white screen on the counter tucked behind the coffee maker, as if in a small act of defiance, struck up some solemn piano chords. The beginning of ‘I And Love And You’ by the Avett Brothers. I sighed softly, cursed the Spotify algorithm for being too damn good, and slowly walked back to the couch. I laid down and closed my eyes.

Immediately I saw in my mind the wide Columbia River at sunset, the sweeping rocks and plains of Eastern Washington. The music filled the gorge like a bowl, rising up as if from the river itself. I’ve seen the Avett Brothers twice live, both times at the Gorge Amphitheater sitting next to friends as the sky lit on fire. The clouds turned orange to dark blue, and the lights of the stage looked like heaven twinkling. I could feel the blanket beneath me, the cold grass, the gentle swaying of the bodies of my friends beside me. “Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in... are you aware the shape I’m in. My hands they shake my head it spins. Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in.” The mighty Columbia flowed dark and wide in the space beyond. 

(The Gorge, August 2019) Back in the apartment, eyes still closed as the notes lingered, trying to hold on to the wisps of memories, Google moved on to “The Joke”. Back to Brandi. If you know that song, I don’t need to explain. The music swelled. She basically shattered her emotions through the ceiling in a soaring arc of notes. I thought of her, young and unknown busking at Pike Place, the folk ringing through her voice surrounded by the grunge of the 90s in back bars and alleys. You can hear it in her songs, the moody gray sky, ocean and deep misty mountains, chunky guitar and angst. They try to put us in boxes, slap on labels but the joke’s on them. It’s ‘the rub’, as Ken Burns called it. Seattle and folk, Tennessee and jazz. Slavery and persecution, reconstruction and high rises. The rub of people and place, the mixing and sighing of ideas like notes mingling in the night air. “Imagine a ship,” says Jad. “Nineteenth century, whaling ship maybe in the Indian Ocean. Full of people from different cultures, places. What did they have with them? Likely instruments. And a lot of free time.” Do you remember the last trip you took? The sounds, the sights, the smells passing you by like dandelion seeds drifting in the wind. They latch onto your coarse sweaters, stick to your old shoes. Maybe they’re discarded, or they take root, slowly growing into something more. You know that scene at the end of Lord of the Rings, where Sam and Frodo are on the side of Mt. Doom and Frodo says, “No Sam, I can’t recall The Shire, nor the taste of strawberries?” Sometimos, especially recently, I feel like that. I know it’s dramatic, but it’s also true. The hug of a friend, a seething mass of bodies at a concert, the electricity of a new city, or moonlight floating on a river as Joni Mitchell is practiced to the Tennessee sky. It’s the rub, brushing up against life, re-inventing ourselves over and over, growing like the dandelion into our veins, a little newer each time.  I miss it. I told Google to turn off the music. The rain outside had stopped. I got up off the couch. Andy sat at the computer, headphones on. I brushed my teeth and went to bed, the silence of the apartment heavy as a blanket. And somewhere in the space between sleep and dreams, a fiddle flickered a tune, fading into the ether like moonlight falling on the dark water below.

[onejazztrackaday]

So What

Even Dizzy doesn’t know who, when, why, or how his song Interlude got renamed A Night in Tunisia. It was recorded, and regularly performed under that title, by Charlie Parker and Miles Davis, so I’m attributing it to them.Which brings me nicely to Miles Davis.

If you were wondering how long it would take me to get around to the biggest selling jazz album of all time, the most influential jazz album of all time, and my personal favourite jazz album of all time, wonder no more. 

Kind of Blue has sold over 6 million copies world wide. In 2009 it was selling 5000 copies per week. For those who like genre labels, Kind of Blue, is the pinnacle of Cool Jazz. Technically I guess you’d call it “post-bop modal jazz”. It’s this modal jazz that captured the imagination and ears of generations of music lovers (not just jazz lovers - the album is cited as a major influence by many rock and pop musicians). So what’s modal jazz? Most jazz standards are known by their chord progressions. Musicians are either given chord charts, or a full score, and when they improvise, they do so over the chord pattern. But in modal jazz, they have a specific modal scale, not a series of chords. this is what Miles himself said about this style of composition...

No chords ... gives you a lot more freedom and space to hear things. When you go this way, you can go on forever. You don’t have to worry about changes and you can do more with the [melody] line. It becomes a challenge to see how melodically innovative you can be. When you’re based on chords, you know at the end of 32 bars that the chords have run out and there’s nothing to do but repeat what you’ve just done—with variations. I think a movement in jazz is beginning away from the conventional string of chords ... there will be fewer chords but infinite possibilities as to what to do with them.

Of course, the other reason the whole album sounds so relaxed and flawless is the line up of muso’s playing on it. Davis’s ensemble sextet features saxophonists John Coltrane and Julian “Cannonball” Adderley, pianist Bill Evans, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Jimmy Cobb, with new band pianist Wynton Kelly appearing on one track in place of Evans. So this album was always going to appear in the first week of #one-jazz-track-a-day, but it’s meant to be one track a day, not a whole album. Choosing a favourite track on this album is a bit like choosing a favourite child. I strongly suggest you do yourself a favour and sit down tonight with a glass of red, in a quiet room, and listen to the whole album. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy So What – Bozzie 🎷