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queenmuzz · 3 years

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So, anyways, I saw something @liulyam had posted for Spardaverse a while back I DON'T KNOW HOW I MISSED THEIR WONDERFUL ART FORGIVE ME! Anyways, I saw specifically THIS piece of art, and it sent the brain juices into overdrive....

So, the same thing plays out everyday. Nero gets off the school bus and runs in, backpack flying, and tells his uncle excitedly about his day at school, before racing up the stairs to tell his dad the same thing, in the same adorably animated manner. Unfortunately, Vergil doesn’t respond the same way as Dante, sitting still, not even acknowledging that the boy is talking to him. Initially, Nero doesn’t mind, understanding his recently rescued father has been through a lot, and needs time and patience to recover. But as the months pass by, Dante notices that his nephew doesn’t run up the front steps as eagerly, his descriptions of school become shorter, paler. And most worryingly of all, Nero spends less and less time with Vergil, preferring to peek his head in the man’s room, sigh, and slowly make his way to his own room, closing the door sullenly.

“What’s going on Nero?” Dante takes the plunge and asks him one day, before the boy trudges up the stairs. “You haven’t been that rambunctious ball of energy lately.”

Nero kicks the worn hardwood floor. “It’s dad… I know you told me I need to be patient,” his face scrunches up at the word, it’s a thing he’s never been able to truly do. He’s definitely a Sparda boy. “But he just keeps ignoring me. He won’t talk, won’t even look at me. It’s like I don’t even exist! Maybe...maybe he doesn’t want me to exist-”

“Hey now!” Dante needs to nip this train of thought in the bud. He knows first hand where it can lead to. Had he not found Nero nearly nine years ago, while wandering the world, drinking up every bar’s entire inventory in a vain attempt to fill a void in his chest, who knows where he would have ended up? “Your dad...well, even without the stuff he’s been through, he was never much of a talker. Always preferred to have his actions speak for him.” “But that’s the thing, Uncle Dante!” Nero blurts out, close to tears. “He DOESN’T DO ANYTHING!!! He doesn’t care!” And with that, Nero bolts up the stairs, past Vergil’s room, not even checking up on him, and slams his bedroom door with such force, Eva’s portrait wobbles on the desk and tips over. Dante sighs, sets his mom back up, and slowly makes his way up the stairs. Not to Nero’s room; Dante knows better than to provoke that tiger cub when he’s in an ornery mood. It’s time to talk to his dad.

Vergil, or what’s left of him, is sitting in an oversized chair, the only one that fits his giant frame, facing the window, the only one in the place with a view. If he’s heard the ruckus (and Dante knows he has), he makes no indication that it affects him.

“Verg,” he calls out, “I know it's been rough, I know I piled on a lot of shit on you, the whole thing about having a kid and everything these past nine years. I’m not expecting you to just snap back to normal, and start insulting me like in the good old days, but…” Dante’s not good at this sort of thing. He’d rather Royal Guard his emotional turmoil. It used to be with alcohol, but now it’s with a cheery smile. “The kid needs a sign that you’re still there, you’re still fighting. I know you are, hell, you’re the one that helped me take down that bastard Mundus on Mallet Island. But that’s the thing, Nero’s only heard things that you’ve done, not seen them. You need to show him yourself, otherwise…” Vergil makes no motion, and even Dante, stubborn as he is, knows it’s fruitless to continue much more, “you’re gonna lose him too.” And then Dante heads back downstairs, to see if he can whip up a snack to bribe his nephew to come out of his lair. Strange, he swears he hears the rustle of fabric from Vergil’s room, as if his brother had just moved.

Nero sits at Dante’s desk, working on his math homework. It’s his least favourite thing, fractions. Uncle Dante is a whiz at them, and usually would be able to help him, but he’s gone out on an ‘Really quick, won’t be more than a half hour’ errand run. It’s been nearly two hours, and the only other adult here is his dad… so Nero is practically by himself.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Nero’s neck prick up, and he hears scrabbling at the front door. He’s still not allowed to go out with Uncle Dante or Auntie Lady on their hunts, but he knows what a demon feels like, especially when there are a lot of them. ESPECIALLY when they’re really powerful Instinctively, he grabs a chair, and wedges it underneath the door knob, and looks around in a panic. He’s never had to deal with a demon attack by himself before. He remembers his uncle has a case of weapons that he was told to NEVER touch beside the jukebox, but Nero figures that he can say sorry to his uncle later. He smashes the lock with a billiard ball, and yanks open the lid. He’s disappointed. He thought there would be a treasure trove of swords and guns, but all there are two swords, one red and one blue. But he doesn’t have much of a choice, and the whine of protesting wood ends with a thunderous CRASH, and demons pour through. “FIND THE HERETIC GOD SLAYER!” One says, before turning in Nero’s direction. Without much warning, it shrieks as it launches at him with razor sharp obsidian claws.

Nero might be little, but his uncle has trained him well. Whipping the two blades around, they connect the monster’s waist in a pincer move, and like a pair of scissors, bisect it in a shower of blood and ash. Nero swears he hears a voice (or is it two voices?) approvingly say, “Impressive!” but doesn’t have a chance to savour his very first demon kill as another demon comes at him, knocking him over. The reddish gold blade clatters away on the floor, way out of reach, not that it matters. Nero’s pinned to the ground by a skeletal foot, as the demon lifts a blade to impale him. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the end.

The final blow never comes. Instead, he hears shriek, and the pressure on his chest instantly subsides. He opens his eyes, to see it stagger back, its decapitated head clattering to the floor. Its brethren likewise are either dead or dying, their high pitched screams shattering the glass in the jukebox.

Nero’s first thought is that his Uncle has finally come home, Dante’s come to save me! But what’s odd is that there’s no sound of Dante’s beloved Ebony and Ivory. And last he checked, his uncle never was able to shoot out blue ghostly blades that now impale most of the horde. But it doesn’t matter, because his uncle is here to save the day! That is, until he yelps as he’s quickly, but not roughly picked up and held as whoever holds him spirits him out of the building, the blue blade still clutched in his hand. Nero begins to panic, but hears a voice, almost like a croak, as if the vocal cords had been in disuse for years…

Nero

And even though the voice is harsh sounding, it's one of the most comforting things Nero’s ever heard.

Of course that half hour errand run would turn out to be three hours. But when he was promised a free pizza for clearing out that demon nest on the West side, Dante couldn’t say no. Besides, he’d pick up some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the way home as a way of apologising to Nero. The kid might be cross with him, but he’d forgive him the moment he smelled those chewy biscuits. Dante might even let him have more than half of the package.

So when he gets home to find his front door smashed open, his office trashed, and worst of all his jukebox shattered-wait no, worst of all, his nephew missing, all thoughts of pizza and cookies vanish from his mind as he rushes in, guns drawn. There’s no sign of life, but the black splatters of demonic ichor painting the walls shows that some real bad mojo went down here. The strangest thing though, is Agni, a weapon Dante was definitely sure he had under lock and key, laying there on the ground, alone.

“Alright, time to spill your guts” he yanks the blade up so that he’s at eye level with the pommel, “What the hell happened here?” Agni makes the same response as Vergil. Which means silence.

“I swear to…” he pulls out ivory, and presses the muzzle into the (more troubled than usual looking face), “You’re gonna tell me what went down, or we’re gonna see how many bullets I can jam into your ugly mug.” “You told us to remain silent.” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, consider that rule temporarily relaxed.” “There was an attack.” Agni starts, its distorted voice unusually agitated, “The little one fought with great valour, but eventually even he was overwhelmed.” Dante’s blood goes cold. “But then a great bulk of a demon came out and slaughtered the attacking filth, and spirited the boy away, alongwith my brother.”

“Rudra’s still with Nero?” That’s odd, if they were trying to capture the kid, they’d disarm him first.

“Yes, they are not far, I think they’ve stopped moving.”

“Alright,” Dante makes his way out of the disfigured wood, “let’s go find the kid and your bro...and if he’s alright, maybe I’ll reconsider giving back your talking privileges.” “Oh, that would be wonderful, will you allow us to leave the dark box? It’s been so long since we’ve fought, we crave batt- ”

“I said IF, and I won’t guarantee anything if you keep jabbering on and on.”

Angi directs the demon hunter to a dark secluded alleyway, a few blocks from Devil May Cry. One hand on its hilt ready for attack, the other fingering the trigger of Ivory, he cautiously makes his way past the recently overturned garbage cans, to a shadow alcove, where a shadow crouches. Beside it is Rudra, glowing faintly, it’s turquoise blue light providing enough illumination for Dante to make out what has happened. There’s Nero, peacefully slumbering away, apparently unharmed, not even his shirt is torn. And holding him gently, stroking his downy white hair with a giant hand...is Vergil… And for once, even though he is still staring straight ahead, there’s a different look on his face, a sense of contentment.

Huh Dante thinks to himself as he holsters the weapons, I was right, actions DO speak louder than words.

#Devil May Cry #Nelo Dadgelo #Dante #Vergil #Nero #canon divergence #I didn't want to connect this to their post via reblog #because that should stand alone in its own perfection #my writing

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bookoffixedstars · 3 years

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Still from "Not Reconciled" or Only Violence Helps Where Violence Rules by Jean-Marie Straub, 1965, based on the novel "Billiards at Half Past Nine" by Heinrich Böll. Kölner Literaturnacht.

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busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

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Chapter 26

The sun had set long ago and they were all crowded around a card table in Louise Brooks apartment, the radio playing “Side by Side” by the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. Sipping a glass of bourbon, Louise was humming merrily along, but Nelly’s lips were set in concentration. She wasn’t a good bridge player by any measure, but the important thing was that she was getting better. They were in no danger of hitting a grand slam, but Buster thought they might be able to get a small slam out of the game. Keeping his eyes on their cards, he tilted his whiskey glass to his lips, emptying it.

“Top you off?” said Louise.

Buster looked at Nelly, who raised an eyebrow. “Not tonight,” he said, and saw Nelly’s shoulders relax. He kissed her behind the ear and saw her cheeks redden in the lamplight.

George laid down a seven of clubs, Buster threw in a five of clubs, Louise put in a four of diamonds, and Nelly swept the trick for them with a six of diamonds. George had a good poker face. Louise’s was skilled simply by virtue of the fact that she was usually in a good humor whether her hand was bad or good. Nelly needed to work on hers. She straightened her expression as if hearing his thoughts.

He’d been living a double life for years now, but with Nelly in the picture, it had lately become a triple life. Buster One was the gay host always ready for sport, drink, and good company. The quiet man left in the gay fellow’s wake was Buster Two, who never forgot that Lady Luck would decide someday to be done with him, and maybe soon. Buster Three was content to spend afternoons and evenings with his girl in her small apartment where she watched him work out gags for Snap Shots and sat patiently as he gave her bridge lessons. She found him pleasing in bed, and never complained that the only dance floor he led her across was her living-room carpet and their only orchestra the tabletop phonograph he’d bought her. As February gave way to March, his routine of visiting her apartment two or three days a week for a couple hours at a time seldom changed. Twice he’d taken her for a drive into the Valley, although that was always risky in case someone recognized his car as he left town and got to wondering about the girl in the passenger seat. Last weekend they’d had their first bridge game with George and Louise, the first time anyone else had seen them together. Nelly had had the time of her life.

Buster Three couldn’t help wanting more, though. He longed to take her to a picture or have her on his arm during a premiere or benefit, dressed to the nines. He imagined her warming his bed at night, swimming laps in his pool in the morning, and playing bridge games in the billiards room on weekday afternoons. He was finding out that a mistress was a funny thing that way. The more you got of her, the more you wanted.

He stroked her back as she looked over at his hand, deciding which card to play next. They could take at least five more tricks by his count, which would put them at eight. Whether Nelly would spot them was the question. They were playing for a nickel a point. He’d wanted to do quarters, but Nelly had complained about how bad she was and insisted on a lower bet, so he let her have her way.

It was now getting close to ten o’clock. He knew they’d have to wrap the game up in the next half hour if he wanted to be home by midnight. It was the first time he’d stayed out so late with Nelly and not told Natalie where he was going.

“Just Molly and me,” Louise sang in a soft, idle voice, examining her cards. “And baby makes three. We’re happy in my blue heaven.”

Nelly yawned and he rubbed her back. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you home soon, sweetheart,” he said in her ear.

Nelly responded with a smile and he was gratified to watch her discard a three of diamonds in the next moment. He was pretty sure he could take the trick with a Jack of diamonds if neither George nor Louise played the Queen.

They left the apartment at a quarter to eleven, many nickels richer. Louise kissed Nelly goodbye on both cheeks. It made Buster happy to see the girls get along so well.

“How’d I do tonight?” said Nelly, as they walked through the darkness toward his Lincoln town car, holding hands.

“You’ll be able to play pro soon at the rate you’re going.”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t tease.”

“Well okay, but we can start playing for quarters any day now.”

“Maybe dimes,” she said, laughing. “Maybe.” Another big yawn hit her.

“Don't fall asleep yet, you hear? I have things in mind for you.”

“What kind of things?” she said. From her flirtatious tone, he had a pretty good idea that she already knew.

“Let me take you home and I’ll show you.”

Though she was falling asleep on her feet by the time he parked on Genesee Avenue, she allowed him to walk her inside, persuade her onto the couch, and lift up her skirts. That gave her a second wind and she joined in the excursion with enthusiasm. When they were done and he’d buttoned his trousers back up, he watched her wander around the apartment in nothing but her garter belt and stockings, getting ready for bed. Apart from the nudie show, which he enjoyed tremendously, he found he’d missed watching her take down her hair and return from the washroom wearing it in braids, her cheeks shining from scrubbing her face. Tonight the routine was the same except that she was in the buff. He grinned, looking forward to having something to think about on Monday morning when the tedious conversations about Snap Shots resumed with the M-G-M brass and his surplus writers.

After Nelly had brushed her teeth, he followed her into her bedroom and watched her get into underthings and a pink sleeveless nightgown with ivory lace at the bodice.

“Sticking around to tell me a bedtime story?” she said, giving him an impudent smile.

He swatted her derrière in rebuke as she climbed into bed and drew the covers over her. “Sure. What’ll it be?” He sat on the side of the bed.

“I don’t care. Surprise me.”

“Once upon a time Charles Lindbergh flew over the Atlantic to find the prettiest girl in the world.”

Nelly giggled. “Oh, is that what his flights are about?”

“He gets to England. Nothing worth seeing. Same story in France and Italy and Indonesia.”

“Indonesia’s not in Europe.” Nelly was laughing, but her eyes had also closed.

“Who’s telling this story?” he said, tapping her shoulder. “So he gets back in the airplane, flies all the way across the Atlantic again. Gets to New York. All the dames he sees look like dogs practically. Well, he gets back into the airplane again and he commences to visit every state he can, Pennsylvania, Florida, Mississippi, Tennessee. You name it, he visits it. It’s no good. He never saw such ugly girls. Any how, he’s running low on fuel for his airplane and he decides to make a stop in Chicago.”

“Mmm,” said Nelly. Her lids were beginning to twitch.

“While he’s there he goes and sees the sights. He takes an elevator up to the very top of the Tribune Tower. Guess who he meets on the top, top floor?”

Nelly sighed.

“Miss Nelly Foster, that’s who. That’s how he found the prettiest girl in the world.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She gave a vague smile at the caress, but otherwise was out like a light. “G’night, sweetheart.”

He collected his jacket and locked her front door with the key she’d given him, which was in his pocket more often than not these days. It was half past midnight by the time he made it home. He half-expected Nate to be waiting in the sitting room or at the foot of the stone staircase demanding to know where he’d been, but the house was silent and dimly lit; he stubbed his toe on his way to the kitchen to see what Caruthers had left in the refrigerator.

Standing in the kitchen eating cold roast and cold cooked carrots from a priceless bone china plate a few minutes later, he was back to being Buster Two, bewildered that this could be his life. Buster wasn’t half bad at Shakespeare. The problem was that Nelly could barely recite her lines without laughing over his sober-faced version of Olivia, who spoke in a high, breathy voice. “Stay,” he would say, “I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me,” and clutch his hands in front of his heart so earnestly she would be in stitches.

“That you do think you are not what you are,” she’d answer, giggling.

She had a feeling he was trying to cut her up on purpose, but the straight face never faltered. After a half hour of practicing, Nelly called it a day. She would just have to learn the lines on her own. Buster seemed content to set aside the little green Arden Shakespeare edition of Twelfth Night. He drew his legs onto the sofa and put his head in her lap. She ran her hand through his thick dark hair as he closed his eyes. “You’re burning the candle again, Olivia.”

“Hmmph,” he said.

“Auditions are next Monday night. If I get the part, you’ll have plenty of time to help me rehearse my lines, I guess. The play doesn’t open ‘til the second week of June.”

Buster opened his eyes. “About that.” His brows were pinched.

“What?” she said.

“I’m leaving for New York on the seventh,” he said with a grim expression.

“Oh.” She’d known in an abstract way that Snap Shots took place in New York, but somehow she’d failed to imagine that Buster might shoot on location. Knowing now how he had traveled in order to film Our Hospitality, The General, and Steamboat, it was a conclusion she should have come to. “How long will you be gone?”

Buster sighed. “July. If I’m lucky.”

“How long have you known?” she said, wondering why he had waited to bring it up to her.

“Awhile. Before we started going together. Guess I just thought the day’d never get here.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said frankly, as she combed her fingers through his hair.

“I know,” said Buster. “I’ve been thinking about how to get around it. Maybe I’ll send for you at the halfway point or something. You ever been to New York?”

“Not once,” she said. She briefly considered the practicalities of traveling all the way across the country while trying to keep her job at United Artists and, if her tryout with the Los Angeles Players Company was successful, star in a play at the same time. She was also thinking of his wife, who would doubtless accompany him. Buster, always so honest and hopeful when he built castles in the air, plainly had not thought of this.

“Well, I got some good news, anyway. That was the bad news. Wanna hear it?” He looked up at her so earnestly that she couldn’t resist bending her head to kiss his mouth.

“Of course.

“I just rented a place just outside the M-G-M lot. A bungalow. Figured it’d save me some time going home every day. Plus you could stay the night. I got it all worked out.”

“Oh?” It sounded risky, but her stomach fluttered at the idea.

“Sure. I’ll pick you up and take you there after dark. We get up before the sun comes up and no one’s the wiser. I can get you over to United Artists in the morning.”

The scheme was more than a little hairbrained, but to Buster’s credit it worked. For two weeks before he left for New York, Nelly spent Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings at the bungalow. It was actually a double bungalow with separate entrances, the other half belonging to Edward Sedgwick, Buster’s new director, who used it as an office during business hours. Sedgwick’s half was always dark by the time Buster ushered Nelly through the door after nightfall, though. Buster’s side of the bungalow was a combination dressing room and gymnasium. The dressing room occupied the first room and contained a stove, refrigerator, and worktop so Caruthers could whip up meals. Like Sedgwick, he too was always gone by early evening, but left a hot dinner for two ready, never asking (or so Buster said) why he was cooking for two. The second room held weight equipment, a rowing machine, a punching bag, and other exercise equipment. Nelly had learned a few weeks back that Buster’s splendid physique was not the result of pratfalls, but of dedicated training. Off the gymnasium there was a small washroom, and at the back of the house a little bedroom with a double bed, a nightstand, and a chair. It was here that Nelly would fall asleep next to Buster, waking up more often than not in his arms.

The alarm clock would ring at a rude five a.m. and Buster would reach over her to silence it. Sometimes they would make love. Other times, Buster would fall back asleep and Nelly would watch him, letting him seize a few extra minutes before reluctantly shaking him awake again. Although he had every outward appearance of boundless energy when he was around her, she could tell in the droop of his eyes and the redness that occasionally invaded them that he was always tired. It was no wonder. There were bridge games with Louise and George Marshall, often stretching until midnight, and when there weren’t bridge games, he was practicing songs on the ukulele while she studied her lines, having recently gotten the part of Maria in Twelfth Night. In spare minutes, he’d tell her about baseball games, meetings with the M-G-M bigwigs, and lunches with other stars. He didn’t seem to have a second of his day that wasn’t filled.

One subject he didn’t discuss was his wife and children. It was as if that part of his life didn’t exist, though Nelly knew that he must spend time with them. At first, she hadn’t wanted to know about Natalie because it would have curdled her with guilt to think that she was monopolizing another woman’s husband. Now she didn’t want to know because her feelings for Buster had strengthened. She could almost convince herself that if she didn’t acknowledge that other part of his life, the fairytale that was their time together could stay in place forever.

And it was like a fairytale, even the ordinary parts, like Buster stumbling out of bed so he could go into the front room and make coffee. She loved his sleep-mussed hair and bare feet, the bleary way he groped for his pack of cigarettes and lit the first one of the day, how he would shrug on a dressing gown over his underthings—if he was even wearing underthings, which was never a guarantee when they were sharing a bed. While he was thus occupied, she would get dressed for the day and throw on a dab of lipstick and a quick brush of mascara. As the coffee percolated and Buster dressed, she’d make breakfast, either wheat cakes with eggs or steak and eggs. They always kept the curtains drawn, and if any early-morning peddler knocked on the door to attempt to sell Buster vegetables, soap, and any other number of commodities, she would creep to the back door and leave Buster to turn them down.

Despite their precautions, spending the night at the bungalow still felt dangerous. Nelly knew it would take only one pair of unfriendly eyes to spot them and the jig would be up. Buster, she thought, was much too casual on this point and she always made him double-check that none of his neighbors were peeping out of their homes as she hurried into his car between six and six-fifteen-a.m., depending on how long she’d let him sleep or whether carnal matters had preoccupied them for an extra ten minutes. Even so, it was hard to stay nervous with his cheery attitude. He had only to throw her one of his beautiful smiles, upper teeth straight and gleaming, and she would be set at her ease again.

Notes: Is this chapter too sentimental? Be honest.

I should warn you that because life is hectic right now for me, I’ll probably go down to an every-other-week update. I was away this weekend and got to working on Chapter 26 when I returned, only to discover I needed to add just two sentences to it. -_- Sorry for the delay. There are some anachronisms here and there will be in the future. Louise Brooks wasn’t in the States at this time. I think I did get the timing on the bungalow right, though. The opening part of the second part of this chapter takes place around March 24th.

#Buster Keaton #Fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Silent film #Golden Age Hollywood

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signed-yours-truly-the-whale · 4 years

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Babes in Chuckletown

OHO BOY, am I angry.

I was in the middle of a very long chapter in my fanfic when my computer randomly decided to restart, costing me NOT ONLY a very long chapter, but the ENTIRE THIRTEEN-CHAPTER DOCUMENT. I thank god that I uploaded it all to AO3 up until the thirteenth chapter (which is going to be a pain the ass to rewrite), but now I have to go in and copy-paste, re-bold and re-italicize everything.

So that’s how my Halloween is going. Excuse me while I cry.

Anyway. Please enjoy this one-shot I’m making up on the fly about Arthur having no choice but bringing his small child to Ha-Ha’s because he has nobody to watch her. Me being in an angry mood helps me to channel Hoyt’s ... Hoytish-ness. Hoyt was definitely an asshole in the movie, but I feel like the lines “I like you, Arthur” and “I’m trying to help you” flew under the radar in light of his dickishness.

I’ve been wanting to write this for a while, I just have no conceivable idea where this would logically fit into my fanfiction, so I gift it here. I’ll let this be a birthday present for the incredible @funsizedshrimp, since they seem to love my Carrie Fleck as much as I do and I absolutely should return the favor for all the lovely art they gift to me. I love you lots, you wonderful person you.

__________________ ______________ __________________

“Hey Peanut, can you do me a favor?”

Arthur’s voice was soft, nearly indecipherable. The pudgy hand that had been grasping at his shirt collar suddenly pushed against him, exerting the energy to be able to lift her head up.

One bleary eye opened to look at him. Her cheek was rosy from her uneasy resting spot on his collarbone. Neither the time nor the place allowed for such coddling, but he continued to rock her on his hip uneasily.

“Mm?” she questioned.

“Can you put a hand over your ear?” he asked, softer still. “Daddy has to talk to someone and it might be a little loud. Not suitable for a baby’s ears.”

Although Carrie grumbled something that only he could decipher as “Not a baby,” she conceded. The sharp bone in her ear pressing against his collarbone hurt, but in the magical age where she began repeating every colorful phrase she heard from the television, he couldn’t risk anything.

Taking in a wavering breath, clutching the bag in his hand tighter, Arthur opened his boss’ door.

“Oh, how fucking nice of you to ... what the fuck is this?”

Hoyt looked up from his stack of documents -- chiefly the words complaint, absence, and Carnival bore into his head from a yellow slip on his desk -- to see Ha Ha’s resident hooky flinch in protest. What he first thought was an overgrown ragdoll, he realized with some incredulity was a toddler, pressing its head into Arthur’s neck.

“You brought a fucking kid into my shop?” he asked, voice rising.

“Hoyt ... please --”

“Please what? This should be good.”

It gave him no pleasure to watch Arthur be so hopelessly awkward, dropping the paper bag in a vain attempt to hike the kid further up on his person. He knew the guy was going through a rough patch with the wife. That it happened on Hoyt’s dime, though, made him hard to sympathize with.

Fumbling for something to do besides stand uncomfortably and rock his daughter into a sleep that she couldn’t attain, Arthur sat in the green chair across from Hoyt’s desk. He positioned Carrie to be able to rest easier in his lap. At a groggy whimper, his hand instinctively pressed against her arm, hoping it would keep her semi-warm. He didn’t know why Hoyt kept the AC on at all hours of the day.

“Well aren’t you a real mother hen,” Hoyt observed, devoid of anything Arthur could recognize as a positive emotion. “What’s it doing here?”

“I ... I had no other options,” he blurted out. “I can’t afford another day off work, but I have nobody to watch her.”

“Do I look like I’m runnin’ a charity ward, Arthur?” Upon further thought, “You didn’t bring her through the locker room, did you?”

“Nobody else is here,” he said quickly, realizing how bad that might’ve sounded once it reached his own ears. “And I made her close her eyes.”

Two scraggly grey eyebrows rose in vague surprise.

“Your mistake, not mine.”

Arthur felt the tips of his ears burn, unsure if he guessed correctly what Hoyt was referring to. Carrie may have been a surprise, but she was no mistake.

“How are you supposed to keep track of the kid on assignment?” Hoyt questioned, flitting through the ever-expanding pile of papers on his desk. “You’re booked for Amusement Mile today. That’s fuckin’ dangerous.”

Awkwardly, Arthur cleared his throat, feeling unable to meet Hoyt’s disbelieving eyes. His fingers rubbed Carrie’s arm up and down. She burrowed further into the crook of his neck, keeping her hand dutifully over her ear as promised. Her face was hidden from view by a crop of blonde hair -- the little veil he had left that kept work and home as two separate realities.

“I - I, um ...” A giggle got caught in his throat, as thick as a billiard ball. He forced it down. “I was wondering if I could keep her here. Just ... just for --”

“What?”

“Just for today, a -- and tomorrow, I’ll be sure --”

“Are you stupid?” Hoyt cuts in, and Arthur’s hand moves from his daughter’s arm to the small hand over her ear like a reflex. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“W -- well, Randall brought in his kid a few w -- weeks ago ... I thought maybe ...”

“Randall’s kid is twelve already, not three.” Hoyt heard a soft mutter of “she’ll be five soon,” as if it would sway the argument in Arthur’s court at all. “What the hell are you thinking in that fucked-up head? No relatives, no friends?”

“Nobody,” he said, and it surprised Hoyt that he hadn’t seen Arthur ... quite so sad before. He’d been sad, sure, but not pitiful. He couldn’t be more pitiful if he was dressed as Carnival doing this begging. “My -- my wife just left, I don’t know where she is. My in-laws are on vacation in Burbank and my mom is in the hospital. The neighbors won’t take her and -- and the preschool is closed ‘cause of a rat infestation. Hoyt, I’m ... I’m begging you.”

Something about the sight was so pitiful, so unfunny in his desperation, that Hoyt narrowly refrained from cutting back with My mistake for thinking you’d have friends.

“Mmf, Daddy,” the source of the frustration croaked. “My arm hurts. Can I put it down?”

“Yeah, Peanut,” he said quietly. The hand slid out from underneath his warm palm and found its way around his neck once again. A thumb brushed away a few strands of hair from her face, unveiling a curtain for her to view this strange new room.

Hoyt almost let slip a surprised “holy shit” as the kid’s head rose to look around the office, wide-eyed in her wonderment, but he thought better of it. But holy shit, did she look like Arthur, in eyes and face shape at least. Slap on a greasy brown wig and she could’ve been a pint-sized clone.

“A jack in the box,” she said quietly, pointing at the dumb clown statue out of his sight in front of his desk. “Daddy, jack in the box.”

“Yeah, Carrie, I see.”

Hoyt bit his lip, at a loss. It was always harder to turn a kid away when he had a name and a face to set to them. Until then the kid could’ve been a delusion for all he knew, the way Arthur talked about her like there was no god damn tomorrow. Who on this green earth would ever think to --?

Ugh. Fuck.

“You owe me, Arthur. Big time.”

____________________

Nine in the morning rolled around to a relative calm. The kid was, to his relief, quiet and weedy for the most part, like her quiet, weedy father. A long stretch of silence ensued -- half-hour? Two hours? He didn’t fucking know -- where the rhythmic punching of the time cards from the locker room and pen (or crayon) on paper substituted for awkward and mindless conversation he didn’t want to indulge in.

His only indication that she was there at all was the knowledge that his door hadn’t opened since Arthur hurried out to get ready and dropped her in Hoyt’s proverbial lap (had it been a literal instance, he might’ve tossed the kid through the window on reflex), and the occasional kicking of leather sandals and bell bottom pant legs barely visible from his vantage point.

“Hey, don’t get any crayon on my floor,” he warned, wondering internally if she made up for in mischief what she lacked in outward annoyance.

“I won’t,” she replied, too high and cheery for nine in the morning. “I draw pictures to stop Daddy being sad.”

Well isn’t that just fucking lovely. But he had a schedule to amend.

He could send Arthur to the kids’ hospital in Randall’s place -- the kids seemed to really respond to Arthur better ... god, why did Randall have to be such an obnoxious prick of a clown with the kids? It was getting harder and harder to place him--

The rustling of paper and a soft grunt made him look up. Hiding her face from his view, the kid was holding up a drawing of ... colored dots? Big whoop.

She pointed to a bright green one, taking up the center of the page.

“That’s -- that’s my daddy at work,” she explained. He raised a brow. Quite a likeness. “And that’s me, with an ice cream.”

Her little pointer finger trailed to the scribble next to the green -- a flurry of yellow and brown and pink. Was that what she’d spent the last hour on?

“What’s that then?” he asked before he could stop himself, not realizing any words had left his mouth at all until the cap of a chewed blue Bic pen tapped against a blue scribble, neatly tucked away in a folded corner.

“That’s my mommy,” she explained, as casual as though he’d asked for the time. Oh. “She’s taking a break.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to say something he might regret in the hours to come. Before coming to the realization that it was not his business nor his time to care, a question flitted through his mind if Arthur had told the kid about her mom at all.

“I got work to do,” he settled. “Read a book or something.”

____________________

Hoyt never thought he’d ever be disappointed to have a knock on the door that wasn’t Arthur.

“C’min,” he said distractedly.

“Hoyt,” Gary said. “Barney needs the key to the storage closet. Forgot his shoes at home.”

“Second time this week,” Hoyt tutted. Standing up, he allowed himself a stretch that popped his back in several satisfying places, and reached for the key under the strip of tape marked STORAGE. “Tell him this had better be the last damn time.”

“I’ll try.”

Their eyes, as though having just materialized in the room, landed on the girl, still lying on the floor but looking up at Gary, saying nothing. Gary’s face softened.

“Oh, hello,” he said amiably. “Is this your daughter, Hoyt?”

Don’t ever say something like that again --

“Nah.” He shook his head and sat back down. “Arthur’s kid.”

A moment of recognition passed where Gary’s eyes lit up like a damn Christmas tree. His smile grew wider.

“So this is the Carrie we’ve heard all about,” he exclaimed, sticking his hand out. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Fleck.”

At the lack of response, Hoyt looked over the desk. A blonde crop of hair was unmoved, and even quieter than she’d been before.

“Didn’t your daddy teach you not to stare?” Hoyt probed.

“She’s alright, Hoyt,” Gary countered, keeping his eyes on the girl. “She’s still very young.”

No time like now to teach ‘em not to stare

“Thanks, Hoyt,” Gary continued. At the door frame again, he smiled once more at the kid. “It was very nice to meet you, Carrie.”

The door closed. As if cued by the click of the lock, she turned quickly to Hoyt.

“He was small!” she whispered.

“Yeah, and you’re rude.”

“How rude?”

“It’s fuckin’ rude to stare at him ‘cause he’s short,” Hoyt snapped, pulling yet another litany of papers in a barely-together manila folder from an overstuffed desk drawer. “He doesn’t stare at you ‘cause you’re a girl.”

“But that was scary.”

“There’s a lot scarier guys to be on the lookout for, kid.”

“Who?”

Your daddy, for one.

“I don’t wanna be rude,” she said quietly, beginning to stand. She swiped a bit of dust from the knee of her bell bottoms, putting a nagging word in the back of his mind to sweep the office soon. “I wanna be like my daddy. He’s nice.”

He looked at her briefly before returning to his papers again. Crudely and off-tune, he made out that she was attempting to whistle the Andy Griffith theme.

Andy Griffith. Sheriff Barney Fife. God damn you, Gary.

The back of a blonde head was cast in varying shades as she stood in front of the window slats, drawing a little pointer finger over the sharpie-marked letters. MIME. WHITE FACE PAINT

I have no doubt you’ll be exactly like your daddy. Good luck with that.

____________________

Two o’clock gave Hoyt his first opportunity to get a real look at the Fleck girl. That still felt weird to say.

“Here,” he said stiffly, digging into his back pocket to produce two dimes. “Go down the hall ‘til you reach the Pepsi machine and get us two sodas. It’s lunch time.”

She swiped the dimes from his hand. The contact of nails against his palm made him shiver more than he expected. She felt startlingly real.

A few hesitant steps later -- and he really had to question how poor Arthur was that she looked at the dimes like she’d never seen them before -- she turned to look at him. The pink clip holding her bangs back suddenly bobbed on her head.

“Daddy not let me have soda,” she said.

“Your daddy’s out working. Skedaddle.”

“But what if he come and sees?”

She was lucky her little girl charm made up for the annoying inconsistency of her grammar. If there was one thing Hoyt hated, it was inconsistency.

“We got two hours ‘til you gotta worry about that.”

He looked down again, swiping a red mark through Randall’s name. Another complaint from a kid’s parent from the latest birthday party. God damn --

A clanking made him look up, and sigh. She couldn’t reach the door handle.

“Every paper I can’t sign ‘cause of lookin’ after you is coming out of your daddy’s paycheck,” he threatened, standing to open the door.

The kid was made all the more startlingly real, assaulting his senses as he had to grab her arms and push her forward to get her to stop gawking at the animal statues and props in the storage closet that swallowed the hallway. At least the locker room was empty.

What the fuck are you thinking bringing her here, Fleck?

Leaning against the opposite wall, he watched with waning curiosity as she rushed over to the machine, concluded she was too short to reach the buttons, and pulled over a yellow chair (the uneven wobbly one that grated on his nerves to hear scraping against the ground in uneven increments) to stand on. Licks of curls rested on her shoulders, reminding Hoyt of her mop-headed father.

Rushing back to him, she triumphantly handed him a blue Pepsi can, keeping the Mountain Dew for herself. Eh, he’s had worse.

“Stay,” he said gruffly, unsure of what else to say. He was more accustomed to dogs than kids, but felt satisfied by her listening skills when she climbed into the yellow chair next to the black trunk-table.

Two minutes later and he found himself in the impossibly weird scenario of not only having lunch outside of the comfort of his office, but tossing a banana to a kid who, by all the laws of nature, should not really be allowed to exist. Cute as she may be, to see physical proof of Arthur Fleck’s sex life made it hard to look at her for more than a few seconds.

Hoyt looked anyway, a little annoyed at her inability to open the soda can with her frail little finger. Weak like her damn dad. He swiped it, opened it with a secretly satisfying hiss, and watched her take a great sip. Scrunching her nose -- thank god for her, it wasn’t like Arthur’s -- she stuck her tongue out in derision before reaching over to set it on the table.

Hoyt switched the cans. He hated Pepsi anyway.

He also hated bananas, and the leftover couscous his wife made the previous evening. Mentally he made a note to pack his own damn lunches from then on.

So the banana went to the kid, less out of concern for her eating and more as a means to stop any bellyaching from either her or his wife later.

“So your dad doesn’t let you have soda,” he found himself asking. Why his brain was unable to catch up with his mouth, he wasn’t really sure.

Through a mouthful, she shook her head at him. Swallowing down a sizeable bite, she said, “The sugar bad for my heart.”

“Hmm.”

“My mommy let me have soda, though,” she said, perkier now in a way that made him feel a little rigid. “She likes Coke.”

Hoyt held back a snort of derision and surprise. There were funnier things to mock Arthur about than his wife hitting it big and leaving. Coke was for the rich, he knew. Poor people ... drank Pepsi, he supposed, looking at the kid and the soda can again.

She seemed much more content with the Pepsi can. Metaphorical? Maybe. He was never one to think of analogies -- nor did he really care.

At the sound of the entrance banging open, her eyes widened and she went red. Her hands stayed firmly around the soda can as her proverbial cookie jar.

Whatever jaunty tune Randall was whistling as though he wasn’t twenty minutes late was cut short upon making eye contact with the kid. Hoyt saw something that looked friendly, but not in the same fashion that maybe Gary had in mind.

“Didn’t realize you paid for ‘em so young, Hoyt.”

An inexplicable burning sensation flared in the tips of Hoyt’s ears.

“It’s Arthur’s kid, now fuck off,” he said quickly. “And you’re late.”

“Car broke down again.”

“Well get it fixed, or don’t let it break down on my time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Randall sighed, breezing past them with his nicotine-smelling clown suit in hand, chief of the parents’ complaints.

The girl’s eyes trailed after the huge man, staying on the hallway long after he’d left. She leaned in just after he took in a mouthful of cold, crunchy couscous.

“What did he mean?” she asked quietly.

“Don’t ask questions.”

____________________

Hoyt’s leg bounced, eyeing the clock out of his peripheral. If Arthur believed Hoyt was letting himself be saddled with the kid for one minute past four o’clock, he was really out of it.

The kid was getting restless, and relentlessly annoying. She surprised him with her expert knowledge on blowing up and tying balloons -- of course Arthur would teach her that, what a valuable life skill -- but the inefficient scraping of two ends of a tightly-woven balloon into a barely-decipherable balloon animal made him wanna pop the thing right in her face. God damn, why did he keep a pile of them within her reach?

She made a snake, she declared. Or a worm.

Upon reaching for another one, it came with an unnecessary avalanche of wormy friends as the corner of a plastic bag scattered a cluster of colored balloons on the carpeted floor.

“Shit,” he grumbled, rounding the desk to collect them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her put back the one she’d originally grabbed. “You’d better hope your dad has money to pay for new balloons, kid.”

“Shhh ...” His eyes narrowed at her, watching her lean down with him to collect handfuls -- albeit smaller handfuls -- of long balloons. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

____________________

Two minutes to four, Arthur came into the office, looking like a man on a mission. It was to his visible relief, Hoyt noticed, that the kid was happy and very much alive.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed, hopping from the chair to take aim around his pant leg, leaving her picture book on the ground. A hand stroked some hair behind her ear and she smiled sappily up at him. “I drew you pictures and -- and I made you a balloon snake, but it popped.”

Groaning, he pried her arms away and bent down to her level.

“Were you good for Hoyt?” he asked, the faintest smile threatening to split on his face. Eight hours of work would not stop him from enjoying how soft her hair was, or how she smelled like cherries when she hugged his hulking, sweaty form.

“Just aces,” Hoyt smiled cloyingly, twisting a pen cap between his fingers. “Get a sitter for her tomorrow or don’t bother coming in.”

“That good, huh?” Arthur questioned, groaning again in achy protest as he stood up. “I’ll find a sitter for her, I promise.”

____________________

Three hours and two much-needed baths later, Arthur was finding a familiar rhythm in twirling his best girl around their little living room, not minding that he got lost in the mask he wore in front of her. Their old turntable warbled and scratched, but he scarcely noticed.

Carrie didn’t smile at anybody the way she smiled at him. He hoped she knew the flip side to that was true as well.

Que sera sera

Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera sera

“I talked with Mom on the phone today,” he mentioned, watching her face brighten into a widening grin. “She said she wants to meet up with us to take you to lunch on Saturday.”

“Is she come back?” she asked. With her left hand enveloped in her father’s, she shifted her right arm so it rested against his chest and she could lean back to look at him. His face fell slightly.

“No, Peanut, I don’t think so. But you’ve been doing so well with school ‘til it closed, I thought you could tell her all the new rhyming words you learned. You learned what rhymes with bit, didn’t you?”

Her eyes traveled up to the ceiling, scrunching her nose to remember.

“Split,” she concluded, aglow in his proud smile. “Now you.”

“Befit. You?”

“Uh ... grit.”

At a very inelegant dip, which sent her into shrieking giggles as she felt her ponytail brush the floor, he said, “Banana split.”

“That doesn’t count!” she laughed.

“Oh, really? How does it not count?” he humored.

“Cause I said split! No cheating!”

“Then tool kit,” he smiled. “But now you have to think of two words.”

“Quit, and ...” She stopped to consider. “Oh, I learned one today! Shit.”

____________________

“Hoyt?”

“What do you want?”

Arthur looked from the paper in his hands, to the area of space between his person and the paper, filled in by the sight of his feet doing an awkward little soft shoe. Should he even question Hoyt about this? He was as honest as he could be, but something about this didn’t seem to add up.

“It’s just, uh ... my paycheck seems higher than it should be?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, no, but --”

“Then what is it?”

A nervous sweat started to form at Arthur’s hairline.

“It’s just that ... I did the math, and -- and it looks like you paid me for one of the days I didn’t work.”

“Are you tellin’ me you don’t think I did my math right? Go get a fuckin’ bank job if you think you know better.”

“So ... I’m -- I’m fine if I deposit the two hundred from the check?”

“Your money,” Hoyt grumbled, signing away another mindless paper. For being a clown business, he sure did have a shitload of paperwork. “Pay your rent, buy a hooker, some booze ... a snazzy divorce lawyer.”

Turning, Arthur felt something air-light in his chest, still disbelieving of the good fortune.

I can pay the rent, he registered. I can pay the rent and I can buy Carrie some new toys.

“Hey, how’s the little ankle-biter, by the way?”

He turned again, slower.

“What?”

“Kelly, the -- the kid you brought in on Monday. Raised hell in my office.”

“Oh ... Carrie?”

Arthur looked down at his shoes again, smiling. Staying with his mom and her newly-broken arm, bellyaching about wanting Hoyt at her babysitter again because “Nana can only make TV dinners.”

“She’s just aces.”

#arthur fleck #dad!arthur fleck #hoyt vaughn #joker #joker 2019

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lantur · 4 years

Text

royai week 2020: day two, “little pistol”

summary: Riza works for the Fuhrer for two months before she cracks.

rated: t for teen

tags: canon-compliant

words: 3122 | read on ao3

Riza works for the Fuhrer for two months before she cracks.

The Fuhrer dismisses her late. It’s the most petty of the several little power plays that he engages in. He always has her work late, and not in a predictable fashion, either. Sometimes he keeps her half an hour past five; sometimes he keeps her until eight or nine at night, despite the fact that she reports for duty at seven every morning.

Riza hadn’t minded the occasional late nights when she had been her Colonel’s assistant, but this is different. This is so different.

Half the times that Bradley asks her to stay late, he only has the most menial, inconsequential tasks for her to do. Hardly anything of urgency. It’s nothing more than a reminder that she is utterly at his disposal. Riza is careful never to reveal her irritation or impatience, or her worry for Hayate, alone for so many hours and probably in desperate need of a walk. She schools her expression into blankness. She doesn’t pick at the skin underneath her fingernails or tap her fingertips against the desk, or twirl her pen through her fingers (a habit she had unconsciously picked up from her Colonel, and never realized until Havoc had pointed it out. She misses Havoc.) She doesn’t look at the clock.

On this Friday evening, two months to the day that she had first reported for duty in his office, the Fuhrer dismisses her at half past six. “Have a good evening, Lieutenant.” Bradley glances away from the window, giving her a small, genial smile, the corners of his visible eye crinkling in the same way Lieutenant General Grumman’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. It looks so human.

Riza salutes him. “You as well, Fuhrer.”

She walks home briskly, her heart in her throat. The sound of the cars speeding past on the road makes her startle. When one of them honks, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

Normally, spending time with Hayate, stroking his soft fur, admiring the shine of his warm brown eyes, watching his tail wag and his nose twitch as they walk together, is enough to soothe her. Center her. It doesn’t, this evening, though Riza takes him for an extra long walk. They get home and she measures food out into Hayate’s bowl and stands and watches him eat. Her shoulders feel rigid and achy, her nerves rubbed raw after another long week in such close proximity to the Fuhrer.

Riza pets Hayate for a few minutes, and then grabs her keys and her access card to the range.

It’s nearly empty, at this time on a Friday night. Riza normally enjoys the solitude, but tonight, she keeps looking twice at every shadow. No witnesses, she thinks, every time.

She stays until closing, trying to take comfort in the muffled sound of the gunshots, the subtle kickback of her weapon, the smell of the gunpowder, even the weight of the protective coverings on her ears. It normally helps her feel calmer. More in control. Tonight, when every shot hits its target, Riza just sees Lust and Gluttony in front of her, advancing on her, completely undeterred.

It’s almost ten when the range closes. She should go home and try to sleep. She can’t remember the last time she had a good night’s rest. It must have been back in East City, before Hughes was killed. But she isn’t tired. The shooting had burned time, but not energy.

It’s impulsive, it’s not like her - at least, not like the old her - but Riza takes the train, the Sanderson Line, to the very outskirts of Central. She gets off at the last stop on the line and she just wanders, for a while, her hands shoved in the pockets of her coat. It’s a chilly night, and she lets her hair down to warm her neck, relieved that she had thought to put on tall boots underneath her skirt before leaving her apartment. The warmth of the Nimble Bar, when she steps in, is a welcome sensation.

Riza takes in her surroundings at a glance. It’s a large space, but somewhat run-down. It’s dimly lit and smoky - good for privacy. It’s busy, but not too busy, which is another point in its favor. The deciding factor is its distance from Central Command. She doesn’t see a single familiar face here.

Thankfully, no one pays her much attention as she walks up to the bar and orders her drink, or when she takes it back to a corner booth far away from the billiards tables. It’s white lightning moonshine, stronger than what she normally likes. She hasn’t had this particular drink since returning from Ishval. Something inside Riza is telling her that this isn’t a good idea, but she ignores it.

It’s good moonshine. It’s smooth. It’s potent. It burns. Riza curls her hands around the glass and takes a deep breath, and she savors the way it burns all the way down. It nearly hurts.

She sits there, nursing her drink, and she lets it all wash over her. She thinks of the Fuhrer, and of Selim Bradley, and Gluttony and Lust, and the Philosopher’s Stones, and Ishval.

Riza finishes the glass faster than she should, and goes back for a second. She is close to finishing her second glass, and is staring into it, contemplating ordering a third, when a man slides into the booth beside her, without even asking if she would like company.

Riza looks up a second too late, and her angry words die on her lips.

“Drinking alone, Elizabeth?” Roy gives her an affable smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s very unlike you.”

He’s wearing his usual, overly formal, civilian clothes, and he looks so out of place here that Riza blinks, wondering if the moonshine is hitting her too hard (now that she thinks about it, she hadn’t had dinner), and whether she’s seeing things. Colonel, she almost says. She catches herself, just in time, but she can’t bring herself to think of a codename.

“What are you doing here?” This isn't one of his usual haunts. As far as she knows, he’s never conducted business on this side of town before. It’s clear on the other end of the city from Chris Mustang’s bar.

“I came to find you, of course.” Roy studies her glass. “Is that white moonshine?”

He sounds a little shocked. Riza closes her eyes. “How did you know I was here?”

“Vanessa was here, on a date, when you came in.” Roy’s voice is low. “She gave me a call. She said that you looked down - that you were probably having troubles with your new man - and suggested that I check in.”

She doesn’t even know what time it is. It could be close to midnight. It could have taken him half an hour to get here. Riza rubs her temples. “You shouldn’t have.” Her voice doesn’t sound quite right. It’s less steady than usual. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

She doesn’t want to argue. She’s too tired, all of a sudden, for that. Riza lifts her glass for another sip, and her Colonel presses a gentle hand to her arm, lowering it. “I think that you’ve had enough for tonight.”

She wants to snap at him, like he has done to her whenever she’s tried to cut him off - so many times, over the past years. Especially after Ishval, and after Hughes. But Roy’s hand is lingering on her arm, and he’s sitting so close that she can smell his aftershave and feel the warmth radiating off him, and he’s wearing that dark coat he always wears, the one that’s as familiar to her as anything she owns. Riza feels the tears burn the back of her eyes. She sets the glass down. She presses the heels of both of her hands to the skin underneath her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“That’s better.” Roy pauses, and she wishes he wasn’t sitting so close. The temptation to lean against him, to press her aching head to his shoulder, is almost overwhelming. “I don’t think I need to ask you what’s wrong.”

“No.” Riza actually laughs, though she feels anything but happy, and she wipes her eyes as discreetly as she can. “You don’t.”

“Talk to me, Elizabeth,” Roy says quietly. “Has anything happened? Did he do anything to you?”

Their shoulders are mere inches from one another. She feels how tense he is; how tightly wound. Riza shakes her head. “It’s more about what I want to do than anything he’s done.” She struggles with the words; with her thoughts. “Every day. Every hour. I think of going to the mansion, at night, and burning it down. I’d pour gasoline around the perimeter, first. All it would take after that is a couple of matches and a lighter.”

A lighter. Riza thinks of Havoc, and the desire to cry returns. She looks at her Colonel. From the expression on his face, he seems to have had the same thought.

“Fire kills them,” Riza explains, as quietly as she can. “You remember what you did at the Third Laboratory. But my guns are useless against them. I’m useless against them.” You wouldn’t be, a voice inside her says, one that sounds like her father, if you’d only been able to learn alchemy from me; if only you weren’t such a hopeless pupil-- and Riza nearly sobs.

She can’t remember the last time she had seen her Colonel look so concerned. Maybe it was on the day that they had all received their transfer paperwork. He moves as if he would touch her shoulder, and then stops short. “Elizabeth--”

“I can’t accept it.” Riza buries her face in her hands. “I can’t get my head around it.”

“What? What is it?”

“All of it, Roy.” She hasn’t called him by his first name in ten years, but it just slips out, and she can’t put it back. “The fact that he is - what he is. Ishval. For all the years since then, I thought he was a person, a person who gave that order, a misguided person, a person who made a terrible, cruel decision, but a person. To learn that everything in Ishval happened not just because a human made a terrible decision - as all humans are capable of, as even you and I would be capable of - but because it was calculated is just…” Riza chokes. “He used us to murder the Ishvalans, not out of his own human cruelty and frailty - but as a deliberate sacrifice to get what he wanted.”

“I know.” Roy’s hands tighten into fists. “I know.”

“I can’t stand it.” It’s taking everything in her not to cry. “I hate it. It makes me want to kill. And all of the senior leadership who know the truth of what he is, who accept having him as the leader of our country, using the people of Amestris as pawns in his game…” Riza’s stomach heaves, and she bites the inside of her cheek to suppress the wave of nausea that washes over her. “Every day, I have to sit in on his meetings with them and take notes, and there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to take out my gun and put a bullet in each of their brains. It scares me, how much I want it. I’ve never… Killing is something I do, it’s something I’ve done for years, but I’ve never wanted to do it so badly before. Does that make sense?”

There’s such compassion and empathy in Roy’s gaze. “It does.”

“I don’t just want to put a bullet between his eyes. Even if that would do anything.” Riza rakes her fingernails through her hair, against her scalp. It doesn’t burn in quite the same way the moonshine does, but it’s an acceptable substitute. “I want him to burn, and to suffer. Like Lust did.”

“I know,” Roy repeats. “But you have to let this go.”

The words, the sentiment, is so unexpected from him that Riza stares, taken aback. “What?”

“Anger isn’t your vice. It’s not your burden to carry. It’s mine, and it always has been. It’s not…” Roy hesitates. “It’s not what’s best for you. I know it’s difficult, but you have to put this aside and focus on surviving. It’s going to be a long winter, as it is. It’s going to be a hundred times longer and harder if you’re dealing with all these thoughts every day.”

A number of retorts rise to her lips, and Riza swallows them down. “You think that you can bear this burden better than I can?”

“I always have.” Roy rests his hand on the table, a hair’s breadth from hers. “With you to keep me in check. With you to pull me back whenever I’m close to doing something dangerous or impulsive. It’s not an option for both of us to be so compromised.”

Riza exhales slowly. She thinks back to the past five years, since Ishval, to all the times she’s warned her Colonel against being too rash, too impatient, too bold, too borderline insubordinate to senior staff. To all the times she had chided him for drinking too much. “I’m sorry. I should have been more understanding of you, in the past.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Roy says, at once. His tone brooks no argument. “And you can let go of the idea that you’re useless, as well. There’s nothing further from the truth. You should know how valuable you are to me.”

“I--” Riza looks at him, and then looks away. I miss you, she’d almost said. Because she does. That’s the steady undercurrent that runs through every single one of her days, now. Like the background music on a radio drama or a television program. She goes about her work, taking notes at the Fuhrer’s meetings, creating his schedule for the days, making him tea, helping him prepare for his upcoming meetings, filing his paperwork, and she misses Roy Mustang, every single day. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else on your mind?” Roy presses. “While we’re here, and able to speak a little more openly then we can, closer to home?”

He knows her so well, and Riza can’t help but smile, for the first time in what feels like months. “I miss the unit.” That’s an acceptable thing to say, and it is true. She stares at her moonshine, wishing she could finish the last sip, even though it’s really hitting her, now, and she doesn’t need any more of it. “And Rebecca. And Edward and Alphonse.” Even though she’s surrounded by the Fuhrer’s associates and the Fuhrer himself all day, and she has Hayate for company at night, she feels alone. Alone with her thoughts, her feelings, her anger, her fear.

“They miss you too. I’m sure of it.” Riza glances at him, and Roy smiles, and this time, it does reach his eyes. “You’re not alone, I promise.”

Underneath the intelligence, the sharp wit, the strength of his convictions, the confidence, the charm, this is what had made her fall for Roy in the first place, more years ago than she cares to remember. His quiet, subtle kindness. It’s been so long since her world has had any kindness, any tenderness, any soft moments at all, and Riza looks away from him abruptly. Her breath actually catches in her throat, embarrassingly, and she hopes he hadn’t noticed it.

Roy reaches out without another word and rests a hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles against it, and Riza goes still, because this isn’t something they do. They never touch, unless it’s necessary. But it feels so comforting, so soothing, and all the breath leaves her body in a shuddering exhale. She lets Roy draw her close against him, holding her like a man would hold his girlfriend, like he’s sheltering her, like he would protect her. Riza presses her cheek against the wool of his coat and breathes him in. He’s still rubbing her back, and she can feel the weight and warmth of his hand through her coat and her sweater, and she’s had sex less intimate than this feels.

Riza rests her aching head against his shoulder. “You know,” she murmurs, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Maybe there’s one small silver lining to all this.”

“Hmm?” Roy smooths her hair out of the way, moving his hand further up her back, and Riza closes her eyes, savoring the sensation.

“We’re not in the same direct chain of command anymore,” she says, as quietly as she can. “You’re not my commanding officer. Not for the rest of this winter. Not until spring.”

Roy’s hand stills for a moment, and then he resumes. “That’s a good point.” His voice wavers slightly.

She pulls back, just enough to look him in the eye. They’re close enough to kiss. Under normal circumstances, she would never be so bold, but there’s a great deal of white moonshine in her system and all of the want, the need, the craving for destruction and violence that had dominated her earlier, pressing into her ribs with every breath she took, is taking a different direction.

“Take me home, Roy,” Riza says softly. That’s the second time she’s called him by name in a decade, now. She has to be careful. She loves the way it feels in her mouth, on her lips. It’s strangely addictive.

Roy closes his eyes briefly, as if to shield himself against whatever he sees in hers. “You’re drunk, Elizabeth.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

Roy opens his eyes, and she can see his frustration, his indecision, as plainly as if it had been written all over his face. His hand is still on her back, thumb caressing down her shoulder blade. “It does.” He takes a deep breath, and she can see it on him, that he’s come to a decision. “We’ll meet at Madame Christmas’s bar tomorrow at nine. For now, though, let me take you back to your place so that you can rest.”

It’s what she’s wanted - what both of them have wanted - for so long. It’s a win, after a devastating streak of losses. A silver lining amidst the gathering storm. Riza nods. Roy stands, and offers her his hand. The world spins alarmingly when she rises to her feet. She takes his hand, grateful for the support, and they walk out together, into the cold night.

and I, well, I want what's best for me / and I, I think I know just what that means / just what that means

The title of this fic on ao3 and the lyrics at the end are taken from “Little Pistol,” by Mother Mother. It’s a fabulous song and I highly recommend giving it a listen!

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fanfic

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talesofpassingtime · 1 year

Text

If I knew all the things he’s done, no doubt I’d be sick to my stomach. If I had to sit and watch the film of his life they’re going to run off for that bastard’s benefit on Doomsday, I’d puke myself into a puddle. He’s the type that has the gold teeth ripped out of corpses, that orders kids’ heads shaved. Catastrophe? Vice? No, murder in the air.

— Heinrich Boll, Billiards at Half-Past Nine

#booklr

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shihlun · 2 years

Photo

Jean-Marie Straub

- Not Reconciled, Or Only Violence Helps Where Violence Rules

1965

#jean marie straub #danièle huillet #daniele huillet #not reconciled or only violence helps where violence rules #not reconciled #nicht versöhnt oder es hilft nur gewalt wo gewalt herrscht #nicht versohnt oder es hilft nur gewalt wo gewalt herrscht #heinrich boll #heinrich böll #billiards at half past nine #german film #1965

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sunkissedpages · 6 years

Text

We’re Only Kidding Ourselves- Part Sixteen || Tom Holland x Reader

A/N: okay there is NOT smut in this part I lied but not on purpose that will be next week sljdlkjasjd it got too late for me to include it but that’s a problem for next week me

Prompt: Enemies to lovers au (from @marvelellie‘s 1k writing challenge!!)

Summary: You work as a production assistant for the Spider-Man: Far From Home crew, or rather as Tom Holland’s handler. The two of you don’t get along very well to say the least, but you won’t quit and he can’t fire you so you’re stuck with each other.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of body image issues

What I listened to while writing: the ocean b i t c h

Word Count: 3.7k

You weren’t a huge fan of beer, but Tom was buying the rounds and that’s what he kept bringing over to the table, and what were you supposed to do? Not drink it? It’d be rude, and turning down free alcohol wasn’t really your style.

After a short, unremarkable dinner at an overpriced tourist spot, the four of you had wound up at a bar, against your better judgement. It was odd to be spending time together as...friends. It was different from the Czech Republic, because now the animosity between you and Tom had been dialed back to almost nothing (aside from the elephant in the room he still didn’t know about), and you were still adjusting to it. The friendly nudges on the shoulder, the laughs sent in your direction, the jokes made at your expense- without any hint of malice. They were all things you’d experienced with Harrison before, but never Tom, and it was disorienting you more than the beer was.

This bar was different from the one the mandatory event had been at two nights ago. No one was in favor of going back there, even if you were the tiniest bit curious about whether DJ would remember you. But after getting shitfaced there last time, everyone thought it was for the best if the group of you went somewhere else, which brought you to this hole in the wall. You had stumbled across it on accident on the way to another bar. The walking GPS had taken the four of you down a narrow alleyway when you passed what you had thought was a garage with loud music pouring out of it. It was another, much lower rated, bar, but they had a live band and that was what sold it.

The band wasn’t half bad and the drummer was kind of cute, but you had to yell across the table to hear each other and it was beyond crowded. The band’s sound reminded you of a small garage band from your hometown that had gotten kind of popular when you were in high school. You couldn’t remember their name, but they played a bunch of gigs at bars and you’d always try to sneak into them with your friends. You’d actually slept with the drummer from that band one winter break in college, so maybe that was why you were so partial to drummers.

At some point in the conversation Harrison excused himself to the bathroom and Tom made another trip to the bar leaving you alone with Harry. Your conversation earlier had been so awkward, that you couldn’t think of anything to say now.

“That picture you took of me sucked,” Harry practically shouted at you, breaking the tension.

You hadn’t been expecting him to say anything and it made you choke in your drink with laughter.

“I thought maybe it could be artsy,” you said defensively, referring to how the different colored lights blended together in the background, obscuring him as the subject.

“No, it was just blurry.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you knew everything about photography,”

“More than you.”

“Fuck off,”

Harry flipped you off from across the table and you whipped out your phone to snap a picture of him before he could put his finger down.

“How’s this one look?” you asked, turning the screen towards him.

“Still awful.”

“Give me break,” you huffed in irritation, earning a chuckle of pity from Harry.

“I’ll teach you, don’t worry.”

You were only halfway through your second Peroni when Tom brought over four more beers, since everyone else had already finished theirs, and slid one of them over to you.You narrowed your eyes in suspicion.

“What are you up to, Holland?” you asked.

He raised his eyebrows at the nickname. “Definitely not trying to get you to spill all of your secrets, that’s for sure,” he laughed.

“I’m an open book,” you said, lying right to his face.

He scrunched his nose and shook his head. “That’s not true. I don’t know anything about you.”

You rolled your eyes and took a sip from the glass you were still working on. “Are you kidding me? We’ve worked together for months now we know each other.”

“You know all about me, literally everything about me, it’s your job. But I don’t know anything about you.”

“Everyone at this table knows I don’t know everything about you,” you said, trying to defer. “Don’t make me look like a fool twice.”

Tom leaned back and took a swig from his new drink. It wasn’t a threat, but it wasn’t an empty statement either, and by looking into his eyes you knew he understood.

“I wasn’t-“

“Hey guys there’s a pool table in the back,” Harrison interrupted, returning from the bathroom. He paused, looking back and forth between you and Tom, unaware of what he had just walked into. Tom cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you all, uh, want to play?”

“Sure,” you agreed immediately, not wanting to dive any further into the gray area you'd gotten yourself into with Tom. You downed the rest of your beer and hopped down from the stool, leaving the full one on the table behind you.

You followed Harrison to the back of the bar, weaving through the mass of people holding on to the hood of his sweatshirt so you wouldn’t lose him. Harry and Tom weren’t far behind. If you’d learned anything about the Hollands it was that they were extremely competitive and weren’t ones to turn down a challenge so this game was about to be interesting.

The lighting was dimmer in the back, and the music and conversation sounded distant now, but it was nice. Whoever had been last to play had left in the middle of their game, leaving the billiard balls scattered all around the table.

Harrison and Tom started setting up the game while you grabbed a couple of cue sticks from the wall.

“Me and Harrison versus you and Harry,” Tom said, and clapped hands with Haz who was already on Tom’s side of the table.

“My own blood,” Harry scoffed, feigning offense at not being chosen as Tom’s partner.

“Sorry, mate trying to win,” Harrison shot back with a wicked grin.

Part of you wondered how often Tom favored Haz over Harry and if anyone was keeping count. The other part of you was a little offended that you were so clearly the teammate to get stuck with. Another thing to bring you back to high school, when you’d get picked last in gym class because of your reputation for your athleticism, or lack thereof.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes in annoyance. “I’m standing right here.”

“Please tell me your pool skills are better than your photography skills,” Harry pleaded and you shot him a look.

“Guess you’ll have to hope for the best, since you’re stuck with me.”

All the boys knew your coordination skills weren’t...the best. Your reputation of clumsiness had certainly followed you everywhere, but they didn’t know you used to sneak into bars when you were in high school, and that there was a pool table inside of every single one.

“Ladies first,” Tom said, and removed the triangle mold from the table.

You didn’t respond, only brushed past him to get to the head of the table.

You placed the white ball on the felt and aimed your cue stick at it. With a swift hit, it rolled into the middle and knocked the colored balls on the table in all directions. Luckily, an orange ball rolled into the far left pocket, making you and Harry the solid team.

You went for another, but missed. Harry clapped you on the back anyway, clearly impressed you had scored any points at all.

“Nice, y/n,” Harrison complimented once your turn was over, but you ignored him.

“Mate, whose team are you on?” Tom asked with a nudge to Harrison. He shrugged defensively and pushed Tom back, signaling to him that it was his turn.

Tom rolled his head and shoulders dramatically as he approached the corner where the white ball sat. He angled himself loosely, but purposefully in front of it and wasted no time sending it colliding into a ball with a green stripe. Everyone held their breath as it rolled toward the same pocket yours had gone into and you exhaled in defeat when it tipped over the edge and into the woven net.

The whole game was like that, one shot after another, a point and then a miss, making it a close game the whole time. You could hold your own, but the boys had been in plenty more bars than you had and you were all varying levels of drunk, with you on the tipsier side. Everyone was joking and talking shit about each other and somewhere in the middle of the game you actually started to have fun again. You got to show off a trick move your dad had taught you when you were first learning that had them losing their shit, begging you to do it again with their phones out and pointed at you.

Somehow you and Harry pulled it off with you scoring double points towards the very end and him finishing it off with the eight ball on his next turn.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” you said, pointing at Harry after he’d had taken a victory lap around the table.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” he apologized with admittance.

“You should be I just kicked all of your asses and I can do it again,” you declared, not hearing how your words were starting to slur.

“You did not we were tied for most of it,” Tom argued. “And I’m drunk.”

“We’re all drunk,” you corrected him. “You’re just a sore loser.”

“Accept your loss with dignity, mate,” Harry smirked and tipped his glass back, draining the remainder of beer from it.

“I’m impressed with your skills, y/n,” Harrison said, holding out his hand for a shake. “Good game.”

You just looked at his hand out in front of you. “I’m also good at skeeball.”

The next few days in Italy passed without much incident. There was still chatter on set about your mistake with the headset, which you always double checked was off now, which you probably should have been doing before. You didn’t even talk over headset that often and after yesterday you wanted to use it as little as possible. You were worried that as soon as it cut off whoever was on the other side of the line would just start talking about you, but it wasn’t like there was anything you could do about it.

You never heard about it from anyone above you, though. None of your bosses on set or back at HQ ever contacted you about anything out of the ordinary, so at least you still had a job. It was probably too awkward for anyone to bring up, which was equally as horrifying as it was relieving.

Every time Tom came up to you you were sure he was going to say something to you about the dream, but everyone was being surprisingly tight-lipped about the whole ordeal, which was unusual for the film industry.

Most of the cast apart from Tom and Jake Gyllenhaal left two days before the crew, getting a few days off before they were due in New York. As much as you missed all the horrible fast food there you weren’t as excited to go back to the States as you thought you’d be, even though it meant you were one step closer to this job being over.

You spent the morning of the last day in Venice packing most of your things so you wouldn’t have to do it ridiculously early tomorrow. Tom’s stuff was still absolutely everywhere, he had yet to pack any of it, and you wondered how this boy managed to get anywhere without losing half of his stuff. You were tempted to start doing the packing for him, but knew he’d only be pissed if you did. He was one of those people who believed that every thing had its place and you knew you’d get it wrong if you tried. Plus, things had been going well between the two of you the past few days and you didn’t want to ruin that by letting your handler side get the better of you.

You were almost out the door to meet everyone downstairs for the day when you got a message from Tom, asking you to approve an Instagram post for his feed. You smiled to yourself when you saw it was the picture you’d taken of him that night before dinner. It had only barely been touched by a filter, making the whole picture a little brighter. You liked the way it made his eyes look, and you liked the fact that he had been looking at you.

He’d tagged Harry in the picture and the caption, since he couldn’t tag you of course (he didn’t even follow you) which you thought was a little overkill, but you sent him an approval message anyway since you were running late and everything else looked fine.

When Watts called wrap at the end of the day it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You couldn’t wait to get back to the room and just read for the rest of the night. Maybe order room service.

Everyone clapped like they did when it was a full wrap day since production was moving to a new location and you usually didn’t like to glorify the actors more than they already were, but you joined in, clapping for yourself since you had made it so far, and through so much.

As soon as you were curled up on your side of the bed with your book Tom came crashing into the room from where ever he had just been bursting with energy. He rambled to you about dinner with Watts and Jake and how he and the boys were going to go up to the pool on the roof to go night swimming and about the flight the next day and everything in between.You were only able to follow about half of it, nodding where you thought was appropriate and working in ‘uh huhs’ when you had the energy..

It wasn’t Tom’s fault that his presence commanded so much attention, but you wished that at least once he could walk into a room without captivating everything and everyone in it.

“You should come to the pool with us,” Tom said, popping his head out of the bathroom where he’d been talking to you from.

“Isn’t it cold?”

“It’s a heated pool.”

You shook your head with uncertainty. “My swimsuit is at the bottom of my suitcase,” you protested.

“Come on, it’s our last night in Italy. Don’t you want to make some memories? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

You scrunched up your face, and Tom smirked because he knew you couldn’t say no to him, boss or not. “Fine.” His face lit up with victory. “I’ll meet you up there.”

You stood from the bed with a sigh one the door had shut behind Tom. Digging through your suitcase was even more difficult than you thought it’d be, and clothes were all over the floor once you found your bikini.

Putting it on was a chore as well because as much as you liked the print and color of it, it had taken you a long time to feel comfortable in a swimsuit, and sometimes it was still difficult to shrug off the insecurities that prickled in the back of your mind.

You took one of the clean towels from the bathroom and wrapped it around your body, hoping you wouldn’t run into any other guests in the hall on your way upstairs. Since the pool was only one floor up, you took the stairs, bracing yourself for the crowd of people sure to be out there. It was empty, aside from the boys who were already in the pool, batting around some sort of sports ball.

What you hadn’t been prepared for, though, was the view, and the chill. You wrapped your towel tighter around you, not sure if it would do any good, and took a step closer to the railing. The boys had yet to notice you and you took the opportunity to admire your surroundings. As much as you were relieved to be leaving the city tomorrow, you couldn’t deny that Venice was beautiful, especially at night. Small clusters of stars twinkled around the sky, and the moon hung low, partially hidden behind some distant buildings.

It was mostly dark, but a few windows were lit from within. You imagined parents tucking their children into bed who had stayed up past their bedtime, friends pouring themselves another glass of wine, and lovers putting on an old record and swaying to the rhythm until the needle reached the center.

“Y/n, you made it!” Harrison’s familiar voice called from behind you, and you turned, ripping yourself away from the city and all it’s untold stories.

“I did,” you said awkwardly and cleared your throat. The boys were clearly waiting for you to join them, but you were still standing off to the side with a towel wrapped around your body.

As quickly as humanly possible you unwrapped the towel from yourself unceremoniously and dropped it onto an adjacent pool chair. You felt pairs of eyes taking over your body, but you weren’t sure who they belonged to.

Not bothering to prolong what was already a painful process, you stepped down into the water until you were level with the rest of them, meeting eyes with Tom, waiting for him to take the lead.

He hesitated. You realized that for once the positions of power had been switched and instead of you being the one to tell him what to do, he was going to be telling you. You hoped the power wouldn’t go to his head.

“What about Marco Polo?” he suggested and everyone kind of rolled their eyes. “Anyone got any better ideas?”

No one did, so Marco Polo it was. Tom was it first since he had suggested it and everyone spread out as far as they could across the length of the pool. It wasn’t very big, which made the game pretty easy.

Tom’s arms weren’t very long, but he was fast and before you knew it his fingers were brushing your bare side signaling that it was your turn.

You weren’t as talented as Tom was. Your round took considerably longer than his had, and you spent a lot of time splashing around aimlessly, trying to ignore Harry’s laughter in the background. You wanted to get Tom back for tagging you, but ended up all but tackling Harrison into the water on accident. Either way, your turn was over.

You opened your eyes to find yourself clinging to Harrison’s back like a koala. Sheepishly, you detached yourself from his body and pushed back the hair that had gotten into your face.

“All you had to do was tag me, y/n,” he said, grinning and you shrugged apologetically.

“Just wanted to make sure I got you.”

The game went on for longer than you thought it would, and as it went on you got progressively more competitive. You pushed and shoved your way through the other boys to avoid being it again, and you had a pretty good streak going until Harrison got you back by accidentally backhanding you lightly across the face during his turn.

He opened his eyes with horror. “I’m so sorry I thought I was going for Tom’s shoulder!”

You touched your face gently where it still stung from the impact. “Right,” you joked, but stopped mid-sentence when you realized how bad he really felt about it. “Hey it’s fine, it was an accident.”

“I hit you.”

“We were playing around, I tackled you earlier it’s okay, really.”

Harrison reluctantly agreed, but you all moved on to a different game after that. Harry brought out a football for the four of you to toss around and that’s what you did until Haz decided to call it. He gave some excuse about getting up early for the flight tomorrow and hopped out of the water without further explanation. You knew he still felt shitty about what had happened during Marco Polo, but you didn’t know what to do to make him feel better.

Harry went with him since they were sharing a room, leaving you and Tom alone in the pool tossing the football back and forth. You figured you’d just go back to the room whenever Tom was ready since you wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was back anyway.

“What's your middle name?” Tom asked, breaking the silence that had hung in the air since the other two had left.

You struggled not to laugh. “What? Why?”

“I told you the other night, I don’t know anything about you. This is me trying to learn.”

“Well it sounds like you’re trying to steal my identity.”

He shrugged. “Added bonus.”

“It’s y/m/n, but I’m pretty sure Tom Holland doesn’t need a social security number from someone like me.”

“Maybe not, but I hear American passports are very valuable.” He tossed the football back to you. “Don’t you want to know my middle name?”

“Isn’t it Stanley?” you asked and he frowned. “I sign so many papers with your legal name on it, you shouldn’t be surprised.”

“You’re right.”

“When am I not?” You quirked an eyebrow and Tom retaliated by throwing the football further than you could reach on purpose, sending it rolling onto the deck underneath the lounge chairs.

The ball was neglected to be found as Tom continued to pester you with more questions. You humored him and answered them all, telling him about your parents, hometown, college, and how your record for shotgunnning a beer was four seconds.

He listened to everything quietly, only stopping you to boast about his two and a half second shotgun record.

You never thought you’d be having this conversation with Tom Holland of all people, yet here you were, trading stories about near alcohol poisoning under the night sky on the roof of a hotel.

“Guess no one else wants to swim tonight,” you commented offhandedly, glancing around the pool area that had been empty all night.

“Oh, the pool’s been closed since eleven.”

“What?”

this probably has hella typos but i’m so tired. smut next week!! sorry again for all the confustion. lmk what you think I always appreciate feedback!!

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