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callmecallmecrazy · 4 years

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Keeping Up with Old Friends

*****

Well, it’s another odd one. Somewhere between preppy and stodgy, old-fashioned man I guess? This is actually brand spanking new! If it hadn’t been for Covid, this would have been the fastest story I’d ever written!

*****

“Josh? Is that you?” Henley saw his old college pal, the wannabe hipster with a scruffy beard and flannel button downs ordering coffee at a Starbucks. Except, scruffy Josh was smooth shaved with a gentle part in his hair and dressed in a tight fitting lime green polo, creased khakis, and polished loafers. And the Josh he knew would never order from Starbucks or any corporate chain for that matter. But the tiny polo logo on his chest suggested that had definitely changed.

“Henley! Hey man,” his voice was still the same chipper and little high pitched. Henley met his friend in a hug, noticing that his formerly thin arms had a plethora of veins bulging up over visible muscles. For someone who claimed to hate pretension, he sure had gone full tilt.

“Surprised to see you here,” Henley half-joked while teasingly pressing on the polo player on Josh’s shirt.

“Ha! Yeah man, turns out they have some good stuff! Plus, it’s close to work.”

“Where are you working now?”

“Hemplebaum Inc.” The big smile he offered was met by a wide eyed stare from Henley. Josh was a film and lighting guy. Last they’d talked, he’d been working on some plays downtown. Certainly not at “evil corporation incorporated”.

“What happened to the plays?”

“Ya know, I wanted a change.” Josh shoved his hands into his pockets. “Plus, the money sucks. I didn’t want to share a studio my whole life.” “Aren’t they, like, totally evil?” Josh frowned, his face taking on an overly broad and exaggerated look. Had his head grown?

“Hey man, they’re cool. I got headhunted by a department chief. I’m not one of those office drones filling foreclosures and manipulating bank accounts.” In response to Henley’s increasingly horrified look, Josh shrugged and laughed. “I don’t think they do that stuff anymore either.”

He glanced at his watch, a shiny rolex, and then back at Henley. “Hey man, great seeing you. Maybe we’ll hang out sometime? I gotta get back to the office!” Henley watched Josh walk out, noticing how well he filled out those khakis. His buttocks had developed a shelf like quality, curving the pants out awkwardly as he walked away.

“That was so strange,” Henley said aloud. But people change. Josh seemed happy and healthy. Maybe he always wanted to be a frat boy after all? Henley got his coffee, black, and took the train downtown. As he sipped on the scalding coffee, Henley did think about some of what Josh said. Downtown was prohibitively expensive. Henley paid in time what he couldn't afford in rent having to ride in everyday. Sure, he loved life down here but he really couldn’t enjoy it as much as he’d like. But then, Henley could never handle being some corporate drone.

-----

“Josh? Is that you?” The big man standing in front of the drink counter, picking up a gigantic fuzzy looking drink, didn’t physically resemble Josh at all. He was big, the Navy blazer he wore couldn’t hide the broad shoulders and his green and blue rep tie had a hard time lying flat over his bulging pecs. And his hair, last time well groomed but still with a youthful length, was sheared down into a practically flat bit of black hair, shiny and parted. The face was still the same, even though the hair made his face look extremely square.

The man looked back at Henley confused for a moment before a tinge of understanding glittered in his eyes.

“Henley Tator,” his voice was slower and deeper. While Henley went in for a hug, Josh replied with a one armed side hug and pat on the back. He practically grimaced when Henley went full hug.

“Josh! Man, it’s been awhile.” “Yes Henley, I’ve been very busy at work. And please, call me Joshua, it’s more professional.”

“Wow, still at Hemplebaum?”

“Yes, moving up the ladder. What about you, Henley?”

“Oh ya know, I’m still at the art funding startup. It’s hard but I enjoy it.”

“Pay well?” “Ha, you know it doesn’t.” “I can tell,” Joshua eyed Henley’s tattered jeans and waffle shirt with distaste. Henley was taken aback by the outright disdain.

“Well, I’m passionate about it.” Joshua just nodded. “You’re looking good. Gym time is really paying off.” “Yes,” Joshua’s stern demeanor dropped a touch, there a bit more levity in his voice suddenly. “There’s a corporate gym and it’s free and they even give you an hour a day to use it - paid!” He was practically giddy as he talked. Henley relaxed a bit. This was the Josh he knew, chirpy and friendly though not exceptionally outgoing. And honestly, Josh had always been the kind of guy who dove head first into anything. It really wasn’t shocking that he’d treat his job the same way he’d treated edibles, EDM, and frisbee golf.

“You still doing frisbee golf? Since you’ve got the bod now,” Henley playfully slapped one of Joshua’s broad shoulders and was shocked at how firm the muscle was.

“I’ve been doing a lot of golf! I play with several of my coworkers and even some of the junior partners. I’m getting my handicap down too.”

“Oh, you’re playing real golf?”

“Yes, it’s very enjoyable. And great for business bonding. Chance for men to talk about work, wives, sports. Say, you watch the game last weekend?” That was wholly unlike Josh. But again, he was probably throwing himself into the corporate world.

“Nah, man, I’m not into basketball.”

“It’s football season.” He replied so directly and sincerely Henley almost fell over. “I know not everyone is into the NFL, but I assumed you would at least watch your alma mater. And our Bulls are having a great season. 4-0 in conference play.” Joshua kept talking about football as Henley stared deep into his eyes. Was this really Josh? The guy hadn’t even known what sport a touchdown was part of.

“Anyway, Henley, it’s been great catching up. Maybe we can grab some beers and watch a game sometime. I need to return to the office.” Joshua checked his watch, flashing the shiny gold in front of Henley. As the muscleman walked out, Henley couldn’t help but notice the incredibly large derriere. The vents on his suit jacket hung awkwardly over the luscious rump and it jiggled every so slight as he walked. A stunning contrast to the hard muscle covering the rest of his body.

“Yeah, great to see you Josh-ua,” he forced out the last syllable. It made sense to do it. This was not the Josh he knew. This was apparently Joshua, his friend? Henley grabbed his coffee, black, and tried to sip on it on the train. It was a little too hot for him and he was stuck holding it between his hands awkwardly for the whole ride.

-----

“Josh? Is that you? I mean, Joshua?” Henley had avoided the coffee shop since their last encounter. He told himself it was all in his head, but everything about these encounters creeped him out. Joshua seemed like a totally different person. He wasn’t sure if it was steroids, the growth seemed extremely quick, or perhaps just the makeover itself made him look different. But he was finally caffeine deprived enough to step in, and there was Joshua. Or at least a Joshua facsimile standing next to another man.

This Joshua wore a tight fitting suit, seemingly straining at both the broad shoulders and around the crotch. It was exceptionally subdued, a rather pale black color with a white button down shirt and blue and green rep tie. His hair was the same, but his face had undergone a change. His jaw, formerly a little pointed and sharp, spread wide and hung low, giving his face a square, lantern shape. He stood ramrod straight, sipping from his milky looking drink. The man next to Joshua was older, but otherwise nearly identical. He was thicker around the middle, but any gut he might have was hidden by the extremely high rise of his pants, sitting above his belly button just under the rib cage. His tie was black and grey with a subtle windowpane pattern.

The man stared at Henley for a moment before tapping Joshua on the shoulder.

“John Howard,” his voice was slow and deep. “I believe this boy is trying to get your attention.” The younger man turned to look at Henley and then a faint bit of recognition crossed his face.

��Henley Tator,” the voice was practically monotone, low and deep. He took a few powerful steps forward and offered a large, rough hand. Confused, Henley accepted it and the grip practically shattered his bones.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Joshua turned to face the older man. “This is a friend from college. Henley Tator. Henley, this is my boss.” He gestured robotically between the two. Amplebottom offered his hand and it was the same rough shake.

“Nice to meet you….,” Henley sort of trailed off, hoping to get a first name.

“And to you, Henley,” he put a very strange emphasis on the words, as though he had never said them before. Henley turned back to his old friend.

“So, Joshua,...” he was cut off by a cough from Amplebottom.

“Please call me John Howard,” Joshua said curtly. “Mr. Amplebottom thinks I would be better suited professionally as John Howard.” The way he spoke, extremely even in both rhythm and pitch, was unnerving. Henley could make out some of Josh’s features in the hulking face before him. An upturned nose and naturally thin eyebrows over wide eyes resembled the Josh he knew. But the rest of the face clearly belonged to this corporate meathead named John Howard.

“Okay, John-”

“John Howard.”

“John Howard. So, how is work?”

“I am very happy at Hemplebaum. I was recently put in charge of development acquisitions under Mr. Amplebottom. He has been a great advisor in my career.”

“That’s great. Glad to hear you’re doing good!”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom has assigned me to a downtown acquisition project.”

“Acquisition?”

“Correct, we have a potential development on 520 Porter and need to remove the building.”

“Huh, okay. So what building are you removing?”

“Currently the future site of Hemple Housing Porter is occupied by the Cherub Theatre.” “Cherub Theatre? You used to work there? You wanna tear it down?”

“It is an eyesore. And it occupies a lot with high economic potential. It is better suited for development.”

“Josh-,”

“John Howard.”

“What the hell happened to you?” The wide eyes suddenly narrowed sharply and almost seemed to sink back into his skull a little.

“I’m offended by your tone, Henley. And honestly,” he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves while disgustingly eyeing Henley’s dirty clothes up and down. “I grew up. You could do with some growing.”

“You’ve grown into a soulless jerk. We used to mock those fucking money obsessed frat boys back in college.” “I just bought a house out in Chester. Right next door to Chadwick Statton. You remember Chadwick?” “Oh my god, he was that Kappa Kappa Kappa asshole.”

“The KKK joke is stale. Besides, it’s very difficult to purchase a home in that neighborhood. I was fortunate to golf with him and he gave me an in with the Board. Plus, I’m working on my country club application. The application fee is $50,000. Could you afford that?” “Jesus Christ! Fifty k just to fucking apply? You’re insane.”

“And you, Henley, are a child. But if you ever decide to grow up,” he reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a thick black card and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

“John Howard,” Mr. Amplebottom suddenly interrupted the discussion. John Howard stiffened up and faced his boss. “I’m glad you had this chance to catch up with your fraternity brother, but we have wasted time. I assume you’ll stay late to make it up?” “Of course, Mr. Amplebottom.” They turned to leave. Henley got a good look at the pair. Despite the broad shoulders and bulging pectorals, both had a distinctly pear shaped body, with wide hips and massive butts that shook just a touch as they walked. Henley laughed to himself, realizing Amplebottom really lived up to his name.

Henley grabbed the card from his pocket and examined it. It was a thick card stock and slightly textured. The Hemplebaum logo was obnoxiously large in one corner. Right in the middle was John Howard Johnson, Associate. Henley was quite sure he was going mad. That was absolutely not his last name in college! Had he changed his entire fucking name to fit in with these people? Golfing with Chad, obeying his boss like some braindead goon, destroying his old workplace to build, what? Multi-use condos? Like there isn’t enough of that? The Cherub is a relic, in a good way. Had Josh been putting on the entire time he was in college? Was this who he truly was? No, no this name changing was a deeper sign. Maybe a psychotic break?

It occurred to him that standing in a Starbucks staring at a business card as people queued up around him made him look insane. And he had to get to work anyway. This whole thing had become so ridiculous he’d just ignore it. He ordered his coffee, adding a heavy dose of cream, and went downtown.

-----

“John Howard? Is that you?”

“You’ve reached Hemblebaum Inc acquisitions division. How may I direct your call?” Damn, his card didn’t even list a direct number. Henley had tossed the card around his apartment for a while, even starting to dial once or twice. But then he’d ask himself why exactly he was doing this. John Howard, whoever he was, wasn’t Henley’s old friend. He wouldn’t have even spoken to Henley back in the day. But theoretically this man was Josh or had been Josh. And Henley couldn’t shake him from his mind.

“May I speak with John Howard Johnson?” Henley’s voice cracked a touch as he spurt out the words.

“I’ll transfer you to his desk,” replied the chipper female voice. The line filled with static and then began ringing. After a few rings, he was bumped back to the secretary.

“Would you like me to give Mr. Johnson a message on your behalf?” “Oh, uh, no thank you.”

“If this is a private matter, I can forward you to his personal mailbox.”

“Sure.”

“One moment.” There wasn’t any ring, just straight to the mailbox. He could practically see the stodgy man who produced the recording.

“You have reached the desk of John Howard Johnson. Leave a message and I will respond.” Damn, he was so terse and humorless. And what exactly was he going to say? The words came out of his mouth before he could think about them.

“Hey, John Howard. This is Henley Tator, from college. I was thinking about what you said when you gave me your card. So, call me back?” He left his number and hung up. What on earth had he been thinking? I mean, the growing up thing had crossed his mind. His two bedroom apartment was rough to afford even with two roommates. It would be nice to have his own place. And his clothes could use an update from his student days. Of course, he wondered exactly how long he’d be waiting for a call back, which gave him far too much time to ponder his plans.

------

“This is Henley,” he wouldn’t normally answer the phone for an unknown number, but since he had no idea when John Howard would call, or from what number, Henley snagged the phone every time it rang. Sure, he’d fielded a few calls from telemarketers, but he was going to get to the bottom of this. Hardy Boy or something or other.

“Hello Henley, this is John Howard Johnson, I am returning your call from 2:15.” Damn, he was a total stiff. He was probably sitting at his desk, feet flat on the floor, back ramrod straight staring straight ahead.

“Hey John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley, how may I assist you?” Straight to the point.

“Well, you know I was thinking about what you said at Starbucks. About growing up and stuff.”

“Yes, you are quite childish.” “Can you help?”

“Of course, I think an interview with Mr. Amplebottom would be a delightful way to have a new start. I shall arrange an 8:00 a.m. appointment tomorrow. He’ll be expecting you. Check in at the lobby by 7:45. Oh, and please find more suitable attire. This is a professional work environment.” “Great, well, that’s a lot more than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Umm, no idea.”

“You asked for help, I am providing it. Is something wrong?”

“No, no, no. Thank you so much! I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll see Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, John Howard.”

“You are welcome, Henley.” Click. Well, that was brisk. But a development. Now of course, he’d need to find clothes. I mean, he had a suit, just the one, in navy blue, and it got pulled out once a year or so for weddings. A dab of cologne would top it off. He didn’t want to be suspicious. Of course, as far as he could tell, the only person who thought something was amiss was him.

-----

“This is Henley,” he replied to the officer checking name at the front desk. He was a private security guard, bulky and bull necked with biceps that practically shredded his sleeves. The stern faced man checked a list carefully.

“First name?”

“Henley.” The officer stared at him.

“Henley Henley?”

“No, Henley Tator.” He could sense the guard sighing internally. Henley was such an odd name, it usually was more than enough information for people to locate him. But, judging by John Howard, this was probably an extremely by-the-books business.

“39th floor. Please give your name to the secretary and she’ll let you in. Tator, Henley. Less confusion.” The man curtly directed him towards the elevator and returned to his post by the door.

Everything about the lobby, the elevator and the entry way on floor 39 was the same: wood, dark, overbearing. Harsh fluorescent lighting easily guided the path. The whole place was like a time capsule, the height of early 60s style. This might as well have been a set for the early seasons of Mad Men.

The sharp ping of the elevator signalled his arrival and after a quick check-in, he was led across a sea of cubicles towards a large office in the corner. Despite the early time, the office was already alive. He caught glimpses of suited men at some desks and a trio of buff suits standing by a water cooler.

Amplebottom’s office continued the trend. It was big with large windows along the wall. He had a gigantic wooden desk with an equally large chair that seemed twice as wide as normal. Which made sense given his butt. He glanced up as Henley entered but did not stand.

“Henley Tator,” the way he said his name was so peculiar. He spoke so slowly that emphasis ended up on the wrong syllables, making the words sound foreign to Henley himself.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley walked over in front of the desk and offered his hand. Amblebottom leaned forward and shook it. He’d prepared himself for the vice grip and felt the muscles in his forearm swell as he clenched back. Once that was over, Henley pulled back a chair and began to sit.

“Before you sit down,” his thick words poured molasses over Henley’s movements. He found himself standing upright and looking at Amplebottom. The man was a practically a hypermasculine parody, low brow, big nose, wide jaw with a gigantic cleft chin. A touch of receding hair over the temples added more dignity than age. His clothing was similar to the other day, pale black suit and subtle tie.

“John Howard setup this interview. I am unsure how you can contribute to Hemplebaum.” Henley stood uncomfortably as Amplebottom stared at him. He took a dry swallow and stared into the big man’s eyes. They were a strange grey color, cold and severe and almost lifeless. He also found it hard to look away, they were enrapturing. “What do you expect from me?” Henley was almost sure he saw the grey eyes flash.

“I guess, umm, I was just hoping for a job?”

“That sounds very convincing, son,” the droll response unnerved Henley more.

“I want to try something new. More grown-up.”

“Hemplebaum isn’t some urban start up with billiards and soy milk. This is a very demanding corporation. I expect my employees to be eager and dedicated.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley found himself nodding in response. He spread his legs a little wider and clasped his hands behind his back. It was more comfortable than just letting them hang and it prevented fidgeting.

“This job can also be very rewarding. Acquisitions works on a baseline salary plus commission incentives and bonuses.”

“How much could I make?” Henley honesty hadn’t thought about the actual financial potential of the job. Sure, he’d casually looked up the cost of homes in Chester, but he hadn’t really considered the salary.

“As a Junior Associate, you’d start with a baseline of 100 plus three percent commission with incentives quarterly based on goals and projects. Do well, and you can quickly move up.”

“Shit, seriously?”

“I am always serious Henley.”

“No, sorry, Sir,” he tacked on the honorific quickly. The financial prospects were huge! “That’s more than twice what I make now.”

“Yes, the corporate world has perks.”

“I’d like a job as a Junior Associate, Mr. Amplebottom.” That caused the bigger man to smile.

“Are you willing to dedicate yourself to your job, Henley? We do not tolerate slackers.”

“Yessir!”

“Well, I think, based on John Howard’s recommendation, that I can give you a test run.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“However, there will be a few adjustments required. Your suit is fine, the sneakers are not. And ties are mandatory with a collared shirt. Human resources will give you a rundown of our policies. I’m assuming you probably won’t have work appropriate clothing. The company can offer you a corporate card to get yourself setup. You’ll receive automatic payroll deductions to pay it back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“I appreciate this new eagerness from you. I assure you, if you work hard, you’ll find Hemplebaum the most rewarding place.”

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he said confidently to the guard. The officer, a gruff man with visible tattoos on his hulking forearms, gave him a once over and checked his name off a list. He said nothing as Henley headed inside towards the elevator. The glass walls of the elevator gave him a great chance to reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

The employee handbook was massive. Something like 200 pages of rules, regulations, and suggestions mixed in with corporate speak and industry jargon. While HR had gone over some basics of the position, personnel forms, and whatnot, the only section he’d read closely was on wardrobe since Amblebottom specifically mentioned it. It wasn’t terribly confusing since it included not just general recommendations but pictures, stores, and tiers of items towards “building a man’s wardrobe.”

Henley followed the basic directions and found the elegant, tiny menswear shop the manual recommended. Upon hearing that he had recently gained employment at Hemplebaum, the elder employee immediately went to work, selecting an array of khakis and polos to start. Henley had resisted the creased pleats but to his dismay the shopkeeper insisted. He had successfully rebuffed the notion that he needed new underwear. He was an adult, he could make private decisions on his own. The man also said he’d begin working on a basic suit. Henley referred to it as “black” and was politely informed that the color was “charcoal” and black suits were only for funerals.

Which is how he found himself, smooth faced from new toiletries, in a salmon polo and crisp khakis, waiting on the elevator. He had a minor flashback to when he first ran into John Howard. Joshua. Josh. Whoever he was now. Their outfits were similar, but Henley took a moment as he brushed a lock of hair from his eyes to remind himself that he was just playing pretend. He was figuring something out. Capitalist finery was required. Although his mind had already started calculating exactly when he could get his own apartment.

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he answered as the office desk rang. He’d quickly been put into a cubicle and signed into a company website to begin training. Usual stuff, safety procedures, privacy policies and intellectual property, then lots and lots of company information, acquisition and retail training, even negotiating for beginners. He had been expecting to find a diversity or harassment training, but the program, like seemingly everything else here, was highly structured and old-fashioned. It was probably deeper in the training. He’d swiped his new ID card when he got up for the bathroom or to get some water, the program seemed on a timer because if he dallied or got distracted the pages would time out and he’d have to start again. On the plus side, it made the day pass extremely quickly.

“Henley Tator,” he recognized that stoic bass. “This is John Howard Johnson.”

“Hey, John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley. I will be going to the cafeteria for lunch in 15 minutes. If you are hungry, you are welcome to come along.”

“Sure thing, John Howard! Thanks! I am getting hun-.”

“Please meet by the elevator in ten minutes.” John Howard was not a chatter. Never had been. But it gave him something to look forward to so he rushed to finish a basic finances video quiz narrated by a corporate casting finance bro in a tasteful suit talking about “life at the club” and “the importance of appearances.” Finally, he badged out of his computer for lunch.

By the elevators, in an impossibly rigid stance, legs apart, hands straight at his side, face forward, was John Howard. The square faced muscle man was packed into a charcoal suit and shiny dress shoes. Henley noticed the colorful tie had been replaced with a more muted one with barely noticeable muted black stripes.

“Henley Tator,” he offered his rough hand and Henley accepted.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said, half mocking but also happy to see a semi-familiar face.

“The cafeteria is on Floor 15,” John Howard said briskly as they stepped in.

“So, having a good day?”

“My day is doing well, thank you. How is your day?”

“Good, lots of new information. Guess I need a lot of training.”

“The gym is on the fifth floor. It is a good source of weight training.”

“Oh awesome! Yeah, man you look great. I definitely should hit that up.”

“I am happy to show you. I workout an hour before work each day and one hour afterwards.”

“Holy crap dude! And you live out in Chester? How do you find time to sleep.”

“A good night’s sleep is important for muscle growth. I try not to waste time on silly things.”

Henley had built a small salad for himself and grabbed some water. John Howard had taken the platter, a slab of meat in gravy, potatoes, and greens. Combined with what appeared to be a frothy glass of milk. He sat the two down at a table with two other men. One was a stoic, stern faced man who looked like he could be John Howard’s brother. The other was a much flashier man with smooth blonde hair and a plaid bowtie.

“Henley, this is Bert Anderson, accounting,” he gestured to his clone. “And this is-” he was cut off by the flashier man.

“Rotterham Casper Cornelius Southard, call me Rip. Accounts. So, J.H. mentioned you were his old college bro? Bet you got up to some mischief back in the day, eh?” he gave John Howard a playful punch, and he did not react.

“I prefer John Howard.”

“I know you do, J.H.”

“So, you’re both in accounting?” Henley asked. Bert shook his head while Rip laughed.

“No, Bert here is a number cruncher. I manage accounts. Management, keeping clients happy. Happy-hours, bars, strippers, the works. I’m the fun one.” “I’m sure your wife does not approve.”

“She approves of that pool boy I hired for her. She approves of our second home in Mayfield Valley. She can approve of my dalliances.” Henley mostly stayed silent as they talked about work, wives, and sports.

-----

“Take a seat, Henley,” Mr. Amplebottom gestured to one of the extra wide chairs before his desk. Henley hardly took up half, but he wondered if they were wide enough for Amblebottom’s ample bottom.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” Henley hadn’t seen much of his boss the past week, but he’d found himself thinking more and more fondly of his boss. The training videos included a lot of stuff on professional behavior, and while a lot of it seemed like a pathetically antiquated throwback to worse times, it wouldn’t hurt to adopt some of the culture. At least while he was here.

“Just doing a check-in, seeing how it’s going.” Amplebottom made constant eye contact. Those grey eyes were engaging, sort of hard to look away from.

“It’s good, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Enjoying the training?”

“It’s very informative.”

“Glad to hear it. I take my employees personal development very personally. I want you to think of me as a mentor.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, let me give you some advice.”

“Yes sir.”

“I appreciate the fraternity makeover. Really, it’s a classic look. But it doesn’t say corporate. It doesn’t say rising star. It doesn’t say money. Does that make sense?”

“Umm, I guess so.” “Page 183 in the handbook. Suggestions for the transition between fraternal life and entering the corporate world.”

“I wasn’t in a fraternity,” Henley laughed.

“I was under the impression that was how you know John Howard. That you were one of his Kappa Alpha Sigma brothers?” “I, umm, no. And I don’t think… John Howard was either?”

“You should work on speaking directly. These umms and pauses don’t project confidence.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you sir.”

One his way out, Henley took a moment to swing by John Howard’s desk. Partially just to wish his fellow worker a good weekend, but also because that fraternity question bobbed around his head.

“John Howard?” The stalwart man seated perfectly straight rotated his chair to face Henley. Henley noticed that he sat on an extra wide chair and seemed to fill it well. All those hours in the gym seemed to harden every muscle on his body except his butt.

“Henley Tator, do you need something?”

“Just wanted to say have a good weekend.” “Enjoy your weekend as well Henley. If you’re feeling comfortable, I can show you the company gym Monday. I workout at 7 am and 7 pm everyday.”

“Yeah, that would be great- wow you’re here a long time!”

“I take a lot of pride in my position at Hemplebaum. I hope to become a division partner. Legacy membership at Rolling Acres is five hundred grand. And that’s my place.” Henley pondered the man before him. Honestly, there was a lot to like about John Howard. He was honest, straightforward, and hardworking. But there was something callous, cold, and privileged about him.

“Hey, John Howard. Were you in a fraternity?”

“Kappa Alpha Sigma, you know that Henley.” Did he know? He looked like a K-Sig, the kind of former athlete who came to party hard and maybe pass a class or two.

“Anyway, enjoy your weekend. I need to finish up. Good night.” John Howard turned back towards his desk without another word, leaving Henley to shrug and walk to the tube and head home.

-----

Page 183 started with three pictures: a polo and khaki sporting college student, a man in trousers and blazer, and finally an old and noticeably thicker man in a conservative suit. Then it talked about the foundations of a man's future and his wardrobe.

“The navy blazer is a classic item that works for semi formal occasions and casual office places. Even as a man transitions to daily suits, the navy blazer will always have a place at a garden party or fraternity alumni event.”

“Ties and bowties are a delightful way to add color to an outfit. It is important to view the event and location when making a selection. Bow ties in particular are more flamboyant in a workplace and should be considered carefully. Business attire defaults to long ties, and more conservative workplaces require more conservative choices. Consider emulating the attire of your superiors.”

“Supports should be practical and supportive. Belts are fine for casual outings; however, braces are more desirable for suiting, both for support and style as it allows a more traditional and flattering cut. Similarly, undergarments should provide support and coverage. A traditional undershirt with sleeves is ideal, as it provides sweat protection. Briefs are the most appropriate underwear choice, as it provides support without being extraneous. It is also compatible with tennis for those who participate in sport.”

This had to have been the third comment someone had about his choice of underwear. It seemed a deeply intrusive thing for a company to comment on. But a lot of other sections are good information. It explained why men like Bert and John Howard wore ties and Rip, in a more colorful position, had the flashier bowtie. He took some basic notes and decided he’d hit up that menswear shop. They had a company account, he could probably just tack it on to his previous bill.

-----

“Henley Tator,” he said simply. The guard, the same one as every other day, checked the list and let him in. Uncharacteristically, the guard spoke to him.

“Early start?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the gym.”

“Ah, good choice. I’ve been lifting since my football days,” the guard said while flexing a bicep. It strained the fabric of his shirt so much there was a tiny tear at the sleeve.

“Ah damn, gonna have to size up. Sorry, please don’t report me.” He suddenly seemed mildly afraid.

“Report you?”

“Some of the guys here are real sticklers about manners. They don’t like cursing.” “No, man, we’re cool. You look great! Not sure I’d want to be that big honestly.”

“Hey, once you start, you never wanna stop.”

Henley wanted to stop. John Howard was already changed and waiting on him, so Henley rushed to change and hit the floor. The next hour was a diabolic hell. John Howard started with squats. Henley got a good look at his friend's monstrous calves and steel cut quads, surprisingly pale but doubted John Howard wore short pants much. The most shocking feature was watching that jiggly ass clench and thrust with each repetition. Hard muscle lurked underneath the jelly-like layer. And it went on and on. Big lifts, slow lifts, legs, legs, legs, he was deeply certain he would never be able to walk again. John Howard had to help him strip down and lumber into a shower stall.

He took his time rinsing off, rubbing the corporate provided products into his aching muscles and letting the hot water relax him. Leaning against a wall, still gasping for breath, he let himself drift off for a bit.

“You alright, Henley?” John Howard asked, cracking the curtain.

“Just, just finishing up,” he said, turning off the water and grabbing his towel. In the locker room, he saw John Howard's muscled glory in more detail, the ravenous cuts of his back rippled as he walked. He was thick from below his pecs down to his butt, no real waistline, and most of that part of his back was covered in cotton fabric. His legs were bare below the butt, the garganuan thighs popping through the pristine white cotton of the briefs.

While Henley got ready, John Howard went to a mirror and began applying white shaving cream to his practically smooth face, treating every exposed piece of chin and neck to the cream and razor. Slipping back on his underwear, Henley donned a white undershirt and pulled up some pleated khakis. Out of his locker came a white button down shirt which he began hastily buttoning. John Howard was finishing his face with aftershave and examining himself in the mirror. As he approached the lockers, Henley got a frontal look at him. He hadn’t realized how high waisted these briefs were from the back. His bellybutton was completely hidden, practically cartoonish.

Henley went to the mirror and began combing and styling his hair, working in product and brushing a part in. His hair was getting trained for it, the strands beginning to grow a part on the right side naturally. It looked pretty good like this. More corporate that he had preferred, but it was a classic style for a reason.

As he returned to his locker, John Howard was pulling some trousers up his legs, hoisting them up with a pair of silk braces. Everything about John Howard was just so big nowadays, his proportions practically Marvel comic level, that he hadn’t realized how high waisted his pants had become. No one wore them like that nowadays. At least no one who wasn’t LARPing or Mr. Amplebottom. John Howard reminded Henley of Mr. Amplebottom, a lot. The book said to copy your bosses outfits. John Howard had taken that to heart.

Henley fashioned the gold and green tie around his neck before slipping into a navy blazer with prominent buttons. John Howard walked towards the mirror again as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt and adorned them with cufflinks.

“Nice man,” Henley admired.

“Thank you,” John Howard was almost bashful as he showed them to Henley. He noted the onix black button had the letters J.H.J cut into them.

“Are they monogrammed?”

“Yes! It’s very popular at the club. And they were suggested by the haberdashery.” “Haberdashery? Wow, that sounds so English.”

“These are made in America. All the clothes recommended by Hemplebaum are.” John Howard seemed agitated by the suggestion. “I just meant the word.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m un American.” The stern response caused Henley to stay silent as the pair continued dressing.

-----

Henley was honestly looking forward to his weekly review meeting with Mr. Amplebottom. He was starting to get in the swing of this whole corporate thing. And the tantalizing prospect of his first paycheck was right around the corner. That wasn’t the only corporate benefit he was enjoying. His clothes were tight. Quite tight. At first he’d thought something was snagged, but the small strain on the buttons of his shirt was unmistakable. As he pulled up his pants this morning, he’d heard a slight tear as a few seams in the rear snapped. He’d have to get some things let out. Or maybe new ones altogether.

The growth had bothered him a bit at first, it seemed to come out of nowhere. But John Howard explained it was just the result of an effective workout and diet plan. On John Howard’s suggestion, he’d dropped the salads and switched to the daily platter, a fuller meal for growth. And the workouts meant he was exhausted everyday after work and went right to bed. Which kind of went against his reason for working here in the first place. Wait, why was he working here again? To make money. He wanted to enjoy more of life downtown. Wasn’t it something about John Howard?

“Take a seat Henley.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Henley gratefully replied. He plopped himself into the cushioned chair and did his best to keep his back tall and straight. The men around here had impeccable posture, at least the ones in acquisitions. Rip certainly knew how to relax. Which gave him an idea for after the meeting.

“How has work been proceeding?”

“Very good, sir. The trainings have been very helpful and I am eager to begin assisting with projects.”

“Good. I am pleased with the energy you’ve devoted to your job.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“I’ve decided to assign you to the Hemple Housing Porter project under John Howard Johnson.” “I look forward to it.” “Very good. We’ve acquired the property, but there is still concern about ‘historical value.’ You will be tasked with pricing and selling anything valuable inside.” “Yes sir… is that the Cherub theatre?” Henley got a touch concerned.

“We refer to projects by our goals. But the Theatre currently sits there. Is that going to be a problem, Henley?” His grey eyes seemed to flash.

“No, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Good. You never struck me as the theatre type anyway, Henley. I assumed you were into sport.”

“Not really Sir.”

“That surprises me. Since you are friends with John Howard, you must have attended many football games with him. And that sport is your preferred leisure activity.” The words came out like a metronome, even paced and simple. But they stuck in Henley’s mind. What else would he and John Howard have done together? He was clearly obsessed with sports and his fraternity. And Henley was enjoying the gym, which was truly just another sport.

“Now,” Mr. Amplebottom continued. “You will be working with some old men from assets and banking. Really conservative types. You should try speaking slower. That will deepen your voice and give you more presence.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” the words spilled out in nearly double the time. His tongue felt heavy as he spoke and every syllable seemed to require extra effort to spit out.

“Very good, Henley, with practice you will also be able to use a deeper, more masculine tone. That will be very helpful in business.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, just one last thing, Henley,” there was a venomous glint in his eyes as he stumbled over Henley’s name. “Henley is a very peculiar name. Unique. It sets you apart when you should fit in, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” “In business, you know how important it is to give the right impression. The men in these industries tend to be very old-fashioned. And so much of this business is based on rubbing elbows and social connections. You have to give yourself every possible advantage.”

“Yes, yes Sir.”

“I know you want my advice. I am a good mentor.”

“Yes Sir. You are a good mentor.”

“Professionally, I think you should introduce yourself as Henderson.” Henley’s brain practically exploded.

“Yes Sir,” he muttered weakly.

“Try it on me.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” More brain explosions. It felt partially like getting hit in the head and partially like taking really good meds. “Slower.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” A glitter bomb went off in his brain. It felt like magic.

“Very good, Henderson.” Hearing someone else say it, as though it always had been, made the magical glitter settle on his brain, covering it in an ashy fog. “Well, I figure you might want this before you go for the weekend.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a large printed piece of paper. He handed it over to Henderson who grabbed it eagerly. Upon seeing the amount of money on his check, Henderson’s pupils practically morphed into dollar signs.

“Associates get more than double that.” More dollar signs flashed before his eyes. “And it’s a fairly simple promotion. Good work is always rewarded.”

“Yes Sir! Thank you sir!” The first set of words rushed out of his mouth. He calmed himself and regained his slow speaking tempo. He glanced down at the check and realized it said Henderson Tator.

“I don’t think I can deposit this.” “You’ll use the company banking system from now on. You’ll find it has much better rewards for higher income brackets. We have built in direct deposit. But I wanted to see the look on your face the first time.”

John Howard was hard on work when Henderson knocked.

“Henley Tator,” monotoned his deep voice. Henderson had a flashback to Starbucks and a similar conversation, but now the shoe was on the other foot.

“Please call me Henderson, John Howard,” his thick, slow voice drawled out. “It is more professional.

“I agree, Henderson,” Henderson could have sworn a tiny smile crept onto the corners of John Howard’s mouth. But the stoic man’s face returned to it’s sculpted indifference immediately. “What can I do for you?”

“I was considering asking Rip for some... herbals, for the weekend and wondered if you cared to partake. Maybe watch a game?” Henderson had a distinct memory of two dudes chilling out to some cheap weed and beer while watching Reefer Madness and laughing their asses off. John Howard's face was not amused.

“No, Henderson. You know I do not partake in such things.” “What? You went through a whole rasta-ganja phase in college…”

“I did not,” John Howard was visibly angry even if his voice maintained its impressive monotone. “I do not approve of illicit substances or behavior and I do not appreciate your slander.” “Woah, calm down, big guy,” not that John Howard wasn’t calm. But Henderson knew that one punch from the dude would knock him silly. “I was just thinking back to our college days….”

“Yes, I remember Chadwick forcing us to try the stuff during Hell Week. As I recall, you disliked it even more than I did.”

“What? What does Chad have to do with this?” “The only time I ever tried marjiuana,” his voice gained a hushed tone as he said the word. “Was for a fraternity induction. And if you continued to use it, I was unaware. If you would like to watch the game and enjoy some beer or liquid that would be fine. But I will not associate with drug users.” Henderson was taken aback. This man, well maybe not this man, but this dude he might have been at one point spent nearly a semester acting like some sort of stoner God.

“I’m sorry, John Howard.”

“If you are still interested in watching the game and having a beer, I would not be opposed.”

“Yeah, totally!” Henderson swallowed awkwardly after he spoke. Those words felt wrong. But either way, he’d spend a little more time with Josh Howard and figure out what was going on.

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said at the gate. The officer was the same as before, but there were a few subtle differences. His tight uniform now had full length sleeves and he wore a cap on his even more masculine face. “Good morning, Mr. Tator,” the man’s deep voice spoke slowly and severely. His face had not a glimpse of recognition. That was fine by Henderson because he was actually quite tired. He’d ended up in Chester Saturday, bringing a small batch of beer to a football party. It was very strange to him, meeting several of John Howard’s neighbors, though Chadwick was mercifully absent. He had a great time, watching, drinking, and shooting the breeze. The evening went on far later than he anticipated and despite the offer of a guest room, he had taken a late night Uber back into town. Newfound interest in football meant he had spent Sunday watching football, drinking beer, and ordering pizza. And now he was meeting John Howard for a workout with a beer hangover on a Monday.

The workout was much better this week. He found himself making great strides in his max lifts which made him exceptionally proud. John Howard gave his butt a big swat after they finished cleaning up and he felt his rump shudder within his pants. His pants had gotten so much tighter and when he looked in the mirror, the back of his sportcoat practically lay flat from the shelf on his behind. As he admired his form in the mirror, Henderson couldn’t help but brush the smooth shaved line of his prominent jaw. It really stood out nowadays.

“Miss a spot?” John Howard asked, assuming Henderson was rubbing stray hairs.

“Hey John Howard, why is working out making my jaw bigger?” John Howard stared at him curiously and shook his head.

“I don’t think I understand.” “Since, I’ve been working out with you, my face just seems bigger. My jaw and chin in particular.” “Maybe losing some baby fat? Or maybe your improved posture is making your face look different?” Henderson couldn’t explain it. He examined the reflection a few seconds more, sure that something was amiss. But he didn’t have an idea better than John Howard’s so he let it pass and went into the office.

Henderson’s job required calls, lots of calls. Calls to landowners, historical groups, insurance companies, auctioneers, all with their own opinions and interests. Henderson wasn’t actually supposed to do any research, simply talk to the right people to get appropriate evaluations and transportation. He found himself mimicking John Howard’s voice, deep, slow, and disinterested. It wasn’t exciting work, but the progress was slow and consistent. Museums wanted some old posters, there was a buyer in Argentina for the chandelier, and several vintage stores wanted furniture pieces. A few calls were less productive, with upset protestors yelled at him. He’d tried being sympathetic at first, but quickly found that being stern and direct got them off the line quicker so he could return to work.

His days soon blended together. Morning workouts, work, lunch, work, home, sleep, repeat. He sometimes worried that he was missing out on stuff, his old friends called or texted but he rarely responded anymore. It always seemed to happen at an inconvenient time. Eventually, he joined John Howard for his evening workout as well, the results were great, even if he’d had to go up a size or two. Walking around with pecs straining a dress shirt felt incredible, like a huge dose of testosterone had been injected into him. Strangely, his buttocks were growing considerably, in strength and size. But it accumulated a soft layer of fat that spread across, making him even wider. He’d asked John Howard about it once, and he simply told him a big butt was better than a big gut. And Henderson had to agree. None of the men here had big guts. Mr. Amplebottom had a huge butt. And Henderson wanted to be like Mr. Amplebottom as much as possible. More and more, Henderson felt extremely grateful towards his superior. Not only had he hired an unqualified applicant, but he had acted like a mentor and guide and coach. He gave Henderson more and more advice, about standing, walking, talking, and each time he came back eager to learn more.

“Stand tall, Henderson. Head up, don’t slouch. Keep your hands at your side. And don’t fidget.”

“A deeper voice commands attention better. Be direct. Contain emotions, you are better suited to appear calm and in control at all times. There is no need to appear energetic or excited.”

“Wide steps, heel to toe. Legs apart.”

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said calmly as he buzzed in. It was old hat by now. The security guard was probably the same one as before. Henderson paid less attention nowadays to things like that. He had noticed that the security uniform had slowly been replaced with something more formal. The man wore a coat and bowtie along with his cap, looking halfway between a mobster and the world's most muscular butler.

“Good morning, Mr. Tator,” he intoned back as he let him inside. Henderson felt the weight of his body as he walked, his chest stuck out and helped keep his chin up. The broad shoulders made him feel like he took up the entire doorway. And his big wide stride made his butt and crotch kind of wiggle as he walked. He could feel the fabric of his pants tighten around his balls and release, then tighten on the other side. It was mildly arousing.

As he walked in, he greeted a few of his fellow coworkers as he walked to his desk. Moments after sitting down, he received a call to head to Mr. Amplebottom’s office.

He stood at attention in front of the desk, legs apart, arms slack at his side, and staring directly into the grey eyes of his supervisor. Amplebottom seemed to examine his employee for a moment before directing him to sit. Henderson did, his increasingly wide and plump bottom expanding out, consuming nearly 3/4ths of the extra wide seat. He bagged his pants as he sat, causing the crotch of his pants to ride up and give him a large moose knuckle.

“The last sales were processed by accounts payable. You did a good job getting every last dollar out of that disgusting building.” “Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom,” came the monotonous reply.

“How do you feel about the Theatre?”

“The Hemple Housing Porter project will be very profitable.” “Yes, but how about the Cherub Theatre. It’s an old building.” “The lot is better suited for new development.” “Do you like theatre, Henderson.” “No Sir, I was never interested in art.” “More of a sports fellow?” “Yes Sir, I love football.” “Bet you were a big ole lineman back in the day, huh?” “No, I never played.” “I’m pretty shocked,” Amplebottom smirked. “So, no hard feelings about tearing down a 100 year old Theatre.” “No Sir. The development will be very profitable for Hempelbaum.”

“Good man,” Amplebottom kept his eyes focused on Henderson, maintaining steady eye contact. “Well, looks like you’ve earned your first commission check.” He pushed a small piece of paper forward to Henderson, who picked it up. His eyes bulged and dollar signs flashed before his eyes.

“Holy crap!” “Don’t swear Henderson, it’s unbecoming.” “My apologies Mr. Amplebottom. I wasn’t expecting this.” “Three percent commission can be an awful lot when you do a good job. And your percentage goes up with promotions. And good work like this makes me think you’ll be getting on very soon.”

Henderson thanked Mr. Amplebottom profusely and headed straight to John Howard’s desk.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said in a deep, slow voice.

“Henderson Tator, what can I do for you?”

“I got my first commission check,” he said, flashing it for John Howard to see.

“Congratulations. It feels nice to receive appropriate compensation. Men like us work hard, we deserve to make money.”

“It feels great. I could get a down payment on a house.” “Or you could apply for a membership at Rolling Acres Country Club.”

“Oh, no offense, John Howard, but I don’t think I’m country club material.”

“I think you’d like it, Henderson. It’s very nice, and a good way to make connections with other successful men.” John Howard flicked his wrists and displayed a set of ostentatious cufflinks engraved with the country club logo, a laurel wreath surrounding a tree with “Rolling Acres” written over it.

“That seems flashy for you.” “I was accepted as a legacy member. They only let legacy members purchase them.”

“They’re very shiny.” “Yes, too much for the office normally. But I was very excited. Oswald Laurence Carrington IV called personally to inform me. It’s very rare to get a call specifically from the Director of the Board.”

“I’m happy for you,” Henderson said simply.

“Come golfing this weekend. I know you will enjoy it. I can bring guests now!” John Howard’s voice was still precise but there was just the subtle hint of mirth that made Henderson smile slightly.

“Fine, what do I need to wear? I’m sure they have a dress code.” “Meet at my home before. I will have appropriate clothing.”

-----

Henderson had thought a lot about Chester since his last time out here. The spacious green lawns, gigantic homes, and expensive cars cleaned daily should have disgusted him or at least made his eyes roll. Nowadays, he couldn’t help but imagine what life must be like out here. There weren’t music festivals or concerts, but there weren’t smelly people vomiting on the sidewalk or polluting cabs on every corner honking loudly. John Howard’s elegant home had a room dedicated for watching football. It wasn’t even the media room, he said there was a room with a movie projector on the second floor! This was just his man cave, except it was a sunlit, high-ceilinged game room. It was bigger than the apartment Henderson was currently living in alone. He’d kicked out his roommates a month back. They smoked too much weed, it made him dizzy, and he could easily afford the rent on his own nowadays.

John Howard answered the door dressed exactly as he went to work. Henderson had expected something more casual- he’d worn khakis and a pink polo himself. Instead, his bulkier counterpart was embarrassed by his attire and insisted he put on one of his old suits. Henderson thought about protesting, but instead allowed himself to be turned into a Ken doll clone of his coworker, the only difference being the subtle patterns on the tie. He asked John Howard if they were golfing like this, and he insisted they would be changing at the club. Henderson wouldn’t imagine most people showed up dressed like this, but whatever made John Howard comfortable.

Henderson was glad he’d been made to change. After they got past the gate and into the main clubhouse, every man he passed had a tie on. Some of the younger lads were dressed in polo and khakis, but the acne and baby fat on their faces made him happy to not be confused with them. They checked in and “Legacy John Howard Johnson” entered his guests name and they headed to the lockers to change. John Howard handed him a pair of black trousers made of a stretchy and breathable material.

“You sure this one is mine?” “They’re identical.” “Oh, I’m not sure I’ll fit.” “I’m certain we’re the same size, Henderson.” Which they were apparently. Henderson was shocked as the pants expanded over his thighs, showing off the thick trunks he’d developed and the amble jiggly buttocks that pressed generously backwards. They sat a little higher on his waist than he was comfortable with, but he didn’t want the pants to sag on the ground. John Howard handed him a white sport polo with the clubs logo on the left breast. Then he added a black golf cap. Henderson had been afraid he might be wearing jodhpurs and knee socks, so the mainstream outfit was relieving. They tidied up in the mirror, and seeing the two of them side by side, dressed exactly the same, Henderson had a bit of a shock realizing how much he looked like John Howard. His body had filled out tremendously, broad shoulders and baseball like biceps, a thick but strong core, that overly wide ass that led into legs and calves formed by deadlifts and deep squats. The biggest thing was his face. He really could swear that his face had been almost heart shaped, but now there was a distinctly square shape to the thing. His longish ivy league haircut gave him a more youthful appearance than his coworker, but otherwise he might have been a son or young brother.

As they walked out onto the course, golf bags strapped across their backs, Henderson could see a tall figure in the distance, seeming to greet them with a small wave. John Howard returned the small gesture.

“Who’s that?” “Chadwick Stratton. I invited him to play with us?” “You invited Chad?” “Chadwick, yes. He’s been a friend since my fraternity days. You know that Henderson. I thought you would get on quite well. Besides, he’s on good terms with many important people. No one is a better connection.” Chadwick was in stretchy salmon colored pants and a white polo exactly like the ones they were wearing. He had a ballcap on with their college logo on the front. Locks of blonde hair spilled under the brim.

“Hey bro,” Chadwick shook John Howard’s hand and pulled him in for a pat on the back. For his part, John Howard tensed up but did not resist. “Damn, you’re getting thicker all the time.” He groped John Howard’s shoulders aggressively.

“Henderson, this is Chadwick Stratton. Chadwick, this is Henderson Tator. We work together in acquisitions at Hemplebaum. He also attended college with us.” Chadwick grabbed Henderson into a similar handshake to hug and Henderson felt a strange repulsion in his stomach.

“You look familiar. Were you a brother?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Henderson replied.

“What fraternity were you in?” “I wasn’t.” “A big bro like you? Damn, we missed you. Would have loved to see you on our intramural teams. Bruiser like you can definitely rough some people up huh?” He laughed playfully and punched Henderson solidly in the chest. It didn’t hurt. “Well, let’s play.” “Are we taking the cart?” Henderson asked, pointing to a line of white, polished golf carts.

“Nah,” Chadwick reached out and gave both John Howard and Henderson hard butt slaps. “Figure you two fatasses need some cardio!” He laughed barkingly and John Howard laughed along. “Kidding, bro. I know dudes like you are all about that max lift. But I still got abs and the ladies love ‘em!” He pulled up the bottom of his shirt showing off the solid, smooth abdominals carved into his tiny waist.

Chadwick was extremely friendly and a little physical. Upon learning that Henderson had never golfed, Chadwick took it upon himself to teach him everything he could, resulting in him saddling up behind him to correct stance and form, but also jokingly pressing his crotch into Henderson’s butt and thrusting. The boys all laughed at the inappropriate horseplay.

Henderson had a hard time hating Chadwick. Taking away all the pomp of politics and social structure, Chadwick turned into an incredibly friendly alpha. The kind of guy who would be quarterback, homecoming king, and fraternity president (all things he learned Chadwick had been). And Henderson was just another one of his bros, dressed in expensive clothes, spending a morning on the course talking about work and finances and spouses. He could remember specific events, Chadwick being horrible during the election season when he was campaigning for a fraternity brothers father, taunting an LGBT students group, and pissing on Tara Kissimmee’s car. But his brain was giving each of these events a little different interpretation now: he was working hard to get Senator Mulligan elected, taunting the gay kids had been meant as a harmless prank, and he was drunk out of his mind with Tara and she never pressed charges so it wasn’t that big a deal. Chadwick was just being a drunken frat- fraternity brother like everyone expected.

“Wife’s pregnant with the third. I got started early!” He bragged while grabbing his crotch. “Chrissy Collop was always into you.” “Yup! Her dad’s super rich, he’s president of the C-Group, that big currency trading operation. Old, old money. But how about you?” Chadwick got a mischievous glint in his eyes as he hand reached towards John Howard’s crotch and gave it a hard smack. John Howard yelped as he grabbed his balls.

“Nut check!” Chadwick busted out laughing. “But seriously, bro, getting those fellas ready? Almost breeding season, boys,” he whispered to John Howard’s balls. Henderson was kind of disturbed but John Howard was laughing and so he joined in too.

“What does that mean?”

“J.H. is getting married. Missy Dorianger.”

“Congratulations!” Henderson said happily.

“Thank you. We’re finishing some final details. Her Mother is very specific. Sometimes she acts as though I’m unworthy.” “Missy can’t do better.” “She is a perfectly suitable spouse. I am very pleased with the situation.” “Can’t wait til we can throw that bachelor party!”

“We’ll do something at the club. I have no desire to watch you stagger around Vegas and hold your head while you vomit.” “It’s your party bro! I’d be holding your hair for once,” Chadwick laughed. John Howard rolled his eyes as he set up his shot and launched the ball. He let out a whistle of appreciation.

“Good shot,” Chadwick and Henderson said simultaneously. John Howard suppressed a grin.

“Henderson, I know it’s late notice but I hope you can at least attend the wedding. The club has strict guest limits and I’m running out of passes for nonmembers for the bachelor party.” “Thank you John Howard. I’m sure I can make it.” “And if you get your membership before, you can enjoy all the fun!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and snagged at his nipple that pressed out firmly from the polo. The boys laughed and continued playing.

The locker room at the clubhouse was a lively place stocked with bathing supplies and also booze. Henderson intended on just showering up and getting dressed, but John Howard and Chadwick were both sitting in their briefs (Chadwicks a traditional cut, John Howard's extremely high waisted to fit over his enormous rump) and undershirts removing the cork from a glass bottle and pouring three full glasses of amber liquid.

“Bourbon,” Chadwick said shortly as he handed Henderson a glass before taking a deep swig of his own. Henderson was very confused about what to do. He was standing in a towel while his two golf buddies relaxed in their unmentionables sipping on a bourbon that probably cost more than those obnoxious club cufflinks John Howard has. He didn’t want to upset his new friends, and the financial connections they represented, so he pulled on his grey Hanes Boxer briefs (his growing buttocks had necessitated so many new underwear purchases that he was desperately searching for cheaper brands) and white undershirt and sat down. Taking a big swig of the liquid, he did his best to relax, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs as his friends chatted.

“You’re getting pretty good at the trap shot,” Chadwick toasted John Howard.

“You’re still better,” John Howard was already refilling his drink happily.

“Always gonna be, dude,” Chadwick laughed again. “But keep trying. I enjoy competition.” He held out his cup which John Howard dutifully refilled. “Man, I’m glad you’re here, J.H.. I miss having some bros. This club is great, but too many of the brothers moved away. But at least I got you two!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and encouraged him to finish up as another round needed to be poured. Despite his increasingly sturdy frame, Henderson hadn’t been drinking much lately. He hadn’t been much other than working, but the alcohol was working its way through his golf dehydrated body quickly.

The trio continued chatting until John Howard excused himself to the toilet, leaving Henderson alone with a man he once thought of as detestable. But this afternoon was fun. He got a small knot in his stomach as Chadwick turned to him with a viperous grin.

“Henley? Henley Tator?” Chadwick suddenly said, dropping his voice low. Henderson was confused for a moment. He hadn’t thought of himself as Henley in a while. It was almost shocking. But then he cautiously nodded yes.

“Please, call me Henderson, Chadwick.” “Oh, I will, Henderson,” he emphasized the name. “You look good. I was pretty sure I recognized you, though you look a lot better now. Hemplebaum’s done wonders for you.” “Thank you, Chadwick. I am very happy working at Hemplebaum Incorporated.” Chadwick nodded and smiled as the robotic words left Henderson’s mouth.

“I like having fraternity brothers around. It’s a real lifetime bond, ya know?” He took another deep swig. “Something that really defines a man. Who he is. Who he’s going to be.” He seemed to stare at Henderson curiously. For his part, Henderson had no idea what to say, and so stayed silent. “If I’d known this is who you were going to be, I’d have made sure you were my brother. Of course, I knew Henley. Not Henderson. Not big strapping Henderson.”

“Yes,” Henderson stirred his glass and sat there. Chadwick was slurring slightly, but Henderson wondered if he'd be able to stand up. This drink was strong and Chadwick was pouring him a third.

“Now, Henderson. What do you think Henderson was like in college?”

“I’m Henderson.” “Yeah, but in college you weren’t. I just wonder what you wish you had done?”

“I wish I’d gone to football games. I love football.” “Fuck yes dude. Big guy like you played in high school,” it wasn’t a question.

“I’d want to have a group of men to watch sports with.” “Yup, every game we had a part at the house.” Henderson stared at him with glassy eyes. He was confused. It seemed like Chadwick wanted him to say something but he could only shrug.

“Would have been nice.” “I hope you apply for membership. The club would be a good fit for you.”

“I really enjoyed myself. It’s very expensive. I was kind of looking into getting a new apartment.” “Where are you living nowadays?” “I have a two bedroom downtown. It’s a heap, but I live alone.” “Thought about buying a house?” “I can’t afford a house in the city.” “What about in Chester?”

“What?! No, I haven’t, I mean, I don’t need a mansion,” Henderson sputtered as he spoke despite training himself to not.

“Not yet, but once you get a wife and some kids, plus Chester is right next to Rolling Acres.” “I’m not sure it’s right for me.” “It’s right for Henderson. For football playing, fraternity brother, corporate shark Henderson,” Chadwick smiled and let out a tiny burp as he finished another drink. Henderson blushed, though it was hard to tell through his liquor flushed face.

“It’s hard to buy a house in Chester.” “I can set you up.” “Really?” The idea was setting itself in Henderson’s mind. Far from feeling like a fresh fantasy, it embedded itself deep inside, as though it had always been there, as though he’d always wanted to buy a giant mansion in a gated neighborhood with an expensive country club. It was always the goal. It’s why he did what he did.

“I always support my Kappa Sigma Alpha brothers.” He poured two more drinks and raised his glass in a toast.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick said and stared at Henderson. Henderson hesitated, but his mind wanted it so bad. He wanted Chadwick to like him, to be his brother, to go back and be a total frat boy in college.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick smiled and the two chugged down their drinks. John Howard showed up a moment later and plopped down while pouring himself another, though he was several behind now.

“What did I miss?” The other two smirked and poured another round and the three K-Sig brothers passed another toast to their fraternity.

-----

Henderson woke up naked with a gigantic erection on the softest white sheets he’d ever felt. HIs head throbbed like never before. A glass of water and several ibuprofen sat next to the bed and he swallowed both without hesitation. Looking around, he admired the pristine cleanliness and order of the room. He was pretty sure where he must be, even if he’d never seen John Howard’s guest room before.

A white cotton robe laid over an old wooden chair, but no other clothes were about. Wrapping the fabric tightly around himself, he opened the door and peered down an equally clean and quiet hallway. He ducked back in the bedroom, helping himself to the toiletries in the attached bath before heading downstairs. John Howard was dressed similarly, though the half closure of his robe meant that Henderson could see the waistband of his briefs. He smiled weakly at Henderson and offered him a cup of coffee which he accepted happily.

“Where are my clothes?” Henderson croaked after a strong sip.

“Washing machine. You vomited all over your suit.”

“Your suit, sorry man.”

“Quite fine Henderson,” John Howard let out a quiet laugh. “Haven’t had a night like that in years. Reminded me of our fraternity days.” Our fraternity days. Henderson went to protest but found his brain muddled. They had talked about it a lot last night, keggers, hell week, initiation, rush, all kinds of random details of fraternity life flooded his brain. The memories seemed like his mostly, though they had a dreamy quality that he attributed to the hangover.

“Remember that party where Van Boegearden vomited after his keg stand? And then he insisted on drinking it up again?” Henderson laughed hoarsely and John Howard joined in. “He’s a congressman now,” John Howard added.

“Good, good. Always knew he’d do well in politics.” They both took large sips of their coffee. John Howard was reading a paper but also had ESPN on, reviewing yesterday's college football.

“We missed the game!” Henderson moaned.

“We watched the game, Henderson. At the club.” “Oh God. They’re never going to let me join now!” “I wouldn’t be so sure. Oswald V seemed quite amused by you.” “Which one is that again?”

“Son of the Board Chairman. I’d commit that to memory.” “I have now. Well, so long as he was amused. Hopefully he can appreciate old fraternity brothers getting together.” “We’ll have to do it again soon.” “Hopefully often once I’m a Rolling acres member.” “I’m glad you’re going to apply,” John Howard smiled.

“I belong at a place like Rolling Acres,” Henderson said with a new confidence.

“Men like us need places like Rolling Acres,” John Howard replied.

“I’m going to have to call a cab,” Henderson said looking at the clock.

“I can take you.” “It’s quite a drive into town.” “I slept through church,” John Howard said, yawning. “And I’m not feeling up to a workout today. Besides, I thought I might take you around Chester first. There are a few lovely homes for sale you might want to see.” “That would be delightful!” The two men turned their attention back to the TV and their coffees, nursing the kind of hangovers they swore they’d never get again but always did.

-----

Henderson strode into the building swiftly, impossibly perfect posture, dressed in a charcoal suit and tie that he borrowed again from John Howard. He noticed there was a new guard at the gate when he gave his name.

“Fine weather, Henderson?” the young guard, a redhead with a trace of a tattoo on his neck asked. Henderson was appalled. He’d ended up spending most of Sunday at the club, enjoying dinner at the men’s grill. At the club, the staff spoke using honorifics and only used questions relative to their service. He was deeply annoyed that this young guard spoke. However, he buried that feeling as he hustled to the elevator. He had a busy morning ahead.

After his workout, a grueling leg day that left him wobbly but his calves looked tremendous, Henderson asked Mr. Amplebottom’s secretary for a meeting, and his 9 a.m. was open. So it was that he found himself standing before his boss's beautiful desk, arms at his side, staring into his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Henderson?” Henderson had been trying to find the words to be concise but found that impossible.

“I want every piece of advice you can give me.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Amplebottom was suppressing a smug smile though Henderson didn’t notice.

“I want to be just like you. And John Howard. And the men at Rolling Acres.” “Enjoy the club?” “Immensely. I belong there. And here at Hemplebaum. I want to become a partner. I want to move out to Chester, in a house, not in some rubbish apartment in this squalid town,” he cast a disgusted look out the skyline of the window. “I want money.” That was low, deep and felt like a great truth awoke inside him. Mr. Amplebottom smiled.

“So, Henderson, are you willing to fully commit yourself to Hemplebaum?” “I am sir,” he replied like a soldier.

“Excellent. Well, I may say this suit is a good start.” “I’m borrowing it from John Howard.” “Yes, a good start. You should get a dozen I think, at least. Plus a few formal ones for special occasions. Many ties and shoes. New supports as well, you do look much better with your trousers at your proper waist.” “Thank you Sir.”

“A haircut. I’m quite surprised you’ve stuck with the ivy league so long. You are much better suited to something short. Like mine and John Howard’s. The part is a classic. But I can set you up with my barber.”

“Yes Sir.” “Now, there is a rather large change that I believe is a necessity for your continued progression at Hemplebaum as well as your new social circle.” “What is that sir?” “Tator. Just a gross, common name. You agree?” Henderson snapped back confirmation even though it made his head spin. “Personally, I’ve always been very fond of alliterative names. It’s a nice mnemonic device socially. And it looks so great monogrammed.” “You want me to change my last name? To something with an H?” Henderson asked, slightly confused.

“Well, I thought you wanted to. To succeed.” “Yes Sir.” “So you want to change your name? To what?” “I don’t know Sir.” “So you want my help, is that what you are saying?” The words were coming so fast and his eyes so enticing that Henderson nodded.

“Yes Sir, please tell me what my name should be.” Amplebottom leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the moment even though Henderson had no idea why.

“This is my favorite part.” Henderson didn’t say anything. His boss clearly didn’t want him to. And he’d just asked for help so there was no need to say anything. “It’s a great moment, when you realize you want to be whatever I want you to be. I was wrong about you Henderson. I did not think you’d make it. But here you are, willing and able. And looking much better with the muscles.” He reached into a drawer in his desk and produced something that looked like a ring box. Ceremoniously, he pulled it open before Henderson’s eyes. Inside were two silver and black cufflinks. LIghtly engraved in the black was three vertical lines and one horizontal connecting them all.

“Henderson Harold Hearst. H.H.H. Classic, but preppy, which seems to be the direction you’re taking. Though I believe you should at least be a Junior. Yes, Henderson Harold Hearst, Jr.” Amplebottom suddenly got a concerned look in his eyes and made even more intense contact with Henderson. “You’ll insist on being called Henderson. No nicknames or shortening it. Certainly, not Henry. Tell them it was Grandmama’s maiden name. A fitting tribute.” Amplebottom seemed deeply satisfied as he leaned back in his chair a bit. His jacket fell a touch to the side, and Henderson caught a glimpse of his black silk bracer. He eyed the waist of the trousers, noting the lack of wrinkles and the perfect transition from charcoal wool to starched, cotton white. Nothing was ever out of place on his supervisor, it was probably easier when you had such a boring wardrobe, each piece fit together without thinking.

-----

Henderson had set up an appointment at Winston and Co. right after his meeting with Amplebottom. They booked him for a half day on Saturday, which seemed like a very long appointment but they had assured him that this would be a one time appointment to get a permanent account situated. His palpable excitement made his workouts and work days fly by. He’d reworn the suit he borrowed from John Howard three times. It was remarkable how it made him feel, strong, manly, and also kind of plain. He’d talk shop with other men in his department, bland conversations about work and sports and home, that he found uninteresting but comforting. There existed very little variety among the men at acquisitions. No one ever brought up a thoughtful or challenging conversation, the most confrontational it ever got was between rival football teams.

And so it was that Henderson showed at exactly at 8 a.m. in front of the delightfully antiquated haberdashery (as John Howard had called it) for the full treatment. He was greeted studiously by an old man with silver hair and thick black glasses who introduced himself as Art Sebert and insisted on calling Henderson “Mr. Hearst.” That name made his blood jump and boil. He’d thought the concept awkward only days ago, but found himself spouting off the name with such a simple, natural cadence he might as well have been born with it.

Forced to strip down in a rather spacious dressing room fitted with a few chairs and mirrors, Art had offered him coffee which he happily accepted after adding some cream and milk. His personal fears around nudity had decreased in the corporate locker room but it still took him a minute to feel comfortable letting Art assess his bare form. But he measured every inch with such quiet professionalism that Henderson soon became quite comfortable. Art rattled off small measurements as he worked, informing Henderson that he’d need custom clothing for life. Henderson found his brain startled by that information, but an honest assessment in the mirror showed how true that statement was. He simply wasn’t built like a normal person anymore. His neck was thick and his shoulders cartoonishly broad. The jutting chest gave him a permanently puffed up vibe. Uninterested in cardio, his thick rib cage continued straight down into hard abs. And then the true shock, his sumptuous round booty. It looked unreal, not only were his hips and buttocks wide and strong, but somehow there was a gelatinous layer on top that wiggled and shook whenever he moved. It was a shockingly feminine touch on an otherwise hyper masculine body. Henderson loved his butt. It reminded him of being a lineman in high school, it was just like John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s. Ridiculous but masculine and prominent, it took up space, like a man should.

“Alright, Mr. Hearst, give these a try,” he handed Henderson two carefully folded white objects. The first was an undershirt, quite stiff and recently pressed. He pulled it on with little problem, the starchy material felt soft enough on his skin and he appreciated how there wasn’t any excess pulling or snugness. Even better, it actually reached past his belly button, which was further than his current shirts were doing, but still seemed undesirable. The next item was a comically cut pair of briefs, again seemingly starched and pressed, blindly white with a simple waistband with a thin blue line running halfway through. Henderson’s mind mounted a short-lived protest that didn’t even exit his mouth. He’d known it was coming, it was in the book, from his boss, even at the club. It was just another way he was going to fit in with the others. It was deceptively erotic, something overly personal but seemingly inconsequential that he was giving up to fit in. He pulled the cotton fabric up his body, watching the white fabric stretch perfectly across his rump. He attempted to leave the underpants lying low, just above his hip bones, but Art stepped up and dutifully pulled them higher, keeping the undershirt tucked in as they stretched over the belly button, up the stomach, before settling just below his rib cage. He looked like a strange sort of sausage stuffed into a bleached white packaging. There was something about, so uniform and simple, that Henderson couldn’t stop himself from smiling broadly at his reflection.

It went significantly faster after that. Art offered him a range of trousers of slightly different fits, making marks and eyeing alterations, seemingly finding the best base. An overly starched, white button down slipped over his upper body. Henderson let it hang open as he sat in his skivvies and shirt, drinking a whiskey the store offered, as a suitable pair of trousers were whipped up for the day. Half an hour later, he was being ordered to button up his shirt, as silky black dress socks were pulled on his feet and the wool fabric of the pants began their climb. Higher, much higher than his old pants, even seemingly than the borrowed ones, these custom trousers rose up until the very top of the pants rested just millimeters below the briefs. The pants were already designed for braces, completely lacking belt loops, and Art adjusted them precisely, ensuring that his pants would sit at this exact height forevermore. Henderson recognized something was being pushed out, some bits of color or variance in his lifestyle and perhaps personality as he allowed himself to be dressed like a doll, clothing cut and shaped so he wouldn’t even have an option on how to wear it, let alone what to wear. It was a deeply comforting thought.

The process was repeated with the coat, explaining why he had been required to book hours of time with a salesman and tailor. But they assured him, everything would be perfect afterwards. All his measurements would be on file, new pieces would be created on a strict schedule to ensure he had neither too few nor too many pieces. He enjoyed another libation as he waited, the old fashioned television in the room had been flipped on to college football and he delighted in sitting back and watching. Not that he really sat back as it were, the stiff shirt and exact cut of his trousers seemed to keep him upright and tall, legs planted firmly on the ground, the crotch of his pants pulled tight into a prominent moose knuckle, head staring almost directly forward. Henderson sort of laughed to himself about it, feeling slightly robotic, and enjoying the rigid pose. It reminded him of John Howard. And he liked John Howard. He liked being like John Howard.

The cut of the jacket was phenomenal, even with a thick waist, his broad shoulders and bulging pecs required a fantastic V shape that made him look thick and strong and almost debonair, in a sort of boring way. Art selected a beautiful silk tie, completely generic and tasteful, and made it taut around the neck. He stepped back, admiring his work and checking the length of the cut of small sections as Henderson stood, militaristically straight posture, arms at his side, staring straight ahead. Once everything seemed to be in order, he instructed Henderson to remove the tie, jacket, and oxford shirt. He’d continue working as another man offered him a pair of house slippers and escorting him into a room that looked like an old-timey barbershop with two chairs.

The wall had four pictures on it of generic hairstyles, each numbered. His barber pointed at number one and told him he would receive that cut unless he did not approve. Henderson felt nothing and simply nodded. The shearing began, his back and sides thinned and trimmed and the edges shaved smooth. The top was reduced and thinned repeatedly, clumps of hair falling lazily to the floor. Each time, the barber seemed to be examining something on his head, but he said nothing to Henderson, who was silent in turn. Finally, apparently satisfied, he squirted a greasy clump of goo into his hands and began working through Henderson’s much thinner hair before combing it aggressively. The final look should have been shocking, but Henderson seemed to have accepted it already. His hair was now dark, short, and combed and parted within an inch of his life. The product gave his hair of bright sheen that was the only notable trait on the otherwise generic hairstyle. It was an exact replica of John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s and almost every man in acquisitions. It was perfect.

The only thing left was a hot shave, which left his skin buttery smooth, and tingly once the aftershave was applied. The barber briskly informed that all the items would be added to his order, so he’d have everything he needed to maintain his appearance. Henderson thanked him shortly and was directed back to the dressing room. The slippers were removed and a highly polished pair of black oxfords were slipped onto his feet. He was redressed in shirt, tie, and jacket and Art began applying a few small touches. First, his french cuffs were closed with shiny silver cufflinks, square, with a delightful HHH cut in them. A white handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket and folded ever so carefully so that the monogrammed HHH was just visible over the jacket. A dab of cologne followed, smelling woody, leathery, and astringent. They informed him he could leave today with undergarments, ties, and grooming products, and to return in three days to pick up a large order, twelves suits, twenty four shirts, plus two speciality suits (one in seersucker and a formal black) in addition to a tuxedo. He shook hands with the salesmen who had helped him, feeling quite pleased with the whole experience.

-----

“Heart, Henderson,” he said curtly to the well dressed guard at the gate. Henderson noticed that he was far less chatty than last time. In fact, the security officer barely seemed to register Henderson as a person, and more as an item line to check off. He marched dutifully to the elevator. Henderson admired himself in the mirror as he waited. Quite frankly, he embodied everything a man should be: big, strong, soon to be rich. Those commission checks had added up quite quickly, combined with incentives and the fact that Amplebottom had been hinting that he would be moving up to Associate very soon, so Henderson was feeling mighty pleased with himself, and honestly a bit haughty, as he slipped how hands up and down the tasteful braces holding up his trousers. Despite the fact that his clothing hardly moved an inch in any given direction, he still unconsciously attempted to pull up his pants and underwear, making sure everything was in place. It was a big day after all.

Mr. Amplebottom took John Howard and Henderson out to a large lunch in a company car that was clean as a whistle and beyond luxurious. As they stepped out of the Partner elevator, they were greeted by a strapping man in a full chauffeur outfit, cap, gloves, and jodhpurs. He greeted the men properly before taking Amplebottom’s keys and practically running to fetch his car. He held the door open militantly as each man entered. Henderson stopped to give him a good look, there was something familiar about him. Henderson realized this was the old door man from his side, although the corporate makeover and more servile uniform gave him a less threatening appearance, and his empty obedience was a far better look than the military scowl and tattoos that were once visible.

The car took them downtown. Amplebottom had made casual conversation about work but the atmosphere in the car was mildly tense. Henderson had never been invited to something like this and he wanted to make a good impression. John Howard seemed rather himself, upright and professional, nary a mention of personal life unless questioned.

They exited the car and Amplebottom led them into a high rise building with black reflective glass covering the outside, making it look kind of like a supervillain’s lair. They rode the elevator up, stopping at the 6th floor. Unfinished with not even a desk or chair in site, they ambled over to the window and looked out. They weren’t high enough to have a great view of the city, but they did overlook one particularly small building below. Police had cordoned off a section as a throng of protestors with signs seemed to be confronting them. Behind the police, by the building, were construction workers.

“I thought you’d want to see the results of your hard work,” Amplebottom said slyly. John Howard and Henderson stared down curiously as the protestors seemed to get louder. He hadn’t been here in so long, Henderson was unsure what he was looking at. The chintzy building was old and surrounded by expensive real estate. His mind began wondering how much the lot was worth and who could possibly own it when John Howard spoke.

“Cherub Theatre,” his voice was different than usual, quicker and lighter. Amplebottom smiled.

“The future site of Hemple Housing Porter,” he gloated. “And it’s all thanks to you.” John Howard seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Henderson just looked quietly. Then something happened. The entire building shook and collapsed.

“Well, it wasn’t very grand, I admit. But that’s the start!” Ample said happily. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two envelopes and handed one to each of the men. Henderson opened his tenderly, wondering what awaited him. It was a very formal letter, on thick paper, declaring his promotion to Associate with a new salary of 400k a year, four percent commission, and a new set of company perks. Henderson practically came inside his briefs and when he looked at Amplebottom he was holding out his hand. Henderson accepted the firm handshake happily.

“Wow,” John Howard spoke quietly as he read the letter.

“Surprised?” “Yes, I, thank you, Sir!” John Howard’s momentary trepidation was gone, replaced with a beaming smile and he shook both their hands with the energy of a toddler on redbull.

“You’re a little young, to be honest. But I think you’ve demonstrated a dedication and promise that will benefit Hemplebaum for years to come. And Hemplebaum rewards good employees, Junior Partner John Howard Johnson.” Amplebottom emphasized the last bit so Henderson understood. J.H. had just moved into a whole new income bracket. A whole new way of seeing the world. There had been some trepidation, some fear, as he had looked at the theatre, but now all he saw were profit margins.

“I'm starving. There’s a great steakhouse nearby. I say we get some prime rib and bourbon and have a toast.” The three fatasses business men strutted out of the building, richer and more content than ever before.

-----

Things had progressed really well for Henderson. He was now a member in good standing at Rolling Acres Country Club, which meant he’d been bumped up from guest to groomsman at John Howard’s oversized wedding. Apparently, everyone and their dog walker’s best friend had been invited, so long as their net worth was greater than John Howard’s. Which is how Henderson found himself, sitting in an auxiliary dressing room with the rest of the groom’s party, in nothing but their skivvies getting toasted hours before the ceremony. John Howard himself was maintaining a pretty stoic demeanor, but several of the groomsmen were going whole hog.

“Just brilliant, J.H.,” Rip patted John Howard on the shoulder again, his eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Careful, you’ll be unconscious before the ceremony,” came a stern warning for their co-worker Bert.

“Imma juss wishing my buddy all the damn- happiness in the world! Hopefully, your marriage is happier than mine!” Rip sat down clearly woozy. Rumor around the club was that his wife did not “approve of his dalliances” like he had hoped. He’d recently spent some time warning the college boys about the value of pre-nups.

“Have some water, Rip,” Chadwick said, forcing a tall glass of sparkling water into his hands. Even though it was John Howard’s day, Chadwick did a great job of ensuring he was generally at the center of things. He’d been the best man, the bachelor party planner, the one who got everyone to relive fraternity induction by sitting around half naked drinking whiskey straight on a saturday afternoon. There was something deeply fraternal about the thing. Henderson could recall himself and a few dozen other young freshmen in a similar situation as their pledge master and rush chair had guided them through a vow committing them to the fraternity.

“I’m ready for another, not you Rip. You’re sitting this one out,” came a highly affected male voice. It belonged to Oswald V, practically a guest of honor. John Howard had been absolutely beside himself when Oz had agreed to be a groomsman. Henderson was happy for him. J.H. was definitely a social climber and at Rolling Acres he could not do any better. For his part, Oz was charming and congenial, born into a life of socializing and money, he had all the natural airs of an heir apparent.

“So, I got the bridesmaid situation worked out,” Chadwick leaned into John Howard and Henderson. “Missy was insisting on Kitty Bell being third, but I got her to swing her down the line and swap in Millie Cashon. Oz doesn’t like her, but fuck him, he’s married. So, Henderson, I got you set up with the hot one. And the single one.” Henderson looked bashfully at the floor as the other two stared at him.

“Oh, okay,” he sort of shrugged.

“Listen, Huck,” Chadwick had taken to calling Henderson “Huck” because apparently all men needed a nickname among brothers. “This took a LOT of work on my part. I’m not saying you have to marry her, but if you don’t get to at least second, I will consider you a waste. Also, I owe Missy a doubles game of tennis now,” John Howard looked horrified at the prospect. “So, J.H. is gonna have to slip into some tiny white shorts and I’m gonna deal with a ticked off aristocrat. So have some fun!” Chadwick slapped Henderson’s shoulder in a paternal fashion as he returned to keeping up the fun in the room. John Howard and Henderson made awkward eye contact for a minute.

“Sorry,” Henderson said sheepishly.

“She’s hot,” J.H. appraised. “Dad’s not worth too much, but he does have some great boats. Might as well make the most of it.” He tipped his glass up to Henderson who met it solidly, producing a harsh click in the room.

“Here’s to J.H.!” Rip was attempting to make a toast, seemingly recovered from his drunken daze.

“To J.H.-John Howard!” Henderson polished off his drink and happily accepted a refill. Without John Howard he never would have gotten a job at Hemplebaum, he’d never been sitting in this room, drinking liquor that cost more than a cable bill, planning on making an offer on a home in Chester, and planning on how to get into Kitty Bell’s dress tonight. Cheers to J.H. indeed.

#callmecrazy #preppy #mental transformation #suit #nosex

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

11 hours - part five

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: alright things escalated VERY QUICKLY but shit had to go down sometime. i hope you enjoy! and sorry for the delay, i really been goin thru it recently. this part is 7k to make up for it lmao i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | my ko-fi

masterlist

It’s a big day. You had held Bucky’s hand as you stood in the doorway to his apartment, playing with his rings so you didn’t have to meet his eyes. You were nervous, not because you didn’t trust Bucky but because with every secret spilled you felt like a layer of your skin was being peeled away. But you’d held his hand and told him to pick you up tonight from your office. You handed him your business card, a physical embodiment of trust you hadn’t given to anyone else. It wasn’t your apartment address, sure, but it was something and Bucky held the card with the biggest, boyish grin on his face that melted your heart.

The real reason you’re so nervous is because if whoever followed you from Bucky’s apartment is following Bucky, then they’ll follow him right to your office door. You’d had a long talk to yourself in the bathroom mirror the other night, however, and decided you weren’t going to let a hypothetical stalker ruin yet another relationship for you. Not that stalkers are common in your life, but using any excuse to distance yourself and cut people out is most definitely your regular MO. Not this time.

That being said, stalkers aren’t common in your life so you are, understandably, fixated by it. You are sure it has something to do with Bucky because you don’t believe in coincidences and the guy literally followed you from Bucky’s apartment. The big question is, was the stalker after Bucky or were they after you? Since you have next to nothing to go on, you aren’t exactly on your way to answering that one yet. But you’ll get there, eventually, and you’ve got some ideas.

In the meantime, you wait for Bucky and attempt to tidy your organised mess. He’s meant to show up at seven on his bike, but seven is going on eight and he’s yet to show. You try not to picture the worst or convince yourself you’re being stood up, even though that’s what it feels like. The one time you give out personal details and he doesn’t show. That would be your luck. You kick a filing drawer closed a bit too harshly, the metal clanging loud in your deafeningly silent office. Whatever. It’s not like anyone is left in the building to judge you because Bucky is over an hour late and every other office in the place is long empty.

You water your desperately dry indoor plants, even the one on top of your bookshelf - a testament to how hard you’re trying to distract yourself from the imminent heartbreak. You stand on tiptoes on your swivel chair to reach the crispy fern, something your dad would yell at you for if he could see you, but he can’t so you just pray the wheels don’t slip out from under you. It’s a very precarious precision for you to be in when someone bangs your office door open and stumbles inside, that’s for sure. You nearly break your entire body falling from the chair, but catch yourself on the bookcase before any real damage can be done.

The invader slams the door shut behind them, making you flinch once again as you spin around to face your would-be attacker. Only it's not someone breaking and entering - it’s Bucky, panting heavily and bleeding from his temple while he turns slowly on his heel and assesses every corner of your tiny office for threats.

“Bucky?” you call out, hesitant to approach and startle him incase it’s not your office that he’s seeing. His dog tags hang out the neck of his t-shirt when they’re usually always carefully tucked under the fabric, and you notice now he’s not just bleeding from his head but somewhere under that shirt as well. He looks over at your voice and it takes a second for him to focus properly on you, shoulders visibly slumping, closing the space in three quick strides.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling you bodily into a crushing hug. You wrap your arms around his waist, carefully holding him in case he’s got even more injuries you can’t see, but he squeezes you so tight you find it hard to breathe. He has one arm around your shoulders, that hand tangled in your hair and he presses your head into his shoulder. You feel him nose into the hair at the crown of your head, breathe in deep, let it out in shudders.

“You’re hurt,” you say into his t-shirt, and he shakes his head while still pressing his face into your scalp.

“M’fine, s’just blood,” he mumbles, barely coherent, so you let it go for the moment. You let him hold you and you hug him back, splaying your palms flat against his back and pressing him impossibly closer to you.

Eventually, you peel yourself from him in order to give him a once over. He smiles down at you like he’s amused, but you hardly find the situation funny when Bucky’s blood is literally all over you, now. You take his hand and make him sit on your swivel chair, spinning uselessly in the middle of the room from where it slid out from under you and rolled away. There’s a first aid kit in a box near the window, because you can never be too careful, and you take to soaking gauze in alcohol solution instead of speaking. You don’t trust what would come out of your mouth right now, anyway.

Luckily, Bucky fills the silence for you. He bites his lip as he looks over at you, taking in the tense set of your shoulders and jerky movements as you dig around for bandages. Then he says, “I got caught up, I really am sorry.”

You nod, but you still don’t speak. Instead you grab your supplies and move over to Bucky, avoiding his eyes as you assess the one wound you can see. Bucky has a thin cut from the corner of his eye to his hairline, shallow but bleeding profusely due to the thin skin there. You suck in a deep breath and start dabbing the soaked gauze on the wound, outside to inside, watching as the white turns coppery red with every swipe. Your stomach twists at the sight, and to your horror, you find you could almost cry.

“Doll,” Bucky says, eyebrows creasing up as if he’s just as upset as you feel. He hooks one big hand around your thigh, tugging until you let him manhandle you onto his lap. “I mean it, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I don’t care that you were late,” you snap, clenching your jaw until you can get your flash of frustration under control. You drop your hand from his face, curling up further onto Bucky’s lap despite yourself as his arms come round to hug you to his chest. His bloodstained, most likely injured chest. You take a deep breath and ask, “What happened?”

“You wanna know?” Bucky asks. When you finally meet his eyes he doesn’t seem to be shutting down, shutting you out like you expect when it comes to talking about Bucky’s biker lifestyle. He just looks sad, and you let yourself soften just a bit to run your fingers down his jaw.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed when you touch him, and you say, “I already told you - I just wanna know. No secrets.”

“No secrets,” Bucky affirms, smiling as he opens his eyes again. The corners are tight, though, as he starts to explain. “One of the things we do - the gang, y’know - is run protection details. Me and Sam were on it, supposed to be a simple job, but we got shitty intel and ended up having to fight our way out of a crappy spot. We got out, finished the job, but it definitely didn’t go to plan. ”

“Protection for what?” you ask. This is the most open Bucky has ever been when talking about his gang, so you’re not going to pass up this opportunity for a bit more information.

“For who,” Bucky corrects, smiling at you like he knows what you’re doing. He starts stroking up and down your shoulder blades as he talks, soothing the both of you it seems. “Rich businessmen, low-level politicians, mob affiliates - anyone who’s got a target on their back and need to get from point A to point B. They’re easy jobs for us ex-army guys and they pay well.”

“Better pay than fixing cars, I bet,” you say. Your attempt at levity works and Bucky grins. The way it makes his face turn young and open is so at odds with the trickle of blood down his cheek.

“Gotta be able to pay for your drinks somehow,” he says, and you slap his shoulder. He mock-winces and says, “Hey! I’m bleeding, ya gotta be nice to me.”

“Don’t gotta do shit,” you mumble, reminding you to press the gauze you’re still holding back on the wound on his temple to stem some of the bleeding. He hisses for real this time, the sting of the alcohol probably burning a bit, especially so close to his eye. You press a kiss to his cheek and in apology and Bucky hums, tightening his grip around your body to hold you close again.

“M’sorry I ruined our night,” he says, “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again, but I can’t.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, and he meets your eyes, slightly confused. You smile and say, “Not when you’re hurt. I know what I signed up for, I just want you to be ok.”

“What if, one day, I’m not ok?” Bucky asks, serious now, and you take your time before you answer him. His cut is clean of dried blood, and it’s stopped oozing any more. You doubt it’ll get infected so you should bandage it up but you can’t make yourself move from Bucky’s lap. Not just yet.

“I’ll fix you up,” you say. “That’s what we’re doing, right? Taking care of each other.”

Bucky blinks, once, as if allowing your words to download in his brain like a data file. Then he kisses you. He slides a hand up to cradle your head and presses soft, slow kisses to your lips like he’s got all the time in the world. He came storming in like a hurricane but now you’re in the eye, calm and quiet settling over you both as you cup his jaw and kiss into him all the tenderness you're too afraid to say. You mend his bleeding head and adrenaline-addled heart while he soothes your fear. Taking care of each other, and it feels nice to let someone else do that for once.

You know what Bucky is leaving out. The I hurt people admission, the fact he might have killed someone tonight, that the blood on his shirt isn’t just his. You really thought you’d care more - about the not knowing, about the truth of it, about everything. But he’s breathing and alive underneath you, trailing kisses and stubble burn from your mouth to your cheek to your temple, and all of those superfluous details become white noise. You’re surprised to find the simple fact that Bucky is alright is enough to supersede all the gaps you would usually itch to fill.

Bucky spins you both, tucking your legs up closer so you don’t overbalance as he looks around your office in a dizzying circle. A spike of nerves makes you feel sick for a second but Bucky smiles as he looks around, like he’s pleased with this part of your life he’s been able to see, and it makes you feel less afraid.

“This is where the magic happens, huh?” he asks, and you laugh at his teasing. “It’s very normal.”

“What did you expect? Like ‘Sherlock Holmes’ or something?” you ask. Bucky shrugs, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Maybe,” he says, then squints at you like he’s considering something. “So, no violin?”

“No violin, and no Mrs Hudson. I make my own tea,” you say, grinning up at Bucky even though he’s being stupid.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky snorts, “Pour your own wine, you mean.”

“Are you calling me a drunk?” you gasp, reeling back from Bucky and almost sending yourself off his lap and onto the floor. Bucky grips you tighter, laughing at the offence written all over your face, and then extracts an arm to point meaningfully at the half empty bottle of red by the side of your desk.

“The evidence speaks for itself,” he says. You fold your arms in a huff, if only to have him kiss the top of your head in a silent apology.

“You stick to the gang stuff, I’ll stick to the investigating,” you huff, and Bucky kisses you again until you wipe the frown from your face.

“Alright, smart girl,” he says. He stands, holding you up like it’s nothing and you can’t deny how hot that is, even if he is being condescending to you right now. He sets you down on your feet and smooths out your jacket, the warmth of his hands seeping through the leather as they pass over your shoulders and down your arms. He links his fingers into one of your hands, smiling down at you, and says, “Can we rain check dinner? I think I need a shower.”

Bucky stands unnaturally close to you as you lock up your office and head out, scanning the street while you lock the back door and set the alarm system for the building. He takes your hand wordlessly and leads you to his bike, parked haphazardly on the sidewalk and just begging for a ticket. He hands you a helmet but is looking over your shoulder, not at you, and both of those things are worrying - you’ve never known Bucky to wear a helmet, let alone offer you one. You didn’t know he owned one. You feel fidgety, your skin crawling like you’re being watched, and Bucky must feel it too because he’s a bit rough in manhandling you onto the bike as quickly as possible.

“Bucky,” you say, and he twists around to give you a clinical once over - much like you’d done to him when he’d come to you bloody and breathless. You feel sick to your stomach, guilt and fear twisting in your gut, as you ask, “Do you think someone followed you here?”

Bucky’s face is impassive, but you’d like to think you know him well enough to read the tick by the corner of his eyes as a silent, muttered, shit. He licks his lips and says, “I can’t know the answer to that for sure.”

“But there’s a chance,” you say, and your heart is hammering so loud you barely hear your own voice. If someone finds your office then they find you, and the carefully constructed bubble of anonymity you’ve created is shattered in the space of a second. But you knew that, that’s what Bucky asked you on his couch - will you stay? Knowing Bucky is the antithesis of your comfort zone, will you stay anyway?

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Bucky says definitively. You scan his eyes for trace of a lie but there is none. Bucky’s jaw is set, and he reaches up to grip your chin and hold your gaze on his, making sure you hear him. “Just like you said - we take care of each other. I’ll always take care of you.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and Bucky kisses the trill of fear away. You feel like you’ve dived off a cliff face, Bucky holding your hand all the way down the precipice of trust you’d promised yourself you’d never cross. But Bucky promises he’ll take care of you and god, it’s stupid but you want him to. You want his to be the arms you land in at the end of this free-fall. Even if, given who Bucky is, that’s the most dangerous place to be.

“Speaking of no secrets,” you say, more of mumble into his mouth than anything. Bucky pulls away, adorably puppy-like look of confusion on his face, and your stomach twists with guilt. “Remember the night of the party? At Sam’s bar?”

Bucky nods. He’s twisted uncomfortably on the seat of his bike and the helmet you’ve yet to put on is digging in o your stomach where you’re holding it. This isn’t the best place to be having this conversation but Bucky’s promise has made you brave, and if you don’t go against your own word now you never will. Not once have you ever spilled details of a case before you’d cracked it. This isn’t a case, you have to remind yourself. This is your life.

“That morning, when I left,” you say, omitting the fact it’s the first time you ever used his front door and will most certainly be the last, “someone followed me from your building. I shook them off, but they were waiting for me to leave and I don’t know if they were casing your apartment or if they were there for me, or what. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, I just-“

“You just what?” Bucky doesn’t sound angry. Worse, he sounds cold. Shut down, clinical, and the way his face has pinched off makes your heart break.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you,” you say, looking down at your lap to avoid the way he’s looking at you like a stranger. Saying it out loud makes it sound so much worse, but it’s the truth and Bucky deserves that at least. “To be honest, I’m still not sure. But I want to. If I’m going to trust anyone, I want it to be you.”

It’s several moments before you’re brave enough to meet Bucky’s eyes again. He is coming back to you slowly, the shutters pulling up from his eyes as confusion seeps out. He scans your face and says, “Usually I would tell you that’s a really stupid idea, but I think you already know that.”

“Stupid ideas are kind of my thing,” you say, and that makes Bucky smile. Relief is bone deep, hits so hard you could slump from the bike in a pile of goo. He’s not mad. In fact, he leans forward in what must be a truly uncomfortable twist to press his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, breathes in deep. You follow suit, so ridiculously relieved you still get to do this while simultaneously trying to control the adrenaline rush from handing over what feels like you’re entire life to someone else.

All your life it feels like it’s always been you versus the world. Your dad raised you that way, to rely on no one but yourself so you can never be let down, not even him. It feels wrong on a cellular level to trust Bucky like you are so blindly doing. Every instinct screams at you to run, to figure this out on your own, that Bucky would normally be one of your main suspects in a regular case. But here you are, showing Bucky all your cards, hoping against hope that you won’t live to regret it.

“No more secrets,” Bucky says, and you nod. You feel his eyelashes tangle with yours as you move, pressed so close like this, and you open your eyes to stare at the veiny lids covering his. “Next time someone follows you, you tell me.”

“Yes sir,” you say, grinning at the warning pinch he gives to your hip.

“Let’s go to the shop,” Bucky says, pulling away from you and turning back to gun his bike to life. “The guys can help us figure this stalker shit out.”

“The guys?” you ask, and your chest does something painfully restrictive at the thought of letting more people in. “As in, everyone? Like, your gang?”

Bucky laughs, like the way you say ‘gang’ is so goddamn amusing, and throws you one last look over his shoulder. You tug the helmet on as he revs the bike, suddenly regretting every other time you’ve gotten on this thing without one, as Bucky says, “Yeah, doll, my gang. That’s kinda the whole point - we help each other out.”

You hadn’t really thought of it like that before. Truthfully, your mind had been filled with shady drug deals and bloody fights, turf wars and tattoos and angry men on bikes. Bucky’s friends and the nights you’ve spent with them seem like a different world, the joy and love entirely removed from the illegal life Bucky leads outside of your reach, but you have to remind yourself - they’re one and the same. Your Bucky cannot be removed from the biker you’ve been kept seperate from.

Clinging to Bucky’s waist, you say, “Sounds very after school special for a gang, tough guy.”

You can practically see Bucky grinning just by looking at the back of his head as takes off, the streets of Brooklyn peeling away as heads for White Wolf Mechanics. Your anxiety and fear sheds off as well, floating away in strips down the tarmac like an outer layer of skin. You feel vulnerable, all new and exposed as you hold Bucky close so you don’t fall. That’s what makes it feel bearable - Bucky’s back against your cheek, the hand he places over yours against his stomach when you pull up at a red light. His promise, echoing under the rumble of the bike beneath you. I’ll always take care of you.

~~~

The shop looks closed from the outside, but you can hear a low bass-line from the street and people laughing somewhere inside. Bucky brings you round the back, the roller doors out front closed this time, and into the back rooms you’d yet to see since that first visit a few weeks ago. To your left you see what must be Bucky’s office, but the room he tugs you to looks more like a bachelor pad living room than a mechanics break room.

Sam and Steve lay sprawled on leather couches, beers open on the coffee table made of old crates stacked together. The Killers pumps through a very, very nice sound system which Natasha is quietly singing along to where she lays on top of the pool table, legs kicking off the edge to the beat. Her beer rests on her stomach, rising and falling with every breath, and she doesn’t even raise her head as she waves at the two of you entering. Sam lifts the icepack from his eye to look at you, grinning wide, and kicks Steve in the shin to get his attention.

“Barnes is back,” he says, rolling his eyes as Steve blearily blinks awake from what was clearly an unplanned nap. Steve focuses on you and Bucky, eyebrows drawn down in confusion, and Sam adds, “and he’s brought his girl.”

“Shouldn’t you be at dinner or something?” Steve asks, then seems to remember himself and smiles all big and perfect at you. “It’s great to see you again, by the way.”

“Quit brown-nosing, it’s embarrassing,” Sam says, and throws his icepack at Steve’s head. He swats it away, squawking at the wetness it leaves behind on his hand and cheek, which makes Sam grin.

“I need a beer for this,” Bucky mutters so only you can hear, which makes you smile. You lead the way to the minibar in the corner, right by the bookshelf full of video games and the cardboard cut-out of Guy Fieri (you don’t want to ask). Bucky follows, grabbing your hand and tugging you back into his chest as you walk - even without the watchful eyes of the other gang affiliates which usually follow you at his parties, Bucky seems hell bent on making sure everyone knows who you’re here with. Even his closest friends.

You can’t say you entirely mind.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Natasha asks. She’s sat up now, twisting on the pool table to face you both as Bucky grabs you some beers. Sam and Steve still continue to argue about nonsense on the couches and are ignored by the three of you for the moment. However, they stop bickering as soon as Bucky speaks again.

“Someone’s been watching my building,” he says. The silence is thick, and you feel almost guilty for ruining their fun night with your stalker woes. Bucky hands you a beer and looks at you pointedly, eyebrows raised. You take a sip before you follow his not-so-subtle direction to start talking.

“I was followed home the morning after Sam’s party at the bar,” you say. You have the full attention of Bucky’s closest friends, and you can’t help but feel a little intimidated. You take a deep breath and decide to look at the situation like you were debriefing a client on a case - remove yourself from the equation. “There was a man smoking against the building next to Bucky’s. He followed me about four blocks before I lost him. He was over six foot, caucasian, brown hair and stubble.”

“Sounds like every white guy,” Sam says. “You could be describing Bucky, for all we know.”

“Yes,” you say, frowning. “If I was putting a tail on someone, I would make them very nondescript. Makes sense, right?”

“And you’re sure he was following you?” Natasha asks. You glance at her, but she doesn’t look like she’s condescending you or anything. Surprisingly, she looks like she believes you far more than the other two men in the room. Maybe your trial by fire proved to her you know what you’re talking about, so you nod.

“Definitely. Either he knew I was there and was waiting for me to leave, or he was watching Bucky’s apartment and would have followed anyone who came out of it. Without more information I can’t be sure if he was there for me or Bucky.”

“You’ve never seem him before?” Steve asks. You shake your head, and he says, “Could you describe him a bit more detailed? I might be able to draw him.”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Or, we can just wait until he shows up at Bucky’s again and follow him.”

Bucky does not like that idea at all. He practically growls, grabbing your elbow and turning you to face him as he glares at you. Roughly, he says, “Are you fucking insane?”

“What?” Mildly annoyed, you tug your arm from Bucky’s grip and say, “If this was a case, that’s what I would do.”

“This isn’t a case. This guy is going to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than some rich businessman cheating on his wife,” Bucky says, voice raised to an almost shout in one of the quickest escalations you’ve ever seen.

A switch flips in your brain, and you see red.

“Thank you for the condescending analysis, Bucky,” you snap. You ignore Sam’s muttered ‘oh shit!’ for your own health and sanity. “But you have no idea the kind of people I’ve dealt with in my life. I can manage a fairly mediocre stalker.”

“A fairly mediocre stalker who works for someone who won’t hesitate to use your hamstrings as handcuffs,” Bucky hisses. He steps towards you, chest brushing yours as he breaths deep and ragged, and oh- there’s the Bucky you’d been missing. The guy who’s still wearing clothes stained with blood, most of it not his, angry in an incandescent kind of way which reminds you he could hurt you in many more ways than just a broken heart. He leans down to say into your face, “This isn’t something you fuck around with, alright? There’s a reason why I’ve kept this world from you.”

“I thought we said no secrets?” you say, raising your eyebrows. You will yourself to hold your ground, even if you are shaking like a leaf and your words come out soft in the face of his anger. Like you’d poked a pin in his chest, Bucky deflates. He backs off of you, face crumbling from anger to guilt as quickly as he built himself up there.

“I won’t let you get hurt because of me,” he says, shaking his head. The switch in your brain flips back, all indignation and pride fading away. He’s still trying to take care of you, just like he promised. Already it’s abundantly clear you’re not going to make that easy for him, and you wonder how long it will take until he gets sick of trying.

“This isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me,” you say, gesturing between you. “I let you into my world, now it’s your turn. I know it’s dangerous - I could have left, remember? But I’m here. So let me be here.”

“If someone touches you-“

“I’ll get over it,” you say. Bucky stares at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you are, but it’s true. “You said you were going to take care of me - how’re you gonna do that from all the way over there?”

You don’t mean the other side of the room, the valley of the pool table and the metaphorical arms-length which which he’s keeping between you. There’s only so much Bucky can hide from you before you either dive right in or walk away. This is the turning point.

“Fine,” he says. He looks physically pained as he scrubs a hand over his cropped hair, but at least he’s not angry anymore. “I still think thats a fucking stupid idea.”

“Like I said,” you say, offering him a smile he shakily returns, “stupid ideas are kind of my thing.”

“Uh, can I say something?” Sam asks, breaking the illusion that it was only the two of you in the room for that particular argument. You both turn to look at him, and he almost backs down with the weight of both your gaze. He carries on, however, saying, “I’m glad you guys have had this breakthrough in your relationship, but that doesn’t really help us in figuring out who this guy is. Or who he works for. Or why he followed you. Or how he knows where Bucky lives in the first place.”

“We could go around and ask,” Steve says, shrugging at Natasha’s eyeroll. “What? Baseball bats really jog people’s memories.”

“Why don’t we ask the private investigator for some expert advice,” Natasha says, giving you a look that seems to say men, right? You’re still trying to get your head around the image of Steve threatening someone with a baseball bat when you’ve seen him with his own puke on his jumper singing Sweet Caroline into a toilet bowl.

“Well,” you begin, darting Bucky a look but he seems to be listening and not getting ready to yell at you again, “since apparently following the guy is off the table for now, I would start with me and Bucky. Enemies, bad blood, someone with an axe to grind. Pull at some threads and see what happens.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Sam says, “Bucky’s got more enemies than friends.”

“So do we all, punk,” Bucky grumbles, glaring at Sam. “We’re in a gang.”

“This ain’t about me.” Sam holds his hands up in mock innocence, grinning big like he gets unrivalled joy from making Bucky’s face do the twitchy, dark thing it’s doing right now. The impact is somewhat lessened by the swollen, black eye Sam’s sporting from the mission gone wrong today, you assume, but it doesn’t curb his enthusiasm.

“I can put together a list of the most recent run-in’s you’ve had by tomorrow,” Natasha says to Bucky, ignoring the bickering with practiced ease. “Until then, we should put some protection on your building.”

“You guys have bodyguards?” you ask before your brain can tell you that’s a dumb fucking question. All three of them laugh, Bucky hooking an arm around your shoulder to ruffle your hair as he tugs you into his side. Point taken, you think as you pout under Bucky’s arm.

“I’ll stay in the spare room,” Steve says, swinging himself off the couch to his full, ginormous height. That image of him with the baseball bat starts to take a bit more shape in your mind, and you don’t doubt for a second he could offer some extra protection where the stalker is concerned. To you, he asks, “You don’t mind if I third wheel?”

“It’s not my apartment,” you say, attempting to hide your blush under the weight of Bucky’s arm. You are unsuccessful, if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by.

“We’ll survive one night, punk,” Bucky says, giving you a squeeze. “Or just buy some earplugs.”

“Gross!” Sam cries, flailing an arm around. “Too much information!”

You have a feeling akin to whiplash at how well these people are taking a stalker and potential threat on their lives. Joking around, Steve fake-moaning just to make Sam scream, Natasha laughing until tears form in her eyes at the antics of two grown men chasing each other around the couches like school children. Glancing up at Bucky and the warm look he’s giving them all, you suppose it must be lot less scary to face something like that with friends. Family, you think, as Sam crash-tackles Steve into the couch and smothers his face with a pillow.

“You’ll be alright?” Natasha’s soft voice manages to scare you, jolting under Bucky’s hold as you turn from watching Steve and Sam to find her right by Bucky’s other side. She’s looking up at him, lips pressed into a firm line, and you remember the last time you were here - James is the only family I have. Maybe some are taking this development a bit easier than others.

“Always am,” Bucky says, using his free arm to punch her lightly on the shoulder. She gets him back, much harder, and you feel Bucky wince away from her and into your side. “Serious, Natashenka. I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” she says. Smirking, she adds, “I’ll kill you if you aren’t.”

You look back to Steve and Sam before they can notice you eavesdropping, a hot, honey-thick feeling melting through your skin. You want to know what that feels like in a way which burns; to have people who have your back like that, and your dad doesn’t count because he literally has to. You understood Bucky’s gang even less than you originally thought - he’s not just a biker, a criminal, a hit man or an ex-army vet turned enforcer, whatever the case may be. He’s a guy doing what he has to do to protect the people he loves, because he’s surrounded by them. You’ve never had to protect anyone but yourself.

You tuck yourself closer into Bucky’s side, letting the warmth and smell of him consume you. That’s gonna change, you think. This feeling in your chest is telling you that change is already happening.

~~~

Steve does not have to get ear plugs to survive the night, and you make both him and Bucky coffee before you head off. Shower, new clothes, work - all that normal people stuff you have to do. Steve, golden in the morning sun with the brightest smile on his face, and Bucky’s moody scowl at the early hour and dark rings under his eyes, wave you goodbye. You kiss Bucky’s pout before you go, letting him grab your ass for a second before you slip away.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and Steve snorts like there’s some joke you’re missing.

“I’ll go out the laundry window,” you say, as if this is a new development and not your usual routine. “Nobody’s gonna follow me, promise.”

“Hmph,” is all Bucky says and then you’re really gone, racing down the stairs and out the window like you always do.

Sorry Bucky, you silently think towards his apartment as instead of making to cut through the gym parking lot, you wrap back around his building and scan the street from behind the bins. Sure enough, opposite Bucky’s building with a baseball cap on and another cigarette, stands the same dude who followed you the first time. You really weren’t lying - stupid ideas are kind of your thing.

You make sure you’re hidden by a group of pedestrians as you slip out the side alley of Bucky’s apartment building and walk away from your stalker. He doesn’t notice, and you manage to walk a block and cross the road without him any the wiser. Your roles have switched as you hang out at the news-agency a few doors down from where he’s waiting, pretending to flick through a magazine. It’s easy to take a few picture of him over the top of the page with your phone, grainy but useable for when you show Bucky later.

You can deal with Bucky being angry at you, because you know how to do your job and this is the most efficient way to get intel. It’s always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Eventually, you watch your stalker watch Bucky and Steve leave his building. It’s 9AM and they head to their respective bikes, revving off down the street in the general direction of Steve’s tattoo shop. Your man hunches his shoulders and pulls out his phone, taps into it for a bit, before he walks off in the opposite direction to Bucky and Steve. Not following them, then. Your stomach twists as you fall into pace a few people behind him. Just following you.

He gets on the subway, which makes it very difficult for you to remain unnoticed but you manage to sit at the internal doors in the next carriage and watch him through those. He gets on his phone again, talking to someone with evident frustration if his clenched jaw and balled fist is anything to go by. He gets off in Manhattan, walks a few blocks, before ducking into a darkly lit bar called the Lerna. You decide it’s probably best not to follow him there, but you snap a few photos on your phone of the bar before doubling back out to Brooklyn.

You call Bucky as you go, a bit jittery at the incoming argument you know you’ve created, but you can’t help but feel it will be worth it. Now you have something to actually go off - a face, a name, some concrete facts. Much better than stabbing around in the dark. A few rings go by before Bucky picks up, saying, “Miss me already?”

“Get over yourself, tough guy,” you say, but you’re smiling. Maybe you do miss him already, just a bit. You were so focused on getting your information you didn’t get to fully savour Bucky this morning, all tanned muscles and tattoos, all yours. You force yourself to ruin the moment by saying, “I’ve got some information for you.”

“Me too,” he says, which surprises you. “Nat’s gotten together some potential candidates for your stalker. Have you got time to come to Steve’s tattoo place?”

“Sure,” you say, beginning to pick at your nails as the nerves set in.

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky must realise what you’d said before, and he doesn’t sound nearly as light and playful anymore “You said you had information? On what?”

“I’ll just show you when I get there,” you rush out, closing your eyes at the way Bucky sucks in a breath like he already knows what you’ve done. “Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, I’m not mad,” he says, as if through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking livid. Please tell me you didn’t follow that guy this morning.”

“Ok, I won’t tell you,” you say. “See you in twenty.”

“You’re dead meat,” he says before you hang up.

It could’ve gone worse, you muse as you round the corner to the subway station. Sure, Bucky threatened you with lethal violence and sounded even angrier than he’d gotten at the shop yesterday, but you can still imagine him smiling at his phone as you hung up the same way you’re smiling at yours now.

You text him the photos with a quick, Don’t say I never do anything for you xx

A minute after the photos deliver, Bucky is calling you again. You frown down at his caller ID, confused - you were on your way, why is he calling you back already? But before you answer that question, someone grabs your arm and tugs you away from the subway steps and into an alley instead. His grip is bruising, unbreakable, even as you scream and kick before he shoves a gun into your neck and you fall deathly silent.

“Scream and you’re dead,” the man says, hot on your ear. You can’t shudder away, his vice grip too tight and the cold steel on your jugular paralysing. You twist a bit to look behind you despite yourself, your stomach bottoming out at the familiar face which grins back at you. Baseball cap, brown hair, stubble - just like any other white guy. He sneers at you and says, “Not so clever now, huh?”

All you can hear, as your stalker marches you down the alley and into a waiting SUV with a gun to your back, is Bucky’s voice yelling this isn’t something you fuck around with. You’d let him say ‘I told you’ so a thousand times if it meant you got out of this alive. Hopefully, the phone tucked into your back pocket will be enough to save you. You hope Bucky is listening, the call you just managed to answer still catching the grunted conversation your kidnappers are having. You’ve never needed someone before, but god, do you hope Bucky’s got you now.

Part 6

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gloriainalbis · 4 years

Text

Half a Person

Klaus Hargreeves x Reader Words: 7.8k Warnings: Drugs, smoking, and alcohol, mentions of ODing and death, swearing Summary: It’s difficult watching the person you care about most in the world barreling towards rock bottom, and it’s even more difficult when you only find out after. Ao3

For what felt like the hundredth time, you were waiting outside a formidably bland concrete building, leaning against your car and staring up at a sign that read ‘Something-Something Clinic’ or ‘The-Such-And-Such Center.’ Today it was Lakeshore Hills Rehabilitation. You’d gotten the all too familiar call only a week ago, and it was the first time you’d heard anything from Klaus in almost a month. Seeing Lakeshore’s name pop up, you’d answered immediately. You had the main number for close to every rehab center in the city saved in your phone for precisely this eventuality.

“Klaus?!” you answered expectantly. “y/n! Oh, how I’ve missed your voice!” You ignored him and got right to the point. “Where have you been?” “Oh, here and there. Rehab, mostly.” Well, that explained his absence, but not the lack of calls. “Why haven’t I heard from you? I was worried.” You still were, honestly, but decided to leave that part out. “Oh, you know, reasons.” It was painfully apparent that he was leaving something out. “Anyways! Got any plans for next Friday?” “Do you need someone to pick you up?” “Excellent deduction skills, y/n.” “Thank you. What time?” “Noon, Lakeshore Hills. Be there or be square!” You grinned, grateful that he couldn’t see you smiling at his joke. “Okay, Klaus.” “Great, thank you. Goodbye!” “Wait!-” the line clicked and went dead, leaving you with some answers and even more questions.

You still hadn’t heard from Klaus in the past week, but you tried not to hold that against him. Someone from the rehab center had called you a few days ago to confirm that you were Klaus’s designated pick-up, which was one of many hints that something wasn’t right. You were often there to pick him up, but it was seldom that it was required. The front doors burst open. “y/n!” Klaus was beaming as he jumped over the front steps. “Hey, Klaus.” You had planned on scolding him and asking questions but forgot as soon as you saw him. “It’s so good to see you!” He pulled you into a giant hug, and the feathery trim of his coat tickled your cheek. “Mr. Hargreeves!” you heard from the door, “Mr. Hargeeves, wait! We still need you and your escort to sign discharge papers.” He pulled away and cocked an eyebrow at you, “Oooh, escort…” he purred. “How scandalous,” you joked before turning to the nurse. “Forgive him.” You walked with Klaus back to the building, signed the papers, and then left, for real this time. When you finally got back to the car, he seemed to sink into the passenger’s seat, slumping into it and propping his feet up on the dashboard in front of him, plastic hospital bracelet dangling from his wrist. You tried to keep your eyes on the road, but couldn’t help sneaking a glance at him. The lines of exhaustion were written clearly all over his face. “So,” you started. “You look… unwell.” “I have my reasons.” He shot you a nonchalant grin that didn’t seem to fit the mood, but oh well. You turned off the main road and were only a few streets away from Klaus’s apartment when he stopped you. “Ooooh, wait, I have a huge favor to ask of you.” He sat up a little straighter. “Okay? Shoot.” “Well, I got evicted, so-” “You what?!” Well, that was quite the bombshell. “I was kicked out! My lease is no more, it’s passed on, gone to meet its maker, it’s an ex-lease, whatever.” He gestured dramatically into thin air. You persisted, “When did this happen?” “While I was in rehab,” he admitted quietly. He still seemed to be hiding something, though, which worried you. “Is that even legal? Can they do that?” “Uuuuhhhh....” he tried to stall, but you shot him an incredibly motivating glare. “Alright, fine. I may or may not have neglected to pay my rent, and upon further inquiry was found severely passed out.” Excuse you? What was that supposed to mean? If you weren’t worried before (which you had been), you were now. “What? Did you-” “On the upside, it was the closest I’ve been to actually seeing Ben in years!” He brushed you off with an even more cryptic admission. “Oh my god, Klaus, what do you mean?” You could feel your heart sinking lower and lower in your chest as he continued to ignore your questions. “That I definitely need a place to stay.” You had already turned around and started driving back to your place. “No, I meant-“ “Do you mind, (Y/N), if I used your couch for a while, pretty pleaaaase?” That exhaustion from earlier was peeking through his resolve, and you could see how much he just needed to sleep, to rest. Maybe he would talk about it later. “Fine,” you acquiesced, hoping this wouldn’t bite you in the ass later. “Yay! Thank you, y/n!” He clapped his hands triumphantly and blew joyful kisses at you until you finally smiled.

The rest of the car ride involved minimal chatter as you tried to process what he had told you. It was incredibly serious. From what you could tell, going over his words again and again in your head, ‘severely passed out,’ ‘closest to actually seeing Ben in years,’ he had OD’d, and not in his typical wake-up-in-the-ambulance fashion. You knew that he could see and talk to Ben, at least when he was mostly sober, so being closer to him than he had been in years meant something different. How were you only hearing about this now? Since he had just gotten out of rehab, this had to have been at the very least a month ago. Klaus could have realistically, actually died. Your mind raced with possibilities and questions, but most of all, you just wanted to make sure he would be okay. He had to be. You made an odd pair, you being a somewhat put together, mostly functioning adult, and him being a clingy junkie whose life was perpetually in shambles. Still, you couldn’t imagine your world without him in it. He was your best friend, the person you cared about more than your self-preservation instincts wanted to allow. You saw so much more in him than he could ever imagine. Without him… you didn’t even want to entertain the notion. You were all about being prepared, but this was too real. You couldn’t think those thoughts and imagine that you could very well go through them all again in not too long, for real.

You got back to your apartment finally, telling Klaus you’d make space on the couch for him before going off to find pillows and blankets. He started walking backward hastily in the direction of your bathroom. “I gotta go- in the other room- to the bathroom- for a sec…” “Okay, Klaus…” It was strange, but Klaus himself was strange, and it wasn’t the weirdest thing you’d heard from him today. Klaus made sure he saw you leave the room before walking into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. As an addict and junkie, he’d hidden stashes everywhere. Honestly, the Hargreeves mansion would probably be worth considerably more if all the drugs hidden there were taken into account, and those stashing instincts extended to your apartment as well. Klaus stared intently at the tile walls of your bathroom, looking for the one that was slightly out of place. He found it above the toilet, a few tiles down from the ceiling.

You returned to the living room, placing down your gathered things before sitting beside them, melting into the couch, exhausted, as Klaus had done in your car. With him momentarily gone, you had some space to think- and break down. You let out a quiet sob. And then another. You had been so close to losing Klaus and knew that it would, in all likelihood, only happen again. And again. And again. You needed to be there for him and make him see how much he meant to you, but he was once more approaching rock bottom, and you didn’t know if you could take it this time. A painful tension built in your chest as you tried to keep some semblance of composure, but sobs kept bubbling up and the hurt kept ripping through you. So, head in hands, you curled up, pulling yourself closer and closer inward.

Klaus was standing on your toilet, carefully and quietly removing a loose wall tile. “Bingooo!” he whispered with levity. “This is a bad idea,” Ben spoke, suddenly appearing in your bathroom. “Oh, Ben, lovely to see you. Bye now!” Ben glared indignantly as Klaus wiggled his fingers and un-summoned him. “Wha- Klaus!” “Toodles!” And with that, Ben disappeared. He was replacing the tile, pill bottle in hand, when he heard a sound coming from the living room. He froze, listening. He had learned many things during the decade and a half he spent under the instruction of Reginald Hargreeves, one being the importance of gathering intel. When faced with an unfamiliar environment or sound, listen, stay still, and wait. Figure out what it is before proceeding. But, being perfectly honest, Klaus wasn’t thinking about his childhood superhero training at that moment, he was far more concerned with being caught. Nevertheless, the sound became clearer as he focused on it, and he could eventually make out sniffling and- crying? Shoving the pills into his coat pocket, he leaned down and steadied himself on the counter before slowly stepping off the toilet, being careful to ensure that the rubber soles of his shoes didn’t squeak. He unlocked the bathroom as quietly as possible and crept into the doorway to see what was wrong. Something in his heart broke. The crying slowed to fitful sniffles, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the tears still shining in your red eyes and on your cheeks. The pill bottle felt unrealistically heavy in his pocket as his stomach dropped right down to his feet, leaving only sickening embarrassment and shame. He felt like a complete and utter piece of shit. He tried to let it pass, but it just kept washing over him in waves. It was difficult, but even more so was trying to keep that fear and guilt from showing in his voice as he spoke up. “y/n?” Surprised and a little startled by his sudden appearance, you turned around and made attempts to wipe your eyes dry, but it was too late. And you both knew it. You tried not to look at him as he crossed the room and sat beside you, very contained and un-Klaus-like. By contrast, he couldn’t tear his eyes from you and couldn’t stop feeling like shit. Then you turned to him, perking up and putting on a thinly veiled smile, the tone of your voice too cheery to be sincere. “Hey, Klaus, what’s up?” The furious drying had only worsened the redness of your eyes as you continued to look like a vision of sorrow. “Well, I saw you crying. So that’s something.” You should’ve known that he understood you too well to be fooled that easily. And he was right. Your smile broke, eyebrows furrowing into a painful look of grief. “Are you alright?” he knew his words were hollow. It was more than obvious that you weren’t alright, but he didn’t want to point out or confirm why. You slumped back into the couch, looking defeated. This was difficult to say. “It’s… hard. To see you so determined to destroy yourself.” You stopped there, wanting to be strong, unwaveringly stable, worried that Klaus would lose all motivation if your faith in him wasn’t absolute. But feelings and emotions aren’t that simple. Klaus relied strongly on you to ground him, to provide a baseline and a home, but he was well aware of his failure to maintain any and all relationships and didn’t expect much beyond that. And besides, he was used to letting people down and had been able to see your weariness with him grow considerably over the past few months. And you- you were tired. The fuel of your optimism and hope had gone completely dry, and you were running on empty. You wanted to believe he could and would stay sober but you just didn’t anymore. There was the occasional good day or two, but they never lasted. He didn’t know what to do, what he could say, to make it better. So he went with the next best thing, sincerity. He reached out for your hand, both to steady himself and to let you know how much he meant what he was about to say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered through a broken voice. It was small and nearly silent, but you appreciated it far more than any speech or string of excuses. It was real and genuine. Letting go of your hand, he reached an arm out to bring you close, and you understood. He nestled his head into the crook of your shoulder as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You spoke no words. You didn’t need to. Sincerity was a lot more difficult for Klaus than his usual flippancy and nonchalance, and you were both too drained to continue talking anyway. You just held onto each other.

That night, you went to your room while Klaus tried to settle into the couch. He lay there, unable to fall asleep. Time ticked on, and he could do nothing but stay awake. He was on his back, one hand resting on his stomach and the other behind the pillow under his head. He was lucky that your apartment wasn’t as haunted as it could be. But time is long, and the dead are plenty, so Klaus was never without his demons. They whispered in the back of his mind, very quietly, barely there. But it was hard not to hear them, and it was worse when he closed his eyes. The long-gone and less unsettled spirits that he had a harder time conjuring visually had almost no trouble simply projecting their likenesses into his mind. They called for him, reaching out through him, into him, all around him. He could almost feel their clammy hands plastered all over his skin, suffocating him, dragging him back down with them. Breathless, utterly exhausted, and entirely unable to sleep, Klaus sat up and walked to your room. He didn’t quite know what he was doing and, feeling odd just standing in the doorway, crept closer to you and whispered your name. “Klaus?” You were groggy and confused but awake. “Wakey wakey,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light. “What is it? Is something wrong?” He didn’t look great, his mussed up hair flying off in countless directions. Dark circles loomed under his wide, fearful eyes. “I was wondering if I could… uh… maybe stay with you?” “Of course,” you patted the space next to you, and he climbed into bed gratefully. At first, you were just lying next to each other, but as he got more comfortable and you settled down again, his hand naturally found yours. Once you were holding hands, it only made sense to scooch closer to each other. You were both tired and needed comforting. Consequences be damned. Before long, he was on his side, arms wrapped around you while you lay against him, nestled into his chest. He placed a small kiss on your forehead, and you smiled lazily, knowing that he was doing the same. You couldn’t help but love the feeling of his skin against yours, his body beside you, solid and warm and wholesome.

He was still there, still entangled, when you awoke the next morning. You let yourself enjoy his peaceful expression for a few moments. Time didn’t seem to pass as you lay there with him. As far as you were concerned, you had always been here, sleepy and happy in the soft morning light, and always would be. Eventually, you couldn’t help yourself, and you reached up a hand to touch his cheek. His eyes opened, greeting you with tender green, and he smiled. “What a beautiful way to wake up.” You refrained from giggling but definitely felt like it. “Hello to you, too.” You dropped your hand from his face, letting it fall into the small space between you. “How about we do all this again in, hmmm, ten minutes.” He pulled you closer. “You didn’t get any sleep at all on the couch, did you?” You wondered with some concern He closed his eyes, “Nope.” “I’ll make us breakfast,” you decided, trying to sit up but finding his arms inextricably wrapped around your waist. “Hmmph,” he groaned in protest. “I’ll make coffee, too,” you reasoned, leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead, which seemed to placate him. His grip slackened, and you untangled yourself. You got up, put on some more appropriate clothes than your grungy pajamas, and took one last look at him before leaving the room. Klaus appeared to belong there, in your bed, curled up under your comforter and looking more serene than you could ever recall having seen him before.

Breakfast smelled delicious, but what actually got Klaus to leave the perfect comfort of your bed was the wafting scent of coffee. Uppers had always been his drug of choice, so anything energizing was always a must when attempting sobriety. He wandered into the kitchen, still in the shorts and small tee he’d slept in. “Good morning, Klaus.” “Good morning, coffee,” he joked, pretending to ignore you while pouring himself a cup. You raised your spatula in warning, and he chuckled nervously. “Haha, just kidding, good morning to you, too.” He set down the coffee slowly, and you returned to the breakfast still in progress. “Did you finally get to sleep?” Klaus wrapped his arms around your shoulders from behind, “Yes, thank you.” He placed a kiss on your cheek before grabbing his coffee and sitting down at your small table. It was the largest one you could find to fit in your tiny apartment, and yet still only seated two. You joined him a few minutes later with two plates of food. You ate in silence. The morning had gone well so far, blissfully, even, but your short conversation and crying session from yesterday still loomed large. You just wanted to forget about it and move on. But Klaus, in that moment, was acutely aware of the pills still tucked into his coat pocket across the room. “Listen, about my breakdown yesterday-” you began. Klaus perked up at the mention of it, “Oh, yes, we really should talk about that.” “What? No-” now it was your turn to chuckle nervously, “just forget about it, really.” “We both know that’s not how this works.” He looked at you pleadingly, and it didn’t take much for you to give in. If Klaus wanted to talk seriously, then you wanted to let him. “Fine,” your voice became softer. “I understand if you don’t want to share details, but from what I can piece together, something dangerously serious happened a month ago, and you didn’t tell me until yesterday.” He set down his empty coffee cup. “Not my finest moment.” You could tell that he was still avoiding talking about it directly. “I don’t want to lose you, Klaus, I can’t lose you, can’t you see that?” He nodded solemnly. “And to think that it could just happen, that I could just wake up one morning and you’d be-” you couldn’t say it, but you knew he understood. “That’s terrifying.” “I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know how to make you stay after I told you,” he admitted. It hurt knowing you had to tell him how exhausted you were. “I really do want to…” You didn’t even have to say it, the ‘but’ hung in the air between you, bounding back and forth like a toxic little ping pong ball of doubt. “You know, the very first time I went to rehab, all of my siblings were there to pick me up. Even Ben, spectrally. It didn’t take long for me to relapse, and it didn’t take much longer for them to stop coming. You’re the only one who’s still here.” “It's so hard, Klaus, and I’m so tired.” You were trying not to cry at this point. “I know.” You could hear his voice break. Was this conversation hurting him as much as it hurt you? “I care so much, and I don’t know how to make you see that, or protect your, or- or do anything at all. I don’t know what to do!” You felt like crap for lashing out, for blaming him when he seemed almost as powerless as you. “No one’s perfect, y/n.” His eyes began to water, too, threatening to turn into tears. “I know it’s not easy, and I’m so sorry.” It was incredibly painful for him to imagine you leaving. He wanted to stand up and scream, to yell, do something, anything, to make you understand that you were all he needed, but he didn’t have the words for it. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. You were still trying to process what he had said about his siblings. You knew all of them and their contentious relationships pretty well, so it didn’t surprise you that they seldom turned up in his hour of need, but it hadn’t yet occurred to you that they should. When you realized how much it would mean to him if even one of them was there just to pick him up, you realized how little he expected the people around him to do, and how significant your presence alone must have been. You had wanted to be strong for him, to be as good as possible, and as supportive as possible, whatever he needed. But all he needed was you. You smiled at him gently as you realized this. “If all you need is for me to be there, then I will always be there.” Relief flooded him, and in a heated moment, he lunged forward and pulled you into a kiss. It took you by surprise, your heart practically bursting out of your chest, but you quickly melted into him. Klaus had cursed himself for his impulsiveness at first, but all that drifted away when you kissed back. The feeling of your lips on his, the way you seemed to meld into him, readily greeting his fervor ardently and earnestly. Your hands found their way to his chest as he cupped your face. It was intoxicating, and you were both out of breath when you finally pulled away, still so close that you might as well be touching. “Thank you,” he breathed. You could tell that he meant it for your comfort and support, as well as the kiss. You laughed, breathlessly, as the pressure and tension left you, leaning down to rest your head on his chest. He joined you, grinning and giggling in relief and wrapping his arms around your shoulders. Kisses between you and Klaus weren’t typical, but they had happened before. It was something you didn’t speak about, but that added a whole other layer of complexity to your relationship. You cared about Klaus, more profoundly than you’d ever cared about another person. You shared something. Whether that practically soul-binding connection was platonic or romantic had yet to be fully decided. But you knew two things, and they kept you going. You loved him, and he cared deeply for you. What you lacked the emotional intelligence to realize, of course, was that while close friends could indeed enjoy the occasional platonic kiss, emotionally charged near-makeout sessions typically signified, you know, romantic feelings. “I’m going to go have a smoke, wanna join me?” He asked once you had both settled down. “Sure.” You couldn’t say that you supported his smoking habit, but you far preferred it to drugs or drinking, so you had no objections. You cleared the dishes as Klaus gathered his things. Putting on his coat, he stuck his hand into his pocket and remembered the pills he retrieved yesterday. Ben noticed. “In the spirit of being honest, you know, now would be a great time to tell her about the pills you still have.” He didn’t want to lose your trust (or, secondarily, his sobriety), but also couldn’t quite bring himself to get rid of them. He knew this was a dangerous game, but recovery is supposed to be a process, right? Right? “Recovery is not short and sweet. It is a lifelong process,” Klaus quoted. “That’s what the poster says, at least.” “It would probably be easier if you didn’t keep pills in your pocket.” “Shut up, Ben!” He hissed, trying not to catch your attention.

You followed him outside, sitting next to him on the stairs out front of your apartment as he pulled out a lighter and cigarette. He sighed after taking the first drag, grateful for the rush of nicotine. Wonderful nicotine. It would have to take the place of other inebriants for the time being, so he tried to savor it. “Feel good?” you asked, mocking him slightly. “Oooooh yeah,” he smiled, putting an arm around your shoulder. You leaned into it instinctively, letting your head rest against his shoulder. You enjoyed Klaus’s little moments. He may have a tendency to hurt you and push away the people around him, but he did care. He cared deeply, and you loved when he showed it. Then he decided to break the silence. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I waxed my ass with chocolate pudding?” He sounded serious, genuinely concerned as to whether or not you had heard the sordid tale. “No, EW!” “It was painful,” he continued, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Klaus, what?!” He chuckled quietly to himself at your exasperation.

The pill bottle remained in his left coat pocket for the next week. Life with you was practically blissful, he wished it would last forever- and wondered why he hadn’t yet had the guts to make whatever you had official. It turns out leaving things abstract and unlabeled is a lot more complicated in practice. But it was Klaus’s feelings towards relationships that were complicated, not his feelings towards you. Committed relationships were honestly terrifying to him, unsurprising for someone who grew up steeped in what could essentially be called a non-committal home life where traditional familial relationships were simultaneously enforced, through the very conventional loving-wife-and-mother Mombot and disallowing of inter-sibling romantic pursuits, like with Allison and Luther, but also condemned through a dehumanizing number system to replace names, traumatic isolation during training, and the calculated creation of a team dynamic to replace the fractured sibling bonds. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. But you- he knew how he felt about you. He loved you and had very recently come to the realization that he had for years. But even that was yet another reason to not commit. He felt incredibly guilty as it was, factoring in an actual relationship where you would feel obligated to stay with him was a whole new order of magnitude. But he was even more worried that if your relationship became more concrete, his inability to handle commitment would jeopardize everything.

You endeavored to clean up one morning. The blanket and pillow from Klaus’s first night here remained on the couch, though he had only used them once. It was while moving his coat out of the way that you heard an all too familiar rattle. You froze and hoped against all hope that it wasn’t what you thought it was. You stood up slowly, trying to put off the inevitable, before reaching your hand into the pocket and pulling out a bottle of immediately recognizable small, colorful pills. You felt angry, wretched, and wracked your brain to try and retroactively see the warning signs. A small yet venomous voice blamed you for not noticing sooner, for becoming complacent. You tried not to listen. It was difficult. The front door opened while you were still standing there. It was Klaus, back from a quick trip to the nearest convenience store for a pack of cigarettes, which he had been smoking more and more of lately in an attempt to quell the urges of addiction. “Darling, I’m hoooome!” he purred, closing the door. “I got-” he saw you holding his coat and the bottle of pills and stopped dead in his tracks, one hand still on the doorknob. He glanced up at your face for one horrible moment before turning away and biting his lip, waiting for you to say something. “You left your coat,” you pointed out as explanation. “Oh. I see.” You knew Klaus so well, but it was impossible to guess what he was thinking when the entire past week of what you had believed to be sincerity was called into question. “How could you?” You whispered, wanting an explanation but feeling woefully unprepared to hear it. You were hurt, horribly. Your chest burned with pain, your mind raced with barely comprehensible thoughts, mostly vague emotions, sinking feelings, and hurt. A lot of hurt. He looked pained and defeated, stepping forward tentatively and holding his hands out. “Please, y/n, I can explain.” “Klaus…” you whimpered, tearing up despite your best efforts. “Just listen to me, please, just listen!” “Don’t.” you pleaded. It was agonizing to watch him try and reason again and again. You’d heard everything a thousand times before. “Please! Please, I’m sober, I swear!” you looked at him incredulously and his tone softened. “I’m telling you the truth.” You told yourself that you wanted to believe him, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to. You sighed and glanced away. “Y/n, I’m sober! I’m not lying to you, please!” “I don’t know how to believe you,” you admitted. It was difficult to say, so difficult. But it was the truth. Klaus was quiet, not offended, really, just disappointed- in himself. What was he supposed to expect? Only a week out of rehab and already caught keeping a bottle of pills in his pocket, even if he hadn’t used them. He wanted to make you understand, but he didn’t have the words to tell the truth without making it sound like he was lying. “You reeeaaally should have thrown those out,” Ben chimed. “Please trust me, (y/n), there’s a perfectly semi-reasonable explanation.” You raised an eyebrow. “Sure, they’ve been in my pocket for a week, but-” “A week?! You’ve only been out of rehab for a week!” It didn’t stop hurting. The thing that felt like a hole in your chest just kept growing and growing as you watched him struggle over your words and wince at your reactions. “Oh, no. No no no, it’s not what you think.” He was bewildered. “This whole time? You’ve had these this whole time?!” You couldn’t stop yourself as your thoughts spiraled. He grimaced and squirmed a little, not wanting to answer. “Well…” “Really, Klaus?! Really?” How much of this past week had been a lie, you wondered, how much of it had been sincere? Was he more comfortable with you because you were making progress, or was he just high? Your head spun and it hurt to think about. He couldn’t do anything but watch, horrified as you dropped the coat, grabbed your phone, and strode out of the apartment, still holding the pills. He couldn’t summon up the right words or actions to make you stop and listen. It felt like his mind was disassembling, falling apart. As soon as you closed the door, he broke down, holding the sides of his head and screaming. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity FUCK!” You could hear him through the door, and it tore at you. “Damn it, NO! No no no nononono! FUCK!” You wanted to think that this was warranted, that it made sense to be angry, but you couldn’t shake the immense guilt, the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You tore yourself away and started walking. You decided to call Diego, whom you knew was also pretty used to Klaus’s antics. “C’mon, Diego. Please pick up…” He did. “Y/n! Hey, what’s up?” You hadn’t spoken to Diego in a while. He sounded good. “It’s-” you hesitated, finding it hard to say and unaware of how much he knew. Most likely, nothing. “It’s about Klaus.” “Oh.” It was a loaded explanation. Diego sighed. “What is it this time?” “Where do I even begin?” You asked, realizing you probably should have thought this through more. “At the beginning,” he responded. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself and figure out what to say. “So, twelve years ago, you met Klaus-” You surprised yourself by laughing. “Okay, not that beginning,” he conceded. It was calming to hear from someone who wasn’t actively freaking out. “It was two weeks ago. I got a call from Lakeshore. It was Klaus, in rehab again and getting out in a week.” “Surprise, surprise,” he interjected sarcastically. “No, just- listen.” You tried to impress on Diego the gravity of what you were telling him, what was so different about this time. “So I went to pick him up last week, and on the drive back to his place he tells me that he got evicted and needed somewhere to stay.” “Also not really a surprise-” “Diego!” You insisted. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll shut up.” You continued, “The way he explained it, he was a few months behind on rent and when his landlord came to collect, they found him quote-unquote ‘severely passed out’.” Diego was silent, which you were grateful for. “So he OD’d a month ago and I only found out about it last week. “I’m sorry, (y/n), but you know him.” He probably believed you were just venting, but this was so much more than that. “He said it was the closest he’s been to seeing Ben in years.” “Woah.” He finally understood. “I’m so tired, Diego. So tired.” You were near defeat. “I know. You’re the only one left still putting up with his shit.” You chose to ignore that. “So we talked, and he apologized. It seemed sincere. We talked again the next day, and then it was honestly kind of wonderful. He was back to his old self. He has been all week.” The line went quiet for a few moments. “What happened?” There was no judgment in Diego’s tone. Just sympathy. You stopped walking, and, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, your voice began to crack. “I found a bottle of pills in his pocket today,” you could hear Diego sigh on the other end, “and he’s apparently had them this entire week.” “Oh my god, that little SHIT!” You heard the telltale whoosh and thunk of Diego throwing a knife in some instinctive burst of anger. “He insists that he’s sober, but I have no idea if I can believe him.” You looked around for a bench or some stairs. Your feet ached, your head ached, your soul ached. You needed to sit down. “Where are you? I am coming over there right the fuck now and dealing with this.” “No, Diego, please. I’m not at the apartment. I had to get out of there.” You understood why he felt protective, but it wasn’t what you needed right now. You needed everything to be okay, even though it wasn’t. Diego’s more aggressive tactics weren’t going to fix anything. “Well then, where are you?” He had started to sound worried. “I’m just walking. I left Klaus at my place. I don’t know if he’s still there or not.” You spotted a bench outside of a park just down the street and made a beeline for it. “Tell me the street. I can be there in four minutes and fifty-three seconds.” His determination was sweet. “Please don’t. I just- I need to figure this out.” You finally sat down, cross-legged because you honestly felt like curling into a ball right about now. Diego thought for a moment, ultimately deciding that it was better to let you talk to him than to intervene on your behalf. “Fine. What makes you believe him?” This was something you and Diego did fairly often, your very own twisted pro and con lists, stacking up the evidence for Klaus versus the evidence against Klaus. “Well, he didn’t try to stop me or make a grab for the dope when I left, he didn’t plead or beg, he just tried to get me to listen to him, which I now realize I utterly failed to do. And the bottle’s pretty full, so I doubt he could have had this for a whole week already. The label’s also from a while ago, but who knows if that actually means anything. And Diego, I have to believe he was being sincere when we talked. I have to.” Diego was silent for a while. “And the evidence against him?” You took another deep breath. “The pills I found in his pocket, the fact that he’s had them this entire time, and- ohmygod, I just remembered something.” A memory flashed into your mind, feeding the sinking feeling that pervaded your senses. “What?” Diego’s tone betrayed his concern. “He hasn’t been acting shifty or running off without explanation. He’s barely been out of my sight this whole week, but after I picked him up, the second we got back to my place, he made some lame excuse about having to do something in another room or go to the bathroom. I just remembered it now. It’s the kind of shit he says when he’s getting high or stashing stuff.” It was true and only served to fuel the nervousness that made you want to scream. You sniffled, trying to ignore the passing glances of strangers. “When was this?” He still sounded sympathetic. “Right when we got home.” When we got home. It’s funny what you say when you’re not thinking about it. Diego was silent for a long time. “Diego? Are you still there?” “Talk to him.” He spoke finally. “See what he has to say for himself.” It was a surprise to hear Diego even remotely on Klaus’ side, but you were grateful. “Okay. Thank you.” You said your goodbyes. Diego reminded you that he could be anywhere in the city in under five minutes and told you to call him back later. You sat there for a few moments, alone, with just your phone in hand and endless thoughts in your mind. You felt wrong for having left Klaus to his own horrible devices while he was clearly falling to pieces, but simultaneously angry at him for doing this to you and for seemingly disregarding everything you had been trying to tell him for the past week. Above all, you just felt pain, and you knew Klaus was the reason why, even if he didn’t want to be. You got up and started to walk back. Passing a trash can by an intersection, you made a split-second decision to throw out the pills.

Finally back at the apartment, you stopped before your front door, scared to open it. You took a deep, though shaky, breath to steady and brace yourself. You’d had versions of this conversation countless times, and you knew it was more than likely that you would again in the future. You assured yourself that even if he wasn’t sober, he would be okay. You just needed to stay with him, to let him know you were there, and hope it would be enough. You opened the door. Klaus was pacing circles around the room with a lit cigarette smoldering between his fingers. A window was cracked open, which you knew was as far as it would go. The bag he brought back from the convenience store sat on the table with the contents, two boxes of cigarettes, dumped out next to an ashtray. One box lay open, and several cigarettes were missing. The open window was a nice touch. “y/n.” He noticed you immediately and stopped pacing. “Hey.” You smiled softly. “I’m sorry I walked out, I shouldn’t have.” Klaus hadn’t moved yet. He stood still, his eyes following you with restless longing. He finally reached down and snuffed out the cigarette, leaving the rest of it in the ashtray. “Did you call Diego?” he asked, trying to piece together why you left. “Yes,” you responded. Klaus looked a little scared and started to reach for his coat, “but he told me to listen to you, which I’m going to do.” “Oh! That’s a surprise!” Klaus looked pleased. He also looked much more contained than you’d ever seen him before, but the red eyes and disheveled hair told a different story. He sat down on the couch, and you sat beside him. “You had an explanation?” “Yes,” he nodded, fidgeting before working up the nerve to speak. “Well… a long while ago, which was not that long ago, I may have- well, I did- hide some drugs here, in your apartment.” Your eyes widened, and he winced. “Specifically, behind a loose tile in the bathroom.” You knew where he was going with that, “The pills that were in your pocket.” “Bingo!” He flashed a small, somber smile. “This doesn’t paint me in the most flattering light, but I had no intention of staying sober when you picked me up last week. Then I… heard you. I felt like a real piece of shit.” “Oh.” It was a lot to process. He was starting to fidget more, and you could see his eyes watering, threatening tears. “I am so sorry, y/n.” He was starting to break down. “But I didn’t take any, I swear!” “Why did you still have them?” You asked, earnestly trying to maintain composure. He ran his hands through his hair. “I couldn’t-” Klaus looked tortured. He was terrified you wouldn’t believe him. “I couldn’t bring myself to toss them.” It came out as a whisper. “Klaus…” “I know it was shitty, and Ben’s been harping at me to do it all week-” “I threw them out,” you admitted, and watched for his reaction. He breathed out a massive sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god.” You put a hand to your mouth as you realized he was telling the truth. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” you choked, trying not to let your voice break. “Hey hey hey, no hard feelings!” He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, and you placed your head on his chest. “You’re here, that’s all that matters.” “She really cares about you, Klaus, maybe you should stop hurting her,” Ben said. Klaus glared at him, but the words did have an effect. “I’m really proud of you, Klaus,” you whispered. That seemed to give him the impetus he needed. You were confused for a moment as he pulled away from you, but then he tilted his head down and kissed you. You froze briefly, because this already felt different than the other times you had kissed. Then you accepted it, hanging your arms around his shoulders. He leaned in closer to you and placed a hand on your cheek, stroking softly back and forth with his thumb. You tried to deepen the kiss, running your hand through his soft curls, and he let you. He let you. Your heart was beating a mile a minute. This was love. Chaotic and confused and messy, but love. He pulled away, arms still around you as you stared past him in disbelief. “Oh my god,” you whispered breathlessly. You noticed, then, that one of his hands had wandered to your waist and, having hiked up your shirt slightly, was pressed against the small of your back. The warmth of his hand on your skin, the feeling of him touching you, was euphoric. “You felt something, too, right?” He asked in a dazed tone, somehow sounding both soft and desperate at the same time. You looked up at him, into his eyes, and found something reflected back at you that was remarkably familiar. It was a feeling. “Yes.” You almost laughed, almost cried. You felt like bursting. Leaning, almost lunging, forward, you kissed him once again, crashing and falling back into him. His lips on yours, your hands on him, his arms around you, his breath on your skin. You were intoxicated, you were engulfed, you were in love.

You weren’t sure how, but when you finally looked up from each other to notice your surroundings, it was night. Holding onto one another, you made it across the dark and quiet apartment and found your way back to your bed together. You found yourself pulled into his embrace, and you also found yourself accepting it willingly. You were facing him, head resting on his arm and nestled against him. His chest was so close to you, so warm under your fingers. It was a familiar warmth to be close to him, the same smells, of eyeliner and cigarettes, the same steady sound of his breathing, the same sparks every time his skin brushed against yours. You couldn’t possibly dream of falling asleep now. “y/n?” he spoke in barely more than a whisper. “Hmm?” you hummed in response. “I’m sorry.” It was a small few words, but you knew how intently he meant it. Tilting your head up to find him just as wide-eyed and awake as you were, you knew that it was now or never. “You should know something, Klaus.” You looked away from him again, knowing that what you were about to say would be difficult. “What?” He began tracing small circles in your shoulder. You breathed, in and out, and began. “I didn’t want to think that you’d been numb all week, that everything you said had been a lie, that you cared that little. But even then, I couldn’t imagine not staying to help you, because I had to know that you would be okay because I-” You stopped, words caught in your throat. “Because you what?” He already knew what you were about to say. “Because I love you,” you admitted, heart pounding and thoughts raw with vulnerability. You felt a hand on your cheek, tilting your face upwards and tugging you back into the reality you had to face. You didn’t want to look up or see him until you felt his lips brush softly against yours. Your heart skipped a beat as he did it again, kissing you gently and earnestly. “I love you, too,” he mumbled into the kiss. Your heart flipped and soared. You pulled away for just a moment. “Say it again.” He did, immediately, with an easy smile, “I love you.” You began kissing again, and he whispered, “Your turn.” “I love you, Klaus.” You could feel him smiling as he tugged you closer. It was wonderful, it was perfect.

#My first tua fanfiction!#It felt nice to finally be writing again #and to try out some new characters #tua #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy fanfiction #tua fanfiction #klaus fanfiction #klaus x reader #klaus #klaus hargreeves #klaus hargreeves x reader #klaus imagines #klaus hargreeves imagines #the umbrella academy imagines #tua imagines

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mcustorm · 4 years

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JATP is like a 5-hour DCOM

As I’ve expressed previously, when I initially saw the gif-sets for this series I basically said “I’ll pass, thanks.” I don’t know what changed (probably the treachery that is the reality tv I’m currently watching), but I decided to go ahead and check it out, if only for some much needed levity.

And at first, I was not feeling this, like at all. The dialogue was cringey, the songs were *meh*, I couldn’t keep up with the show’s own internal logic.

By episode 5 however, the show was cooking with gas. We had stakes, drama (family drama! relationship drama! band drama!), villains, and yes, humor to round out the whole thing. And that’s when it hit me: this show is basically a 5-hour Disney Channel Original Movie. This shouldn’t have been so surprising, seeing as to how it’s the work of the legendary Kenny Ortega [among others].

Granted, I haven’t seen a new DCOM since 2013 apparently, so at the very least the show harkens back to the movies of yesteryear. Even so, I have to imagine movies [that I haven’t seen] like Descendants or Zombies have some of these tropes:

The Surreal, Fantasical Situation - The Thirteenth Year, The Luck of the Irish, The Other Me

The Grand Musical Numbers - High School Musical, Teen Beach Movie

The Popular Girl Who Hates Me - High School Musical, Read it and Weep, Cadet Kelly

The Band’s Interpersonal Drama - The Cheetah Girls, Lemonade Mouth

The Missing Mother - Jump In!, Smart House, Dadnapped!

The Affable Trio - Minutemen, Camp Rock

The Wacky Sidekick - Stuck In the Suburbs, Read it and Weep, KP: STD

The Forgettable Rock Songs - Camp Rock, Lemonade Mouth

The Villain Who We Don’t Know is Evil, But Has a Sympathetic Sidekick - Up, Up, and Away!, The Proud Family Movie, High School Musical (2), The Cheetah Girls (2)

The Insecure Protagonist Who’s Just Gotta Find The Strength Inside Of Them - Like every single DCOM ever

And let’s not forget Pixel Perfect, the 2004 movie that’s about a guy who has to create a holographically projected character to help his band succeed. Sound familiar?

--sn: I haven’t seen that movie in ~15 years, when I was kindergarten-aged. Still, I went to rewatch it last night and it’s amazing how you can hear a song from that long ago and go “Yea, I remember this!” Music is a wonderful thing.--

Ortega knows DCOM’s like the back of his hand. When The Cheetah Girls 2 (which Ortega choreographed and directed) premiered, it was the highest rated DCOM in history; High School Musical 2 topped that record a year later, and by the way, that record still hasn’t--nor will it ever be, I’d venture to say--topped.

He knows what makes us, the young, impressionable audience, tick and get invested with the worlds that he builds. He even understands that now, in 2020 and on Netflix, all of that gay subtext that we’ve been talking about in HSM for years can actually be a real thing. So yea, it’s no wonder that people took to this quickly.

We love tacky villains, we love good vs. evil, we love sappy love stories/love triangles, and we of course love an emotional attachment to our characters in a relatable way.

None of that is really revolutionary tv. You can get all that stuff from any of the aformentioned movies. Where the show does push the boundary is translating that to a streaming platform. It has diversity which is always a plus. It also allows Ortega to thankfully be just as gay as he wants to be. Not just with the style, because some of these dance scenes were exceptionally campy, but with the characters.

Is there a ship name for Alex and Willie? I haven’t checked the tag, I have no idea. What I do know is that the entirety of Alex’s character and storyline is for the most part lighthearted and carefree. These are the stories and character dynamics that I wish any DCOM of my childhood would have broached, the stories Ortega has gone on the record for having wanted to do previously.

The show is not trying to make a statement with that relationship -- it just is. It’s two guys who find each other and discover they have chemistry, as was done with Julie/Luke and the countless other het-ships that we’ve seen on Disney before. The drama that eventually comes between them isn’t derived from their sexuality, but the plot itself. It makes you think, “With the way HSM/DCOM’s were ingrained into our minds, how beneficial to a generation would it have been to have a couple like that in those movies?”

Well we’ll never know the answer to that question, because it never happened (thanks homophobia!). All we had was subtext, because Cadet Kelly totally had a thing for Stone. That is, until now. It took a couple of decades and a totally separate platform from Disney, but the kids of today finally [sorta] have a DCOM that dares to have openly gay characters. Ortega even in 2020 is revolutionizing the genre. And that gives me a smidgen of hope.

Random thoughts on the episodes:

Flynn is not a character. Now for all I’ve been nostalgic about above, we can do part with the 2-D sidekick. One day we’ll talk about how HSM 3 is a terrible movie and how Taylor got *0* character content for 3 movies while being billed as a main character, likely for diversity purposes. Today is not that day I suppose.

It was so weird that they were going there with Julie/Luke, because the actors are clearly a few years apart. Usually to play 16 year olds, a given tv show will hire 16 year olds or they’ll hire 20 year olds. This show did...both, so it’s weird to watch the grown man playing Reggie going after these girls.

The exact moment I was like, “Alright this show is okay”, is when Nick got on the stage and introduced Julie just seconds after comforting her. Mans was WYLIN.

Nick supposedly did everything right. Sucks to suck. And now he’s possessed by Kilgrave. Tuff.

Julie’s whole family dynamic was cute.

Most of the songs were catchy, but by nature of this show they all kind of had the same structure. They were nice, but I won’t be downloading a soundtrack.

So I liked it. Again, as I can’t fully keep up with the show’s logic: are the guys real humans now? That seems like one of the only plausible ways to keep the show going. But if so, should Caleb still be obsessed with them?

The million dollar question for this show as well: Where do we go from here?

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #thanks for reading

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theonceoverthinker · 6 years

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OUAT 4X06 - Family Business

After spending ten minutes trying to make a pun for this one, I don’t SNOW if I can do it!

...Well, there you go!

Review’s under the cut!

Main Takeaways

Past

I’m torn between disliking and liking the writing choice to have Anna doubt Ingrid so fiercely. On one level, I sort of get it. After being betrayed by Hans (And more recently, Rumple), Anna’s become a bit less trusting. That’s good character development. However, to have Anna be untrusting to this degree is just a little too far fetched for me. I think had Anna wanted to accept her and been more outright friendly, but was too curious to settle for Ingrid’s non answers, the story would’ve been a bit more palatable for me.

So, as far as Belle goes, I’m kind of inclined to treat this episode in a way as a precursor to Belle’s attitude later in life, kind of like“Best Laid Plans.” Just like how Snowing dedicated themselves to being the best people they could be after their horrible sin, Belle does the same thing through a combination of seeing Anna be taken and learning the truth behind her mother’s death. That also having been said, I feel like had they stated that the stone of memories was a one-off item, I wouldn’t be so frustrated with Belle because why not just get another stone after saving Anna?

That also having been said, I get that it didn’t matter. What mattered in this segment was that Belle’s selfishness fucked over someone and the point of this episode was to realize that and show that she’s grown from it. And that is the important part of the episode and it was delivered well. What I pointed out were smaller narrative crumbles that don’t amount to absolutely nothing, but are ultimately less important than the delivery of the theme.

Present

I can talk about a lot of aspects of this episode (And I will), but let’s be real here: The big part of this episode really comes down to a singular moment. While most of this episode is pretty clearly framed otherwise, so much so that I wonder just how much can write about, this moment’s where shit gets complicated and messy. That, of course, is Belle’s use of the “dagger” to make Rumple take her to the Snow Queen’s fortress.

Let’s break my thoughts on this down a bit.

It’s...a complicated situation. I’m sympathetic to Belle in the sense that she’s trying to stop The Snow Queen and making a hard choice like that is something she sees as just something that has to be done. Additionally, the mirror scene establishes that Belle might have doubts about the validity of the dagger, so there might have been a part of her doubting that it would work. I also get that this was Belle’s weakest moment and thus, it’s something she doesn’t want relayed.

That having been said, this episode frames Belle’s motivation as wanting to keep a secret. That’s the reason why she doesn’t relay her information to Emma and Elsa. And for a secret that is so relatively small in the grand scheme of not only the scope of the universe, but what villains have been forgiven for around in these parts, I find it rather weak and makes for a stark contrast to her attitude of just shutting up from the present scenes prior It’s brought on by a sad conversation with Elsa and Belle finds it more appropriate to use the dagger on her husband than just simply tell the truth, a moment that when finally comes to pass, isn’t given any gravitas, meaning that Belle keeping that secret wasn’t that big of a deal. It’d be one thing if Elsa was so mad that she froze Belle or shut her out or something like that, but she doesn’t, making the reason Belle wants to hold out telling the truth fall flat.

I also almost wish this moment had come earlier in the season, maybe before “The Apprentice” because that look of fear on Rumple’s face when he realized that his own wife is using the dagger to control him would’ve been a hella effective point in showing why Rumple feels like he needs to go to the extreme of putting people in a magic hat to ensure that he never has to be controlled again. That said, it does work here, albeit not as effectively.

I do think that the framing of this moment works. Ignoring the motivation behind it, Belle is shown as going too far by using the dagger, BUT the more complicated nature of the dagger being as real as a $3 bill isn’t ignored by the narrative either.

Okay, now that that’s done, let’s move on.

The mirror scene is a really chilling look into Belle’s psyche. Not only is there a great display of Belle’s insecurities on display in this scene, but it truly sets up the mirror as a genuine threat. Belle is one of the purest characters in the show, second to probably only Ariel at this point. And yet the mirror is able to pull at the weaknesses she doesn’t possess as easily as loose Jenga pieces. Within a minute, she feels helpless.

I also really like the way Rumple is presented here! He’s at once a villain and a victim in a way and the balancing of that was well done!

Stream of Consciousness

-I like the costume Belle has in the first bit of her flashback. It does a really good job of painting her youth and naivete.

-I love how literally every piece of Belle’s wardrobe and decorations in her room are Beauty and the Beast colors!!! Dude, if she wasn’t the actual Belle, I’d accuse her of being the biggest fangirl in the world! XD

-Really, Rumple? Belle doesn’t know about the hidden safe by this point?

-”Before we open.” So I guess that library scene really didn’t carry over in any capacity. That’s a shame.

-I absolutely LOVE the zoom out shot as everyone takes in the Snow Queen video tape! All eight of the mains are in the shot as well as Elsa! And everyone is so serious, even the woman in the blue sparkly dress! I know it’s been said 1,000 times, but it’s totally CSI Storybrooke up in this bitch! XD

-Belle, you are amazing at tracking! And you dig any chance to be a hero! Why the fuck are you willingly stepping down?! XD

-Why does everyone diss books?! And if you’re gonna diss the book, maybe take the book? Like, I don’t want Maurice to take the book, but if he’s gonna go to the trouble of being a douche nozzle, at least go all the way.

-I feel the need to ask if Ingrid has employees at “Any Given Sundae.” Does she just switch off between driving the truck and running the shop? Did she ever have an intern? XD

-”Was she afraid someone was gonna steal the rocky road?” You’re three episodes off, Emma.

-Ice powers are the world’s most dangerous mood rings! XD

-”Do you really think she would’ve discovered that if I didn’t want her to?” And what part did you have to play in Emma discovering that evidence? Like, every piece of evidence Emma has uncovered has been by total coincidence! The video, the truck? Both of those were spur of the moment decisions!

-I feel like mirror Belle is what would happen if Lacey had Belle’s memories.

-Ummm, if that was the real dagger, would that slash have killed Rumple or would it kind of be like what happened with Dark Hook where only the lethal cuts matter? But then again, that was close to the throat.

-Belle, where the hell did that gorgeous ass coat come from? Because holy hell, I LOVE it!

-Okay, am I the only one who feels like Maurice had some personal experience with Rumple prior to Belle’s summoning?

-”Spend a little more time in this town love, and you’ll realize that just about everyone’s related.” This is true and I LOVE it! XD

Favorite Dynamic

Regina and Robin. I really like Regina’s scene with Robin in the forest. Lana perfectly shows Regina’s frustration at having tried every possible approach to waking Marian and failing at it as well as this sense of resignation about what she has to tell him. It’s a fantastic moment in how it’s performed and written. Regina’s in her best form by being blunt, but not unsympathetic: If Robin wants to save Marian, he has to fall in love with her again, no if’s, and’s, or but’s. You can tell that this is the last thing she wants to say, but she knows it’s the truth. It’s a really good display of her growth as a character. Something very difficult for her to do and the truth isn’t pretty, but she’s delivering it anyway, even at her own expense. The added bits of snark additionally really help it too by giving the scene a bit of levity and gives the dialogue a bit of that Regina fierceness.

Writer

Kalinda Vazquez comes in for her second episode in a row, a first for a writer for this series outside of A&E! Alongside her is Andrew Chambliss. I gotta say, it’s nice not having a newbie this episode. While there are some character issues, I think the episode works more than it doesn’t due to the more complicated nature of the present segment’s story and the fact that the framing is spot on.

Rating

8/10. I think there are a fair amount of good elements to this episode. The delivery of the themes is solid and that is the ultimate make or break piece of an episode like this. Additionally, the framing of this story was hard, but successful.

-----

Hey! Sorry this wasn’t my best review. I don’t know what happened with this episode, but it just took me so long to figure out how I felt about it. I hope what I put out made sense.

Thank you for reading, if you did as well as to @watchingfairytales and @daensarah. Love you!!!!

Season 3 Total (42/230)

Writer Scores: Adam and Eddy: (9/60) Jane Espenson: (10/40) David Goodman and Jerome Schwartz: (10/50) Andrew Chambliss: (14/50) Dana Horgan: (6/30) Kalinda Vazquez: (14/40) Scott Nimerfro: (6/30)

*Links to the rest of my rewatch will no longer be provided. They take posts with links outside of searches and I spend way too much time on these reviews to not give them that kind of exposure. Sorry for the inconvenience, but they still can be found on my page under Operation Rewatch.

#ouat #once upon a time #watching fairytales #ouat 4x06 #ouat rewatch #jenna watches ouat

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lambcaey · 6 years

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Casino Cups: Life Goes On (Part 1)

This three-part fanfic is largely based on the awesome Cuphead AU known as Ask Cups and Casinos, but could apply to the Cuphead fandom in general, too (just long before the Cup bros start working at the casino). Definitely check it out!

Credit goes to Bright Goat for the AU (hope I did justice to your amazing work!) Enjoy!

Part 2

Casino Cups: Life Goes On (Part 1)

Silence without serenity; stillness with a sense of foreboding; a feeling of calm clashing with that of rapidly-growing fear. That was how it felt during the first few minutes without Elder Kettle. One minute, he was tearfully professing his love for his grandsons. The next, there lay nothing in bed but a shallow husk of china. This wasn't to say that it happened completely out of nowhere. The man was getting on in years, and his family couldn't afford the kind of medical treatment that would preserve his already very long life. Despite the Isles' long history of supernatural phenomena, none of the local mystics could conjure up anything guaranteeing immortality, aside from repeating the horrific mistake of making another deal with the Devil. Nevertheless, no matter how aware the boys were of this day coming, they still weren't ready when it eventually occurred. By the time he'd reached his final hours, Elder Kettle had stopped trying to escape his fate. Instead, he came to terms with it as a fact of life, a life that was as happy and fulfilling as it could ever be for him. Even as the last of his family stood before him, begging him not to go, Elder Kettle left this plane of existence with a smile, completely at peace. It took a great deal of will power after such an intense shock, but the boys eventually forced themselves to leave their grandfather's bedside for the proper postmortem preparations. It was almost too painful to even look at their elder's corpse anymore. They didn't want to leave him, but, at the same time, there wasn't anything left to hold on to; just an empty shell in which a warm, caring, and loving soul once resided. It was incredibly unnerving, the idea of something this traumatic and heartbreaking occurring in this cheery, colorful, whimsical world. Every other element of life, even death, had some sort of silly, cartoon-like slant, at least from Cuphead and Mugman's perspective. Seeing stars; pupils rolling in their heads; a giant lump that could be brought down with the swing of a hammer; any sort of injury or illness was presented with the classic "Rule of Funny" that usually dictated the rules of physics and natural order in Inkwell Isle. Here, there wasn't any of that. No soul to parry, no ghost to interact with; Elder Kettle was plainly, simply, and completely gone. This event was just another item of this world's never-ending list of questionable occurrences. The only real shock from it was how starkly it contrasted to the rest of Inkwell Isle. Naturally, such a rare phenomenon of this magnitude could hardly be kept a secret. The news spread fast to the other residents in the isles, and, within the next half hour, virtually all of them had arrived at the boys' doorstep. Of course, there were exceptions. As much as the Devil and King Dice relished the misery of others, this particular soul was of no real value to them, which would make the experience more boring and pointless than anything else. Weepy also had to remain outside, lest he start flooding the house with his rivers of tears (more so than usual). Everyone else was either mourning by Elder Kettle's bedside, or offering any form of assistance or comfort to his grieving grandsons. Though the boys couldn't afford an official funeral, this was the closest to one as they were ever going to get, and they greatly accepted it. Mugman was very receptive to his friends' kindness. He showed the utmost gratitude from even the smallest of favors, from a shoulder to cry on to an array of bouquets for his grandfather's grave. He also spent much of the time reflecting on all the fond memories he and everyone else shared with him, even mentioning some of the more humorous ones to bring some sort of levity to the situation. Though part of Mugman felt very much alone, being surrounded by all his friends and neighbors was all the more comforting to him during this troubling time. Cuphead, on the other hand, expressed an entirely different demeanor during the pseudo-funeral. He kept himself isolated from the rest of the crowd, sitting at the top of the stairs with his arms resting on his knees. Instead of shedding any tears, his eyes gazed off into space, as though a million thoughts were racing in his mind at once. Friends like Cagney or Hilda had asked if there was anything they could do for him, but after a few times of giving them a cold "I'm fine," Cuphead retreated to his room, barring himself from any socialization altogether. He didn't even come out to watch the local ghosts deliver his grandfather's urn to the mausoleum. It was as clear as day that Cuphead was anything but "fine." Many people, especially his brother, were very tempted to go upstairs, and insist that he come out and talk with them. However, they also bore in mind that perhaps this was Cuphead's way of grieving with such a tremendous loss. The last thing the poor boy needed was feeling as if his friends were trying to impose on him how they thought he should act in the face of his grandfather's passing. Although they had good intentions, everyone agreed it was best to leave Cuphead alone...for now. ~~~~ After an almost sleepless night, Mugman dragged himself downstairs, and fried up some eggs and bacon for himself and his brother, hoping he'd at least be willing to come out and eat. He also poured a couple of glasses of orange juice, and, by force of habit, reached out to grab some English breakfast tea with sugar, before remembering that family connoisseur was no longer there to enjoy it. Only seconds after setting the table, Cuphead tiredly made his way to the kitchen as well. "M-Morning, Cups." Mugman chirped with a forced smile. "I made us some breakfast." "Thanks," Cuphead responded rather brusquely as he sat down. Although the meal was well-made by any standards, any appetite for it was practically nonexistent. Mugman forced a few bites of his eggs while Cuphead simply twirled his fork around the bacon, staring glumly down at the table. After a moment or so of awkward silence, Mugman nervously attempted to break the ice. "I, uh, I put Hilda's flowers up as a centerpiece for the table," the young boy stammered. "That was really nice of her, huh?" No answer. Mugman tried something else. "It...looks like a really nice day outside. If you want, maybe we can go for a walk, or catch some butterflies, or see how the others are doing. How-How does that sound?" Again, no response. He may as well be talking to an empty chair. Mugman let out a small sigh. He clearly wasn't getting anywhere with his grief-stricken brother. With a heavy frown, Mugman tried appealing to Cuphead's better nature. "Listen, Cuphead. It's ok if you don't feel like talking to me, but...just know that I'm always here for you whenever you need it. I'm not gonna make you do anything you don't want to. I..." Mugman's voice quivered a bit. "I just don't want you to feel like you gotta be all alone." At last, Cuphead looked up at his brother, his expression switching from dullness to sudden concern. Although he was referring to Cuphead in his offer of emotional support, it was a subtle, yet clear, sign of the same desire on Mugman's part as well. He may have sounded calm and collected in his words, but they were drowned out from the stronger signs of loneliness and misery in his facial and body language. After a moment of staring longingly at his brother, Cuphead's face winced and twitched with anxiety, his clenched fists shaking on the table. "M-Mug, I...I-I uh..." Just when it seemed like he was ready to explode, Cuphead swallowed hard, forcing himself to regain his former composure. "D-Don't worry, Mug. We'll both be all right. I just...I need some time to think." At that, Cuphead excused himself from the table, heading back upstairs. Mugman's eyelids rose in bewilderment. He wasn't sure whether to feel hurt from Cuphead walking away when he needed help, or worried for his stability after just seeing him fight so hard with himself. This sense of uncertainty became the norm over the next few days. The boys remained close, refusing to leave either one home alone for any reason. Ironically, despite such closeness, it was this same concern that also made them keep their distance. Although they deeply desired each other's companionship during this time of grief, something in their heads made them reluctant to act on it. Cuphead continued to isolate himself and battle his internal conflict while Mugman stayed away out of respect for his brother's time to "think." It was a paradox of perfectly painful proportions, and they both prayed that it would soon part. Fortunately for Cuphead and Mugman, they didn't spend the week in completely shut out from the world. Once in a while, a friend or two would stop by, and ask the boys how they had been doing. Mugman was thankful and accepting of any company that was offered to him. Occasionally, there was activity involved, such as playing chess with Werner, Beppi fashioning a balloon animal bouquet, and even Djimmi performing some magic tricks. Most of the time, though, Mugman felt just as, if not more, satisfied with simply sitting around and talking, whether to listen to advice or have his friends hear him out. It may not have felt like the same sort of love and caring that Elder Kettle provided, but it definitely lifted Mugman's spirits knowing he still had so many people to look after him. Although his friends offered this same comfort to Cuphead, he remained adamant in his desire to be left in solitude, which was starting to worry Mugman and the others. It wasn't as though they felt he was grieving in the wrong way; it was that, perhaps, Cuphead's self-imposed isolation was beginning to do more harm than good. Taking the time to contemplate and collect one's thoughts is an important part of the grieving process. In Cuphead's case, however, the extent to which he'd spent so much time alone left a greater impression that he wasn't allowing himself to be with anyone. He was never fond of asking for help, as it went against his self-image of being an independent, confident go-getter in virtually any task at hand. Never did Cuphead ever realize that coping with death and loss was going to be the biggest challenge he'd ever faced, enough to make fighting the Devil look tame. ~~~~ Five days later, Mugman felt enough was enough. As Cuphead sat solemnly on the swing set, staring off into the sky, his brother approached him in a manner that was both nervous and assertive, trying as delicately as possible to address the glaring elephant in the room. "C-C-Cuphead," Mugman uttered. "A-Are you ready to finally talk now?" Cuphead sighed, his head now facing down. On any other day, Mugman would've rightfully taken this as a subtle, yet clear, "no." Nonetheless, he could no longer stand wallowing in hesitation, and remained persistant. "Cuphead, please. We can't keep going on like this." Mugman sat on the adjacent swing. "If we don't hear each other out, then w-we'll be too sad to eat, play, or do pretty much anything." Cuphead remained still, but his face made a grimace, his eyes shutting tight as they brimmed with tears. His mind was practically screaming at every muscle in his body to let him walk away again, or, at the very least, allow for any sort of movement beyond trembling and staggering breathing. Alas, the inner turmoil that had been festering inside Cuphead had now brought him into a state of psychological paralysis. All the anxiety, sadness, and loneliness he'd been trying to brush off had now ensnared him like quicksand. Noticing the rising tension, Mugman slowly reached his hand for that of his brother. "Cuphead, what's the matter? I wanna help you." The moment Mugman lay one finger on his hand, Cuphead suddenly found the strength to become mobile again. With a deep breath and a heavy gulp, he jerked up from his swing, staring down at his startled sibling. "I'm sorry, Mug," he answered firmly, "I'm sorry I've been so distant. I didn't mean to make you feel like I didn't care about you or anything." "Aw, Cuphead, you didn't-" Mugman stopped. His heartfelt response immediately froze from the sudden chill in his brother's voice. "But...but I think I finally know how to fix everything, and get our lives back to the way they were. I'm..." He paused, mustering the last bit of strength to speak his mind. "I'm gonna get Elder Kettle back!" Mugman gasped. "Cuphead, no! Y-you can't do that! Elder Kettle is dea-" "I KNOW!" Cuphead screamed, taking a few breaths to regain stability in his voice. "I mean, he may be now, b-but as long as we have things like ghosts and angels and soul contracts in this world, I am never gonna rule out the possibility that he could come back!" Mugman stood beside Cuphead, a familiar feeling of danger creeping inside him. "Cuphead, for once, be reasonable! Y-You almost gambled our souls for the Devil; who knows what'll happen if you-" "Reasonable?!" Cuphead shouted, taken aback. "Why don't you, for once, be willing to take a risk for something you want? We've spent way too much time with Elder Kettle to just give up on him now! Don't you even want to see him again?!" "Of course I do!" Mugman's voice started hardening as well. "But this...i-it just doesn't feel right!" "Fine, be that way! Sit here at home, and do nothing like a coward!" Cuphead paused. Mugman's expression looked like a twisted combination of hurt and enraged. As he turned his back on him, Cuphead softened his tone a bit. "Trust me, Mug. This is the only way we're gonna be happy again. And don't worry; I won't let you down. I won't stop until I've set everything right for all three of us!" The second he finished that declaration, Cuphead smoke-dashed away, making a beeline for the woods of Inkwell Isle I. Mugman tried hurriedly to catch up with him. "Cuphead, wait! Come back!" Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the forest became too dense with foliage to safely smoke-dash any farther. Before he knew it, Cuphead was already out of sight. Mugman's mind turned into an emotional roller coaster. Knowing his brother's hasty nature, he simply knew that what Cuphead had proposed was another one of his terrible ideas. Granted, much of Inkwell Isles' laws of nature didn't make sense to begin with. After all, this was a place where a queen bee could summon floating triangles, a giant mermaid could live while decapitated, and, as Cuphead had pointed out, there were even many ghosts and skeletons roaming freely in their afterlife! Nevertheless, nothing along such lines had appeared to come to fruition in Elder Kettle's case. If he wasn't meant to be seen among the living, it was most likely that, like everything else in Inkwell Isle, it was better to not question it, and simply accept it as part of reality. The last time Cuphead tried to defy that rule, the Devil very nearly took their heads. Also, despite the danger he knew would be at hand, there was a part of Mugman that wondered why he should bother saving Cuphead at all? How dare he accuse him of not caring about their beloved grandfather! He was every bit as upset over the loss as his brother was; how does wanting to move forward make him a coward? This was a new low, even for someone who carelessly gambled both their souls to the Devil. If Cuphead were to suffer, it's what he deserves for being such a jerk...right? Mugman then shook his head, rationality and common sense catching up with him. Cuphead's in trouble, he spoke in his mind. None of these arguments matter right now. I gotta make sure he stays safe, now more than ever. Not hesitating a minute longer, Mugman followed the path his brother took, his tear-soaked eyes now glaring with determination. An unnerving aura permeated the isles as a blood-red sunset turned Mugman's body into a bold silhouette. As much as he wanted to put his mental turmoil to rest, he had to put his grief aside if he wanted to keep family from getting any smaller than it already was.

(To be continued)

#cuphead #mugman #ask cups and casinos #askcupsandcasinos #elder kettle #feels #angst #grief #fan fiction #fanfic #the devil #king dice #hilda berg #cagney carnation

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lahallucinations · 6 years

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hot and cold

A.N: the tater/aunt judy fic nobody asked for. except maybe @garden-of-succulents

based on this ask: x

“Come on, Mama you have to know of something that’ll help.” Bitty was well near whining now.“Darling you know as much as I call my recipes magic, they can’t magically heal a broken leg. Can’t even heal a broken heart.” “But Ma, he’s been here two weeks already and I know he’s in pain but I want some space. He’s hanging all over Jack like those puck bunnies do.”“Bitty, you should trust Jack and darling, oh, I can’t believe I’m saying this because Judy is usually about as helpful as a horse in a hospital but Judy might have a recipe for recovery.”Bitty almost gasped. This was never a thing that he expected out of his mother’s mouth. The rivalry between Judy and Suzanne had existed for as far back as Bitty could remember but he did love his aunt. When he was a kid, his aunt would watch musicals with him on a crappy old VCR while his mom was usually too busy for that. She bought him DVD’s of shows that had become part of the way he saw the world.He wondered if his mom ever blamed her for Bitty turning out gay. She’d never say that, the Bittles weren’t like that but there were subtle looks and innocent comments that said more.Bitty rung Judy after that and caught her up on the situation.She laughed. “Doll, do you think sugar can cure medical problems?”

“If not cure, it can make them heal faster. Aunt Judy, you and I both know that food is powerful and I really want my boyfriend to myself.”

“Huh, well, there is an apricot jam my grandmother used to make. Let me find the recipe, but I’m telling you now, I’m not sure this’ll work.”“Anything is better than that lug of an man all over Jack without letting me have a minute alone.”“I mean, honey, it’s not a bad problem to have. I certainly wouldn’t complain if I had a hunk of an NHL star on my couch.”“So it didn’t work with Daniel?”“Handling a real woman ain’t for everyone Bits.” Bitty hummed in response. They then said goodbye and he hung up. Apricot. He sure hoped the recipe worked.It was a few days later when Bitty brought the jam to Tater who was lying on the couch. “Here try it with some shortbread cookies I whipped up.”Tater ate almost an entire plate.“I’ve gotta say B. You’ve outdone yourself. This is delicious.”Bitty smiled. He might be annoyed at Tater but he was still his friend. “Hey get some sleep okay.”“And it doesn’t hurt?” Jack asked.“Nope. I don’t know what happened.”“What’s going on?” Bitty said.“I don’t know what miracle happened but Tater can walk, eh?”“What?”“Yeah. Watch,” Tater said as he moved his leg around.“Ohmygoditworked.”“What?”“I asked my aunt if she knew of any recipes to help you heal faster cause you know I couldn’t see you in pain,” Bitty was lying through his teeth but white lies made the world go around, “She gave me the recipe for that jam you had yesterday. I didn’t think it would actually work.” “I have to thank her, oh my god. I kept dreaming my hockey career was over. Can you give me her number, I want to thank her.”“Uh... I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just glad you’re back on your feet.”“B. My mother would kill me if I didn’t properly thank her. What does she like? Should I buy her something? But that’s not personal. Should I bring her some flowers? What does she like?”“Tater! She lives in Georgia. I’ll just pass on your thanks.”“I don’t want to be rude, I think I should visit. This is a big deal for me B.”“I mean it is the off-season and we could go with you?” Jack asked.“No, it’s fine. You two are busy, I’ll go myself.”Bitty wasn’t sure what was going on then but Tater was packing, booking plane tickets and that afternoon he took an Uber to the airport. Bitty had called his mother to tell her but he still was unsure about telling Judy, Tater had wanted to surprise her but he still thought it was better if she knew.He ended up doing and after an excited chat with Aunt Judy, Bitty went and collapsed into Jack’s arms. .....

истощениеExhaustion. That’s all Tater’s body had felt like for the past week. The pain seemed to rest deep in each bone of his body. He had almost yelled at the doctor, if only one was broken why did he feel like he had been run over everywhere, multiple times.The doctor had some bullshit about his body adapting that Tater half listened to but currently he felt invigorated.His grandmother used to make him Solyanka, to warm him up during the winter and she always said that warm food made with love, could fix everything. Judy had proven that to be true. A few hours later standing at her doorstep, he wondered whether he should be nervous. Most people would be, but Tater was always ready for anything. He knocked.A woman who had the same light hair as Bitty opened the door. She looked warm and Tater noticed the way her brown eyes twinkled.“Hello, I’m Alexi. Bitty’s friend. This is going to sound crazy but-”“Oh, I know who you are. I have to say Bitty getting me into hockey was amazing. You’re a wonderful player to watch, Mr. Mashkov.” “You knew I was coming?”“Yeah, Bitty didn’t want me to be caught off-guard.” Tater entered the house which smelled like sugar with a hint of lemon. “Oh no please call me Alexi, I came here to thank you, honestly I owe you a lot.” “Darling you owe me nothing, have a cup of tea with me if you really want to thank me.”“I have a gift for you, Keemun tea, it reminds me of home. Though I’ve seen the way Bitty eats, you might need a kilo of sugar to get it down.” Tater grinned at Judy. “Yes, that boy does have a sweet tooth. Let me get you some jam to go with that.” “I thought that was a Russian thing.” “Well, the Russians do know how to appreciate the finer things in life. You want some sponge cake with your tea? Or a biscuit?”“I’m okay with just the tea.”Ten minutes later, tea hot and piping and biscuits waiting to be devoured, Judy said, “So Alexi, tell me is it true you had to run away to play hockey?”“I don’t want to bore you with that.”“I doubt that is a boring story Mr. Mashkov and I promise I will interrupt you if I start falling asleep. Now go.” And so Tater did. He told her stories of his childhood, playing hockey with his dad and uncle and how much that shaped him. She surprised him then and asked, “Is he who put the drive in you?”“What?” Tater didn’t really understand what she meant.“Darling every time a parent discovers that their kid has talent, they turn into goddamn Simon Cowell, trying to make their kid into a star. My parents thought my sister was pretty and boy did they have a field day with that one. They put her in pageants, competitions you name it.”The realization dawns over Alexi. “Bitty’s mom was a beauty queen?”“Oh yes, she was Miss Georgia too. But that’s what I mean by drive, did your father do that for you?”“No. My father he liked rules. Stable. You know. My mother had dreams for me, she was a singer. She taught me how to dream big to take things, because nothing in life will ever be handed to you.”Alexi felt strange, sharing so much. He had only said two things but it felt more open than he had been to anyone in a long time. Sometimes he felt himself become the hockey robot. Giving the same short responses to journalists, fans and recently even friends. Judy poured him another cup. And they talked, their lives were as far apart as they could be. From the cold that could settle in so deep, you wondered whether blood was even able to run through veins anymore, to the heat that cooked you as if you were a rare steak on a barbecue. Their conversation hit deep points but also had its levity. Sometime during their third hour, Alexi brought up learning English through daytime TV.They spent the next hour watching Dr. Phil and then another Judge Judy.Towards the end of the afternoon Tater gets ready to say goodbye and promises to visit soon.“Oh, but you don’t have to spend time with an old lady like me out of obligation, go and live your life. I’m sure you have more exciting things to do.”“I like spending time with you. You’re a genuine person in a world where there aren’t many.”“You too sugar, you too.”“So it’s settled, I’ll be right here tomorrow?”“Actually tomorrow is the farmer’s market. Do you want to experience it? Because it is an experience.” Judy smiled through the sentence.“It’s a date.” Tater said as he left and Judy smiled wider than she had in many years.A part of her felt like a giggling schoolgirl again as she called her sister, partly to tell her that Bitty had wonderful friends and partly to squeal about the NHL star who she had plans with. She felt a rush of excitement, Alexi was a star, but he was also an anchor in way most people could never be. She wasn’t sure whether the had a future but she was eager to find out.

#what do i tag this as #alexi mashkov #aunt judy #omgcp #sorry or your welcome depending on how you feel about this

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placetobenation · 4 years

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Well, we asked you the question last week on how long it would take the WWE to break its own Draft rules. Well, it didn’t take long for our answer.

One week!

Just one week into the new landscape of RAW and SmackDown, we get SmackDown stars on RAW that weren’t supposed to be there. Otis, as El Gran Gordo, showed up to help his former Heavy Machinery partner Tucker. The Riott Squad, Liv Morgan and Ruby Riott took part in a fatal-four-way challenge to Nia Jax & Shayna Baszler.

But, in the very same season premiere episode of MNR, we are reminded that Big E can’t be with his New Day teammates due to the draft, so Big E shows up in the ThunderDome crowd to cheer on Kofi Kingston against Sheamus. Mixed messages? Damn straight.

See, that’s the thing about the WWE lately, especially on Monday Night RAW. They EXPECT you to not remember (or care) about the rules and the common sense. Storylines should, at the very least, be able to make sense and have us follow along at home. That’s how we get invested. It’s not that hard. NXT and SmackDown, along with other wrestling companies, understand this. I’m not quite sure why Monday nights don’t work the same way. But, then again, I do. It’s three words: Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Enough said.

Now, it’s on to the week that was as we head straight to Hell (In A Cell)!

Star of the Week:

Love at first fright.#WWERaw @WWEBrayWyatt @AlexaBliss_WWE pic.twitter.com/on2qkL09H0

— WWE Universe (@WWEUniverse) October 20, 2020

The Fiend & Alexa Bliss – Just one week in, they’ve taken over Monday nights. And we LOVE IT!

RAW

RESULTS

The Hurt Business defeated RETRIBUTION

AJ Styles defeated Matt Riddle

RAW Women’s Championship Match: Asuka defeated Lana

Non-title WWE Women’s Tag Team Championship Match: Nia Jax & Shayna Baszler defeated The Riott Squad, Mandy Rose & Dana Brooke and Peyton Royce & Lacey Evans

Kofi Kingston defeated Sheamus

El Gran Gordo (Otis) & Tucker defeated The Miz & John Morrison

Braun Strowman defeated Keith Lee

LOVED IT:

#TheFiend didn't forget.#WWERaw @WWEBrayWyatt @AlexaBliss_WWE pic.twitter.com/WfE0olSIdq

— WWE (@WWE) October 20, 2020

Opening segment(s) – Gotta be honest, I haven’t been a big fan of the RETRIBUTION storyline, but having them mingled between The Hurt Business and The Fiend with Alexa Bliss to open the show Monday night is a chance to give them new life. Granted, having them lose cleanly to The Hurt Business again isn’t helpful, but hopeful it’s just the beginning of the storyline. The Fiend and Alexa Bliss are megastars and having them in multiple segments on Monday nights will make it more watchable. Also, kudos to Mustafa Ali for a well-done promo giving some backstory to RETRIBUTION. It’s something we thought we were getting last week, but good to see they didn’t forget about it entirely.

No #HurtBusiness for @TitusONeilWWE. Just hurt.#WWERaw @fightbobby @The305MVP @Sheltyb803 @CedricAlexander pic.twitter.com/cxNUpwXI3f

— WWE Universe (@WWEUniverse) October 20, 2020

The Hurt Business – Speaking of the strongest faction going in the WWE right now, The Hurt Business continues to be strong and do what they do best – whatever the hell they want. This week, it’s beating down Titus O’Neill after he wanted to bring his Worldwide brand to THB. THB is starting to remind me of the Four Horsemen, if only Bobby Lashley was the World Champion. And let’s be honest, MVP could outwrestle JJ Dillon any day.

Raise your hand

if #ElGranGordo is your new favorite @WWE Superstar.#WWERaw @tuckerwwe pic.twitter.com/hF1MVkNRWi

— WWE Universe (@WWEUniverse) October 20, 2020

El Gran Gordo – Yes, I know, having Otis break the one-week old draft rule is worrisome, but I’ll take the entertainment of the storyline over the common sense for now. Having Otis, as El Gran Gordo, don a luchador mask to be Tucker’s tag team partner against The Miz & John Morrison is throwback to the days of the Machines (Andre, Roddy, Hulk, etc.), The Big Yellow Dog (JYD) and The Midnight Rider (Dusty Rhodes), not to mention Tommy Rich in mask in Atlanta.

Fun – Monday Night RAW has missed some of its fun, comedic elements of late and having El Gran Gordo and The New Day around will help fix that. The New Day can bring levity to any segment and it’s a nice breather in a three-hour long show. Plus, they can still bring it in the ring as the tag team champs. Good to see Big E in the ThunderDome crowd! Again, why can Otis, The Riott Squad and others appear on RAW but Big E can’t? Hmmm…..

Go home segment – Randy Orton’s final segment promo inside of the Hell in a Cell was gripping. As he went through of his HIAC matches with the likes of John Cena, The Undertaker, Daniel Bryan and others, it reminds us how good Orton truly is. One more notch on his belt I think is coming this Sunday to capture his 14th WWE title with a win over current WWE Champion Drew McIntyre. Great way to end it too with McIntyre cutting his way into the cell and yelling “your ass is mine” to Orton as the final shot of the night. It sets up a MUST-SEE match Sunday night.

Why?

Lana – We told you it was a complete waste last week to have Lana win the Battle Royale to face Asuka and the match proved it. It was a complete waste of time, only there to set up Nia Jax, Shayna Baszler and a fatal-four-way tag match. Asuka deserves better than this. It’s like having a non-title match on WWE Challenge back in the day.

Elias – Another concert and another guitar shot. At what point do we get more from Elias than just the singer who gets interrupted gimmick. The ironic thing is that the Jeff Hardy vs. Elias feud could be pretty decent.

Big things to come?

To say this was a HUGE win for @AJStylesOrg would be an understatement. #WWERaw pic.twitter.com/q9FyGwHRc0

— WWE (@WWE) October 20, 2020

AJ gets a bodyguard – Well, it looks like the end of RAW Underground is here (thank God!) as the official bouncer of RU, Omogbehin, is now AJ Styles new bodyguard. It’s more of the old school coming back in 2020 and I like it! It’s so striking the size difference between Styles and Omogbehin. Unfortunately, I don’t think Omogbehin is going to be that good in a ring to ultimately turn on AJ and face him in a match. But then again, one never knows in the WWE world of booking. Very good rematch by the way between Styles and Matt Riddle, who continues to shine win or lose.

Battle of the low blows – Who’s the good guy? Who’s the bad guy? I can’t tell at this point between Braun Strowman and Keith Lee. Both of been tweeners, complete with a couple of low blow spots (look familiar Roman Reigns?). Not quite sure where this one is going or if it’s going to help either guy and just go the way of 50-50 matches for a few weeks. Speaking of 50-50, it was no shock to see Strowman get the win after being submitted, or is it passed out, by Roman Reigns last week on SmackDown.

NXT

RESULTS

Triple Threat Match: Kushida defeated Tommaso Ciampa & The Velveteen Dream

Ember Moon defeated Jessi Kamea

Bronson Reed defeated Austin Theory – twice

Legado Del Fantasma defeated Isaiah “Swerve” Scott, Jake Atlas & Ashantee “Thee” Adonis

Ever-Rise defeated Drake Maverick & Killian Dain by DQ

Kacy Catanzaro defeated Xia Li

NXT Tag Team Championship Match: Danny Lorcan & Oney Lorcan defeated Breezango to win the titles

LOVED IT:

𝑲 𝑼 𝑺 𝑯 𝑰 𝑫 𝑨 !@KUSHIDA_0904 gets the better of @NXTCiampa & @DreamWWE on #WWENXT on @USA_Network! pic.twitter.com/oTpajmfYmy

— WWE (@WWE) October 22, 2020

KUSHIDA – It keeps getting better and better for KUSHIDA. I hope they push it all the way to him vs. Finn Balor for the NXT Championship! Sure, he got a little help from The Velveteen Dream’s armed cast, but a win is a win, especially over Tommaso Ciampa!

*STOPS ON BURIED ALIVE* "WHY DOES THIS WHEEL WANT ME DEAD?!" #WWENXT (via @WWENXT)pic.twitter.com/YIzr9bewFU

— WWE on FOX (@WWEonFOX) October 22, 2020

"Spin the wheel, and FEEL the pain." – @ShotziWWE

#HalloweenHavoc #WWENXT pic.twitter.com/2ixrDrIsJv

— WWE NXT (@WWENXT) October 22, 2020

Halloween Havoc build – Spin the wheel and feel the pain! Brilliant from your host Shotzi Blackheart. Plus, now we get a Haunted House of Terror match between Dexter Lumis and Cameron Grimes. Should be a tasty treat come Wednesday night!

Six-man tag – It’s no surprise that they killed it again, but Legado Del Fantasma simply brought it against Isaiah “Swerve” Scott, Jake Atlas and Ashantee “Thee” Adonis. The cruiserweight division is no afterthought with Santos Escobar and his boys at the top. Quality each and every week!

Beat-down to a build-up:

IS THIS FOR REAL?!?

@PatMcAfeeShow is BACK! #WWENXT #NXTTagTitles @ONEYLORCAN @strongstylebrit pic.twitter.com/cj3Zi34NHr

— WWE (@WWE) October 22, 2020

The Undisputed Era/Pat McAfee – Nice twist to the tag team title match between Breezango and TUE. First, Bobby Fish gets beat down. Then, Roderick Strong gets beat up. So, in goes Oney Lorcan and Danny Burch to sub for them. And the mystery man, Pat McAfee gets revenge on Adam Cole & TUE by getting his boys, Lorcan & Burch the tag team gold. Brilliantly done. Never saw it coming! Now while I liked Breezango as entertaining champs, this keeps them in a mix for the titles with a bigger feud and higher profile storyline. It works on every angle.

Friends and foes:

Kacy vs. Xia – When Xia Li needed a match, her one-time friend Kacy Catanzaro stepped up for the fight and to Li’s surprise, beat her. Then, as Li attacked after match, Raquel Gonzalez tore in Li, Catanzaro and Kayden Carter to give her a boost heading into next week’s Halloween Havoc match with Rhea Ripley. A good use of all four, plus Kacy gets a surprise victory.

Bye-bye:

"That's it. I'm done… I QUIT." – @austintheory1 #WWENXT pic.twitter.com/ox4OEwX58P

— WWE (@WWE) October 22, 2020

Austin Theory – Did he really quit after getting beat (twice) by Bronson Reed? Probably not. Probably a re-dux coming.

SMACKDOWN

RESULTS

Daniel Bryan, Kevin Owens & The Street Profits defeated Dolph Ziggler, Robert Roode, Cesaro & Shinsuke Nakamura

Bianca Belair defeated Zelina Vega

Lars Sullivan defeated Short G

Seth Rollins defeated Murphy

LOVED IT:

We will never be equal. Never bite the hand that fed you. #BossoftheCell pic.twitter.com/5ICEaF4N3e

— $asha Banks (@SashaBanksWWE) October 24, 2020

Sasha seals the deal – So, Bayley wouldn’t sign the contract for Hell In A Cell? No worries. Sasha Banks just beat her senseless into submitting to it. Well done as the infamous chair takes center stage once again! I can only imagine the carnage that will come Sunday night inside the Hell In A Cell!

They got you, @WWERomanReigns. #SmackDown #HIAC @HeymanHustle @WWEUsos pic.twitter.com/6rMqaRPuSJ

— WWE (@WWE) October 24, 2020

Double Trouble – Jey Uso brings out Jimmy Uso to try and dupe Roman Reigns. Jey’s physicality gave us a little belief that he could have a chance in the family feud come Sunday. As for the consequences for the I Quit Match inside Hell In A Cell that Roman promised? Reigns puts the family on the line if things don’t fall into line from Uso on Sunday night.

Watch her shine, now!

#SmackDown @BiancaBelairWWE pic.twitter.com/K5T9oZRKn8

— WWE (@WWE) October 24, 2020

Bianca Belair – She’s a superstar folks! Nice start to her SmackDown career with a victory over Zelina Vega.

Didn’t we see that before?

Shorty G is no longer. It's GABLE now, CHAD GABLE. #SmackDown @WWEGable @ScrapDaddyAP pic.twitter.com/qtg9upfXKs

— WWE (@WWE) October 24, 2020

Shorty G – So, Shorty G quits..well, at least he quits his name. He’s back to being Chad Gable again, which is a good thing. Gone is the gimmick that needed to go a long time ago. But, hey, didn’t we just the quit angle on NXT two nights earlier? Seems a little forced but a nice way to put forth another Lars Sullivan squash match to build him up.

Wild and fun:

8-man tag – Anytime you can get the amount of in-ring talent that the opening match gave you – Daniel Bryan, Kevin Owens & The Street Profits, Dolph Ziggler, Robert Roode, Cesaro & Shinsuke Nakamura – it’s going to be good. I like the idea of Owens and Bryan joining forces too to go after the tag titles. Plus, having The Street Profits get the pin makes perfect sense.

ORDER IN THE COURT.

Per Judge @JCLayfield, @otiswwe will battle @mikethemiz this Sunday at #HIAC! The winner will 𝒈𝒆𝒕 and 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 the #MITB contract! #SmackDown @tuckerwwe @TheRealMorrison pic.twitter.com/pb5n9ieoFQ

— WWE (@WWE) October 24, 2020

Court TV – While not as wild as the tag team match to start the night, Otis vs. The Miz inside a courtroom with JBL as Judge and Ron Simmons as bailiff in an APA reunion was some comedic relief for the night. Not only did we get a pay-off from The Miz to win the trial, but we get a pay-off in a match for this Sunday as Otis has to put his Money In The Bank contract on the line against The Miz. But, again with the draft breaking rules with Asuka showing up on SmackDown as a witness. She’s funny, but can’t we just abide by the rules at any point?

Same ol’ story:

Seth vs. Murphy – Different night. Same storyline. Same result. Count me as one who is no longer interested in Murphy vs. Rollins with the Mysterio family as the sidebar. It’s time for Rollins to turn Aalyah or move on.

Parting Shots:

Having Talking Smack follow SmackDown was a nice idea. Probably would’ve been a better idea for WWE Backstage to be in the timeslot back when it started though. If it did, it might still be around. The Paul Heyman segment/shoot about what makes a true Heyman guy was fantastic. So much realism and truth there. No scripts needed and a breath of fresh air. Again, something we thought WWE Backstage was going to more of, but wasn’t.

Hell In A Cell PPV – Updated Card

WWE Championship Hell In A Cell Match: Drew McIntyre vs Randy Orton

Universal Championship Hell In A Cell I Quit Match: Roman Reigns vs. Jey Uso

SmackDown Women’s Championship Hell In A Cell Match: Bayley vs. Sasha Banks

Money In The Bank Contract Match: Otis vs. The Miz

Jeff Hardy vs. Elias

Predictions: Randy Orton takes his 14th WWE title. Roman Reigns remains at the head of the table. Sasha Banks gets her revenge in the match of the night. Otis keeps his MITB contract. Elias takes part 1 vs. Jeff Hardy.

Coming up this week:

RAW: Hell In A Cell fallout

NXT: Halloween Havoc Spin The Wheel, Make The Deal NXT North American Championship Match: Damian Priest vs. Johnny Gargano Spin The Wheel, Make The Deal NXT Women’s Championship Match: Io Shirai vs. Candice LeRae Haunted House of Terror Match: Dexter Lumis vs. Cameron Grimes Rhea Ripley vs. Raquel Gonzalez

SmackDown: Hell In A Cell fallout

Thanks for letting us share our thoughts! Shoot me an email at [email protected]. We’d love to hear your comments and suggestions! You can also check out my blog, The Crowe’s Nest as we delve into more pro wrestling, sports entertainment and the World of Sports. My apologies ahead of time – I AM a

Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics and Bruins fan! If you’re not down with that, I’ve got TWO WORDS for you… NEW ENGLAND

#IFTTT #Place to Be Nation

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mademoiselleenjolras · 7 years

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Welcome Home

Part One of a thing I’ve been working on for about a month or so now. I’ve finally finished the whole thing, so I’ll post it at intervals because it ended up being about 8,000 words longer than I expected. The idea of Welcome Home (Finale) from Katherine’s point of view has been tossing around in my head for a long time, so that’s what this essentially is. Obviously, I had to take a bit of liberty with timelines, and the stories each stray a bit from the stories described in the song. I am pretty proud of the overall result, though. Anywho let me know what you think.

Johnny made it home Most of him at least Had three operations but the pain has not decreased

Katherine hurried down the block, tugging her coat just a bit tighter around her shoulders as she entered Central Park. A biting December chill had picked up, threatening to steal her breath, and she wondered when the next snowfall would be. The last one had finally melted off and had left behind a mess of soot-covered slush atop nearly everything. Around her, others made their way through the park, families with children wrapped in their warmest coats, two elderly men leaning heavily on canes, a young couple holding hands and staring fondly at each other. Katherine didn’t pay them much attention, but she spared a thought to the lovers and hoped that their troubles were few. Love had seen difficult times in these past years, yet another casualty of a war she had thought might never end, but now that it was over perhaps love could flourish again. If they were lucky, the young pair would never know the fear she had come to. She wondered for a moment if she and Jack had ever looked like that. Shaking herself to dispel the thought, she continued on. Minutes later, she caught sight of a familiar figure sitting- as usual- on a bench beneath a leafless birch tree.

“Hello, Romeo!” She called as she drew nearer. The man’s head snapped up, a wide grin splitting his face when he caught sight of her. He jumped to his feet enthusiastically, just as he did every Monday at eight, and swayed a bit before he caught his balance, just as he did every Monday as well. Katherine stopped herself from reaching out to steady him.

“Hiya, Kath!” Romeo greeted brightly, giving her a quick hug. “How ya been?”

“I’ve been alright. You’re looking well,” she replied, looking him up and down in mock-appraisal. Romeo offered his arm with a cheeky smile. She accpeted it, and the two old friends started off down the path before them.

“Always tryin’ ta look my best when I got a date. Y’know, with such a pretty girl, uh, lady.” He tipped his hat up just a bit in an attempt to recover from the vocal stumble, and Katherine smiled, endeared. Romeo managed a small laugh at himself when she did. “That’s a nice coat you got on. Gonna need it soon, they’re sayin’ its supposed to snow again this weekend.”

Katherine scoffed. “Soon? I need it already, it’s freezing out!” she exclaimed. “Still, it will be nice to have a fresh snowfall to cover all of this mess.” She kicked at a muddy puddle on the side of the path, sending icy grey water sloshing across the frozen grass. “Everything looks prettier after it snows.”

“It sure do,” Romeo agreed, head swiveling to take in the scenery around them as he recalled how it looked two weeks ago, covered in a crisp white powder. The muddy mess that was the park offered little to the eye now.

“You have enough warm clothes to get you through the season, right?” Katherine asked, more out of habit than actual worry. It had been years since she had really needed to worry about any of her newsies being underdressed during the winter. Romeo was obviously dressed just fine for the weather, a heavy brown coat sitting atop his flannel shirt to keep the wind at bay and a pair of boots without any holes on his feet. Still she asked, just to check.

Romeo laughed at her, a joyful sound. “Nah, I’m alright. Got me a nice new hat here, an’ some warm mittens Davey’s Ma sent up. You ain’t gotta worry about me no more, you know that,” he added teasingly, nudging her side.

Katherine playfully shoved him back, careful not to push hard enough to offset his balance. “I know, but I do anyway,” she said around a laugh. “Lucky you, though; Mrs. Jacobs makes the best knitting,” she added, thinking dreamily of the warm sweater and hat back at her tenement. All of their friends had been gifted warm articles by Mrs. Jacobs over the years, whether or not they truly had need of them. To this day, the articles were some of Katherine’s favorite possessions.

“Yeah, and she’s got great timin’, too! They’re sayin’ it’s supposed to snow this weekend,” Romeo informed her. Katherine fought keep her expression carefully neutral.

“Is that so?” she asked as though she had yet to hear.

“Yep, read it in the pape this mornin’. Supposed to be a real heavy one, too,” he said seriously. “Still, the park’ll look real nice when its through.”

“It always does,” Katherine agreed. She couldn’t quite keep the sigh out of her tone, and Romeo turned to her in confusion for a moment before realization seemed to come over him.

“I already said that, didn’t I?” He asked, frowning. Katherine nodded with a wince, but didn’t say anything. “Damn. I forgot again.” She squeezed his arm to show she didn’t mind. The pair continued their walk in silence for a while, both lost in thought.

Despite being the first to return from Europe, Romeo was perhaps the most noticeably changed. He still looked the same, but he seemed younger somehow, reminding Katherine forcefully of their teenage years when they had first met. Romeo had been such a flirt then, if a bit clumsy at it until he grew up some, and he had always been recognized as rather handsome. By the time he had reached twenty and had grown well into both traits, and could have had his pick of girls. Now, all of that childhood clumsiness had returned, and along with them new quirks had arisen. His balance was fragile at best, his movements often sudden and jerky, and his speech was just a bit too slow to be considered “normal.” His flirting no longer held the same smooth charm, fragmented and awkward, and it broke Katherine’s heart to see his expression every time he tried speaking to a girl and she rushed away. And of course, there was the memory loss, things slipping his mind nearly as soon as they entered. She knew that this was what upset him the most.

“Did I say it a long time back?” He finally asked.

“About ten minutes,” she admitted. He deflated even further. Desperate to remove the dejected look from his face, she continued. “Still, that’s longer than you normally go for something so small! You’ve definitely been making improvements.”

Romeo looked at her out of the corner of his eye, tentatively hopeful. “Ya really think so?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” she assured him. Romeo broke into a wide grin, always one to return quickly to a cheerful mood.

“I been tryin’ real hard to remember stuff like that, and the doc says I might get better at it over time. The last surgery helped a lot with the balancin’ problems, so I was thinkin’ maybe it might have helped with my rememberin’, too!”

Katherine didn’t bother trying to correct him; if it kept the smile on his face it was worth the scientific fallacy. “And its not as if you forget the most important things. Like our walks; you’re always here for them; you haven’t once forgotten,” she pointed out.

“Of course I ain’t! How could I ever forget a date with a pretty lady?” he gasped, one hand over his heart to feign shock. They both laughed at that, perhaps a bit harder than the joke actually deserved.

“You are getting better, Romeo. It’s just going to take time,” Katherine said when she caught her breath.

He nodded, gazing out around them again at the park. “That’s real good then. Maybe come spring I’ll be better at keepin’ track of stuff.”

“And maybe come spring, I’ll be able to feel my fingers again!” Katherine exclaimed, rubbing her hands together to warm them up. “I am all but fed up with this weather!”

“You’d better get used to it,” Romeo said with another laugh. “Its only December, this cold ain’t goin’ nowhere. Y’know, they’re sayin’ its supposed to snow again this weekend,” he commented. The levity swept out of Katherine’s chest, snatched up by the chilly wind and carried off. This time, however, she made certain not to show it. The smile stayed firmly fixed upon her face.

“I hope it does; everything looks so much more hopeful after it snows.”

#newsies #newsies fanfic #katherine plummer #romeo #welcome home #bandstand #jack kelly #davey jacobs #racetrack higgins #spot conlon #darcy newsies #jack kelly x katherine plummer #kat's writing

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entergamingxp · 4 years

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The Last of Us Part II’s Shannon Woodward Discusses Playing Dina and the Importance of Having a Sense of Humor in the Post-Apocalypse

June 24, 2020 8:10 AM EST

The Last of Us Part II’s Shannon Woodward talks about being allowed to keep some of her jokes and how humor can deal with trauma within the game.

It feels strange to not start off the beginning of my The Last of Us Part II article with how long before we get our hands on the game and its release date as it’s finally here. In what felt like forever, The Last of Us Part II hit home last Friday, 19 June to much anticipation. Many of us right now have either completed the game or are slowly making their way through it, absorbing every detail, moments, and becoming accustomed to Dina, Ellie’s love interest. Shannon Woodward who voices Dina weighs in on the significance of humor within such a dark game and being a huge fan of The Last of Us before getting her role in Part 2.

You may have already seen Shannon in the highly acclaimed futuristic Western-themed TV show Westworld where she plays programmer Elsie Hughes in season one and you may also have noticed in the show’s credits that The Last of Us Part II‘s co-writer Halley Gross wrote some episodes, too. In an interview with Variety, Woodward talked about being a huge fan of The Last of Us and having already played the game three times before knowing anything about the sequel. Reminiscing about the first time she played The Last of Us, Woodward says that she was in her house with her younger brother, and whilst trying to get to sleep, she could hear him crying loudly.

“You’ve gotta stop, it’s so loud.” And he was sobbing, he was like “I’m so sorry! Shannon, this game is so crazy” Woodward continues “This girl — you spend all this time trying to protect her, and I just killed everyone!” I was like, “What are you talking about?” That was the first time I’d heard about the game, and he was like “You’ve gotta play it,” and I played it. It had a really profound effect on me.”

Woodward goes on to say that The Last of Us was the first time she’d “ever played a game that felt like it elevated the nature of storytelling that I’d ever experienced, in the sense that, when you watch a show or movie or read a novel, you’re an observer.” and also the first time a game made her feel like she was “making active choices as a player, so I felt complicit in those decisions. In the same way that a magician makes you pick a card, and you really feel like you chose that card, but that’s why they’re really good at their jobs. And that just really felt profound to me.”

It’s not unusual for people who have worked together previously to then run into each other at industry get-togethers so seeing Halley Gross again was almost like the stars aligned for Woodward. During one of these such parties, Woodward asked Gross what she was currently up to with Gross replying that she was working with Naughty Dog. Being a self-proclaimed gamer and a fan of The Last of Us, Woodward asked Gross excitedly if she was working on The Last of Us 2.

“She just went really pale and was like, “I can’t talk about it!” And I was like, “Oh my god, I am such a big fan. You don’t have to say anything, but just tell [writer/director] Neil Druckmann that I’d die to have a line in the game.” Woodward continues “And we went back and forth for a couple months and her being like, “Oh, he really likes ‘Westworld,’” and I was like, “I really like everything he’s ever done,” until a few months later, when she was like, “There is a role, but you have to audition.” And I was like, “Oh my god, you’re going to let me audition?” So then I auditioned, and then they hired me, and that’s how I like to say I stalked my way into being part of the game.”

Throughout the interview, Woodward talks about how amazing Ashley’s (Ellie) performance was and how much realism she brought to the character, so much so that it made Woodward believe that Ashley lived in this world in a real way. For the longest time, players have known that The Last of Us Part II would be a dark and grim place but in the interview, Woodward touches on the importance of still maintaining a sense of humor even in the character’s darkest moments. “In a lot of post-apocalyptic stories, I feel like people really lose their sense of humor.” Woodward says “People are really focused on, like, “It’s a hard life,” and yeah, but that’s been their entire life. People are still people, even when things are incredibly difficult.”

“I’ve talked with Neil a lot about what I said earlier about general humor and what makes people feel whole is how they deal with trauma, and I think a lot of the ways people deal with trauma is through levity.” Woodward states “And obviously within reason, but I think when it’s there, it’s not only a sense of release, but it makes people feel really human.”

Woodward was also allowed to keep some of her own jokes within the game after Neil Druckmann finally gave in to Woodward and allowed her to let loose in the studio. “So there were definitely places like that where I would think of a joke and I’d say, “come on, just let me say it!” And then they would. And there were some times in the booth, in the dialogue, they would’ve written jokes and they’d be like, “all right, Shannon you can have 15 seconds to go ahead and roll on your own jokes,” and some of them made it in.

Naturally, a game with hard-hitting topics and out of the box thinking that many developers shy away from, The Last of Us Part II has and will continue to divide players. You only need to look at how it got review bombed before most of them had the chance to play it or even finish it, but Woodward believes that The Last of Us Part II will have “a myriad of responses to it” and that she thinks that that is purely “a testament to what I think is really special when people have a visceral reaction, and I think there’s a lot of visceral reaction, and I think that’s exciting.” continuing “And I hope people enjoy it. I played the game for the first time a couple of months ago and I’m still thinking about it, and I love the game. But it’s a lot to think about. It’s a lot to digest.”

The Last of Us Part II is available exclusively for PS4 right now, and you can order the game on Amazon.

This post contains affiliate links where DualShockers gets a small commission on sales. Any and all support helps keep DualShockers as a standalone, independent platform for less-mainstream opinions and news coverage.

June 24, 2020 8:10 AM EST

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/06/the-last-of-us-part-iis-shannon-woodward-discusses-playing-dina-and-the-importance-of-having-a-sense-of-humor-in-the-post-apocalypse/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=the-last-of-us-part-iis-shannon-woodward-discusses-playing-dina-and-the-importance-of-having-a-sense-of-humor-in-the-post-apocalypse

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ramajmedia · 5 years

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007: 10 Things We Want From Bond 25 | ScreenRant

The twenty-fifth Bond film finally received a proper title on August 20th: No Time To Die. The movie promises to follow up directly where Spectre left off. Other than the impressive cast list, featuring Rami Malek from Mr. Robot and Bohemian Rhapsody, little is known about the plot.

Related: Licensed to Kill: James Bond's 10 Most Brutal Kills, Ranked

Whatever director Cary Joji Fukunaga has planned, he's gotta a lot of work to do in order to live up to the franchise's high standard. Because fans are still in the dark about most of the film, the following list will detail ten things we want No Time to Die to include.

10 More Fun

Skyfall took itself way too seriously, but the tonal shift seemed to pay off, judging by its warm critical reception and over one billion dollar box office intake. This success got some fans worried that the series would continue its dour, somber trajectory. Spectre was similarly grim, but had more levity to it.

Related: James Bond's 10 Most Iconic Quotes

The set pieces were more fantastic, people cracked cringe-inducing puns, and there was even a silent muscle-bound villain in the vein of Jaws and Oddjob. Here's hoping No Time to Die remembers that Bond films have a lighthearted air to them. It doesn't mean they have to be silly, but it still is an action-adventure spy film.

9 More Gadgets

Part of the franchise's appeal is seeing what tools the always helpful Q will gift upon 007 for his next mission. Sometime they aren't gifts, but trinkets from the lab the spy takes for himself without permission. The more recent Bond films have been lacking in this department, really skimping out on the innovative apparatuses.

Related: James Bond: Q's 10 Most Impressive Gadgets In James Bond, Ranked

Perhaps it's due to the more serious nature of these outings and the unrealistic gadgets take away from the grounded tone. At the end of the day though, people expect these inventions from the film, and the producers do no favors when they deprive the audience of them.

8 Female Villain With An Intimidating Physical Presence

Female Bond villains are few and far between. It is even more seldom when they have combat prowess, proving a worthy foe for the secret agent. Xenia Onatopp from Goldeneye and May Day from A View to a Kill come to mind as women who could take out Bond in a fight, but that's only two over the course of twenty-four movies.

Related: 007: The 10 Best Bond Movie Henchmen, Ranked

Rami Malek is already cast as the villain, but what about his number one muscle? Blofeld had Hinx, played by Dave Bautista, and this is an opportunity to get a woman in as a deadly assassin.

7 No More "Bond Is Old" Subtext

2006's Casino Royale detailed Bond's first mission as double-0 agent. Fast forward six years to Skyfall and all of a sudden Daniel Craig is the oldest Bond yet, and the characters never let him forget it. It's done better in Spectre, where the perceived archaic nature of his job works into the plot, but it is ultimately unnecessary. Not every movie in the franchise from here on out has to remind the viewers it's almost a sixty year old series; nor does it constantly have to reassert its relevance for modern times.

6 Lea Seydoux

One of the big surprises from Spectre was Lea Seydoux's role. Not only was she a delight in the part, but it was also one of the few times audiences see the beloved spy form a real relationship. The French actress is already confirmed for No Time to Die, though there's no telling how big her role is. Given that Bond is pulled back into the spy world, one immediately thinks a terrible fight will befall on Seydoux's character during the film. If the worst does happen, she better at least get a decent amount of screen time.

5 Better Pacing

The two films directed by Sam Mendes also happen to be two of the longest films in the franchise. The average Bond film is about two hours, and a couple of others almost get up to two and a half hours, but there's something about the pacing of Skyfall and Spectre that really makes the audience feel its run time. Casino Royale, for example, is about as long as Skyfall, but it moves along at a brisker pace, despite being on a smaller scale and using fewer locations.

4 Awesome Theme Song

With a new Bond movie comes a new theme song. It's always exciting when news drops about the artist receiving the honor of either writing or interpreting somebody else's composition. They are hit and miss, but when they land it is a monumental victory. Adele and Sam Smith did decent jobs with their respective songs, but the last theme to make a big impact was Chris Cornell's "You Know My Name" from Casino Royale. If they can capture that feeling again, they have another hit in the bag.

3 Less Misoginyst

Spectre was on the right path in this respect, and all signs already point to No Time to Die leaving behind the more questionable ways of Bond's past. Hopefully there will be no more unexpected jumping into the shower with a complete stranger like in Skyfall or blackmailing a masseuse like in Thunderball.

Related: James Bond: 10 Things From The Bond Films That Have Aged Poorly

Bond is kind of a bad person, and his treatment of women is a symptom of this, but it's the film's job not to celebrate it. That's not to say he cannot get steamy with the ladies, but just make sure nothing about it feels uncomfortable for the audience.

2 More Christoph Waltz

Long-time fans of the series were delighted to see Bond's number one nemesis Ernst Stavro Blofeld return to the series after more than forty years (not including his unnamed appearance in For Your Eyes Only.) Christoph Waltz knocked the role out of the park, and we sincerely hope he comes back for a second run.

Related: 10 James Bond Villains, Ranked By How Evil Their Plans Were

As of now he is not confirmed for a role, but our fingers are crossed that he at least has a cameo. Nobody wants him to steal Rami Malek's thunder, but there is enough space in the movie for two villains, especially if it is going to be as long as Spectre.

1 Play Down The Twist From Spectre

While Blofeld should have a part, they would be wise to play down the twist the villain reveals while he is torturing Bond. Their childhood connection is foolish enough, but the way they hide it from the audience is lazy. The movie follows Bond, and he recognizes this man immediately, but the film doesn't let the audience know until the end. Had Bond not realized it until that moment, it would have still been a poor twist, but at least it wouldn't have felt like the movie was purposefully hiding information from the audience. Ultimately, there was no need for it and Blofeld could have just been this awesome, deliciously evil villain with no prior connection to 007.

Next: Shaken, But Alive: 10 Times James Bond Should Have Totally Been Dead

source https://screenrant.com/10-things-want-bond-25/

#screenrant

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willowbilly · 8 years

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Title: Leave Me Alone, Let Me Be (Ch 11/?) Fandom: Daredevil (TV) Relationship: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock/Franklin “Foggy” Nelson/Karen Page Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Chapter Word Count: 4,118

I finally updated this thing after an approximate eternity and seeing as I’m inordinately proud of myself for doing so I decided to start posting chapters on Tumblr, so here ya go! The entirety of LMALMB (or as I like to call it, “The Fuck-Off Fic”) is now officially over 50k words of Matt’s poor but hopefully improving mental health and slow burn OT4 (avocadokastle? mattfoggykarenfrank? mattfoggykastle? kastledevil...fog?) rife with fluff and pining. There are a ton of additional tags on Ao3 which you might wanna check out just be safe, and warnings for this specific chapter includes themes and discussion of suicidal ideation, depression, grief/mourning, an implied minor dissociative episode of a non-PoV character, and very brief imagery of canonical past trauma. Chapter One can be found here!

The long-awaited Saturday rolls around.

Karen lets Frank sleep over again the night before so he doesn't have to hike there from his safe house, though he takes the couch this time and tosses and turns all damn night on the precariously narrow, saggy cushions. Ends up fleeing with the dawn to do his usual morning circuit of the streets, which takes a while, but still not long enough.

Nelson likewise shows up hours early, buzzing with anticipation which Frank sees spread to Karen as easily as if from one cell in an organism to another and which he's hard pressed not to succumb to himself. He unwisely drinks a couple beers to kill the feeling of queasy hope and holds tight to his misgivings instead, camped out in Matt's corner chair with his laptop as Karen and Nelson put on some smooth jazz and stumble through increasingly tense matches of chess as evening creeps over them. The whole day is spent wrapped up in stifling wait, a waiting bogged down with the same airless quiet of a funeral speech where you'd feel too guilty to dare risk a glance at your watch to check the time but too detached to invest yourself in actual mourning.

They all stand too quickly when the knock comes.

Nelson—Foggy, Frank's gotta get into the habit of first names with the guy now that he's not just “one of the lawyers” to him, shoots Frank a pointed glance the moment Karen opens her door and Red's on the other side, perking up all happy and victorious and see? because he thinks his old buddy is really there with them, present inside that thick, funny skull of his, standing there in his rumpled suit and his beat-up blind-person shades.

There's no way to tell him, with Red right there, what Frank knows, what he can feel way down thrumming underneath him like the vibrations from a mortar reaching up through the rubber of his boot soles; this is too soon to be anything other than a polite facade of progress, too soon to allow Red time to get his head in the game. Hell, besides being all for show, the very artificiality of this'll probably knock Red right off track before he even has the chance to start, start him faking again to ease their fears.

But it's not like Red really could've been allowed to come back to them completely in his own time, either.

Frank had thought, at first, that he'd be able to keep tabs on him while he's out, that maybe they could manage to keep in contact and help him out organically, without enforcing specific dates and times to meet like a trio of concerned parole officers with their charge, but there hasn't been hide nor hair of him on the streets since they'd dragged him off them to recover from the flu and Red hadn't tried to get in touch with either of the others before tonight, the agreed-upon date for when he absolutely had to, which, again, raises the thought that he's set out to do all of this for them rather than for himself.

And just the other day he was trying to convince them that Red was fine out in the snow, doing what he wants. Which... they can't make him not do what he wants, so he figures his point stands.

Frank can't tell if Karen and Foggy realize that they've picked the less bad option out of a pair of bad options, if they mistakenly think that that this situation already feels so stagnant because it's like a lull before enough energy builds up for them to really start to roll in the right direction, instead of what it really is: just stagnation, itself. If they can tell that they're still balancing on the peak of that hill, that they— that Red could still end up tumbling on backwards with the barest shift of the wind.

But none of them have a better solution. Frank very well isn't any sort of damn expert on this shit.

He thinks, looking at the way Karen cradles Red's elbow, leaning into him to nudge him towards Ne— Foggy, that even if they don't think it, they feel it; that basic flaw inherent to any way they approach this. The gravity tugging at their polite little balancing act. The two of them wouldn't be alive if they didn't have the right instincts to divine the sort of duplicity which so easily insinuates itself into your own mind, wrapping you up in comforting apathy, telling you not to worry, to let things go and leave them as they are.

Hell, if they were the kind to give in to that sort of thinking Red would be dead already.

So maybe they are on the right track. Frank's been wrong before, that's for damn sure. And doing nothing is the same as giving up. Quitting.

Like fucking hell.

“You all right, Frank?”

It's Red, modulating his monotone into something with just enough intonation to pass as life, his face appearing plastic as he raises his eyebrows, pulls the corner of his mouth up. A near-perfect impression of true expression trying its damnedest to avoid the uncanny valley and failing.

“Are you?” Frank asks, trying to deflect attention from what was probably a protracted period of worried glaring on his part.

Red shrugs, the half-smile stretching wider, but before he can visibly muster the energy to verbally respond he's saved, as he has been so many times before, by Foggy cutting in.

“Did they just passive aggressively express concern for each other?” he whisper-shouts to Karen, leaning over in front of Red and theatrically shielding the side of his lower face with his hand.

“Baby steps,” Karen replies, in the same fashion. “The purging of toxic masculinity... it's a process, you know?”

“So you mean at some point they'll graduate to just aggression, none of the passive?” Foggy jokes, voice rising. “Won't that be dangerous?”

Red slaps him lightly with the back of his hand, his smile momentarily solidifying into a glimmer of real emotion, soft and tired, but there... before fading again.

Frank feels his jaw clench, and looks away.

Karen must catch it because the hand not at Matt's elbow stretches out to alight on Frank's shoulder, bridging the gap and bringing their whole group into a sort of huddle, Foggy immediately leaning in with a grin and looping his arms around Frank and Matt's necks. Matt is back to focusing on Frank, the echo of bemusement pinching at his eyebrows; of course he'd heard his teeth grind. Probably wondering what the hell Frank's problem is.

Frank's wondering that, too.

“Sorry,” Red murmurs, apropos of nothing, and ducks away to drift towards the couch, Foggy's hand hanging outstretched in the air for a moment as though reaching after him, his smile flickering as his ever-present undercurrent of worry threatens to break through.

Karen shakes her head and smooths her hair and then her skirt, clearing her throat and pointing awkwardly towards the kitchen with a matched set of finger guns and a click of the tongue before subsequently following her own lead and going to retrieve the food.

Frank steers Foggy, still hanging around his neck, to the couch as well, nudges him down. Red stands for a bit longer, clearly torn between trying to liberate his armchair from Frank's laptop and letting it slide. He finally sits his indecisive ass down next to Foggy as Karen kicks the fridge shut and bustles over to set the veggie tray on the coffee table, pulling his legs in tight to give her more room.

“I thought... this'd be more casual?” Karen half-asks, gesturing to the tray of raw produce arrayed around a veritable pond of ranch dressing. They all take a moment to respectfully consider the vegetables and then as one just as respectfully dismiss them. The background jazz devolves into a soft, unbroken succession of crashing, the endless, silvery shivering of an interminably prolonged cymbals solo. Karen screws up her face, stares down at her wildly unpopular veggie tray, and with a chagrined grimace mutters to herself, “...Yeah. Not going so hot.”

“I bring down the mood,” Red offers, and he's so flat of affect that it's hard to tell whether he's aiming for levity or not.

“It's not like that's your fault,” Foggy says, and he is going for lighthearted but even Frank can tell that for once it's exactly the wrong thing to say. The words But it is my fault are practically buzzing in giant neon letters over Red's head in unsaid response.

“I, um. I also have some potato chips somewhere!” Karen rallies, wringing her hands, but she doesn't make any move to get them. Too nervous to leave, maybe. “Or we could make some actual food. Like, a meal? Dinner?”

“Those're good to have every now and then,” Foggy says, with a sidelong glance at Red which absolutely fails to even exist within the same dimensional realm as subtlety. So much for those cautious interrogation plans he and Karen had sketched out. “Meals. Made of food.”

Red doesn't react at all. Might not even be listening.

Frank starts jiggling on of his legs and resists the urge to start pacing. A meandering progression of cordial saxophone notes spills forth from the radio speakers, the cadence like that of an alternate, more flowing conversation, overheard.

“Frank and I made some grilled cheeses the other day, at my place,” Foggy says, forging desperately onward. “Added some sandwich meats and stuff. They turned out really great.”

“You mean a panini,” Red says. His voice is so soft, lips so still, that Frank almost misses it.

“Well, if you wanna be pedantic about it,” Foggy replies, brightening slightly at this sign of life and tipping over into Red so he can affectionately knock shoulders with him.

Red sways with the movement, letting Foggy draw him in but not expending any energy to either meet him halfway or to avoid him. “You add things to a grilled cheese, you have a grilled sandwich which happens to have cheese. A panini.”

“Yeah, you got me there, buddy,” Foggy says, dimming a few watts again as he concedes unnecessarily to Red's pointless insistence on semantics.

Red cocks his head, reading the room. Karen shifts, sidling closer to Frank's side until his restless leg rustles against her skirt and he stills; they both have their arms crossed. Foggy looks away, off into the dark expanse of the television screen. Red turns his head to the other side, birdlike. Reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. Frank can just see that his eyes are shut beneath, his lashes fanned over shadows no less deep than when last he'd seen them.

“Sorry,” Red repeats, voice completely dull, now.

Karen and Foggy both hear it, share a glance. Frank huffs as he intercepts it, drops his eyes resentfully to the floor so Foggy can't hold his gaze the way he's trying to.

“I don't want you to be sorry,” says Karen, carefully.

Red suddenly slams his fist against the tabletop and she flinches hard, Foggy likewise startling away, pushed by reflex into Frank's side. No one moves for a moment as Red straightens, thoughtfully flexing his hand and cradling it in the other as though to keep himself from lashing out again, face expressionless.

“Do I get to be sorry for that?” he asks.

“If you're trying to prove a point you're going to have be clearer about it or actually break my table,” Karen snaps.

“I mean. Do I get to be sorry for things I do. For who I am. Am I even allowed to try and show remorse for who I am.”

“There's a difference between remorse and being a dick,” she says. “What is this even the fuck about?”

“Call it the quandary of living as a flawed being and being self-aware enough to regret it.”

Foggy laughs tiredly and falls forwards over his knees, rests his head in his hands.

“You... you don't have to be sorry for being you,” Karen insists.

“And if this is who I am?” Red says, waving towards the table as if it displays the sense memory of violence there for all to see.

“What you do isn't who you are,” Karen tries, flustered, now, the flush high on her cheeks and her body a tight line of tension along Frank's side.

The first side to lose their cool in a debate is always the losing one. Red, Frank's sure, knows this, and Red can't even muster up the wherewithal to give a shit, much less shout. One point to depression, it seems.

“If actions don't illustrate a person's character then what does?” Red says. States, rather. Detached and cerebral, like he's musing about human experience in a philosophy class and not winding them all into some nonsensical debate about whether or not he has their permission to be sorry for existing, and giving off not-so-slight hints which suggest he's toying with the idea of making them give their permission should he not already have it.

“That's— you know that's not what I meant,” Karen sputters.

Red shrugs, sags back into the couch, stretching out the long line of his throat as his face lifts up towards the ceiling, head lolling wearily on the backrest.

Frank hates the sight of his throat exposed like that, his body slack and slouching, open to any attack. Hates how it so effortlessly communicates how little Red even cares to protect himself in their presence, hates how his own mind leaps to razors rasping against jawlines, the edge of a blade sliding snug over the carotid artery, the taste of skin and the sound of breath hitching.

God. Not the time. Not the place. And for the foreseeable future, not the fucking person.

He presses into Karen's slight frame, her comforting solidity driving out the inarticulate wants ghosting through his head. She grabs his wrist in a snake-strike fumble, gripping fit to bruise, and it's only then that he realizes that he's clenching his fists hard enough to dig his nails into his own flesh and consciously relaxes them.

Foggy sighs, goes to lay back the same as Red. Inches nearer again, the couch cushions bowing under their weight and pressing them closer. Red doesn't pull away when Foggy places his head on Red's shoulder, nor when Foggy laces their fingers together.

After a moment Red's fingers twitch, and curl around Foggy's in turn.

“She means you don't have to be ashamed for taking up space,” Foggy whispers into Red's chest.

Red's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, but otherwise his demeanor stays as vacant as ever. “But I do, though. I don't know how not to.”

“Then if... that's a part of you, then that's okay. It doesn't make it right, or... or okay for you. But I mean. I don't think that about you. I'm always happy you're here. Even when I'm mad, or you make me sad, I... I wouldn't be able to face the world knowing there was a Matt-shaped space out there that was... that was emptied out. You got that?”

“No,” Red lies, his brow pinching and hand twitching around Foggy's as he does so. “Quite frankly, I'm not even sure what we're talking about.”

Foggy watches their hands for a long moment, the very picture of downcast mercy. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. Just to let Red off the hook. “Nothing really makes sense, here.”

“That doesn't make talking any less important,” Karen says, the firmness back in her voice. “Whatever you have to say. Even if it doesn't make sense, I think it's better that you do say it. You're valid as you are.”

“Valid, huh?” Red says, actually smiling faintly.

“Valid,” Karen emphasizes.

“A nice sentiment. Kinda cliché, though, isn't it?”

Foggy jostles their joined hands in exasperation, says, “Man, lay off, we are trying our best here and past school and job awareness sensitivity campaigns are all we have to rely on.”

“Your sentiments are valid,” Red intones solemnly.

Foggy bumps him in retribution.

Red zeroes in on Frank when he makes the mistake of breathing out a chuckle, his head rolling towards him.

“You've been quiet, Frank,” he observes.

This is probably the moment when Frank should say something passive, pleasant. Something to keep the mood from souring again, what with this sudden, mysterious flip towards deescelation. So, quite to his own bemusement, that’s what he does.

“I'm just soakin' in you bein' around. Puzzlin' it out. S'nice.”

“Nice?” Red echoes.

“Yeah, Red,” Frank says, falling back on a more combative tone, gruffly and aggressively teasing, to try and distance himself from his own admission. “What, that so hard to believe? That I can just feel like seein' you's nice?”

“Yeah, actually,” Red says, and Frank has to be careful not to grind his teeth again. “It's not... I know you're not lying. But.”

Therein lies the fucking crux of the matter. The mindset which keeps popping up again and again, the weight at Red's ankle, dragging him under. That silent But I can't bring myself believe you.

Thus the outburst, the second-guessing and the testing.

He's waiting, resigned, for them to take it all back. Their promise of support, their understanding, their... their love. Waiting for his dread to be vindicated, for when he can finally give up without letting any of them down because they will have become tired of him, of dealing with him, they will have moved on and freed him from laboring under the restrictive yoke of their concern, their care. And in the meantime, while he's trying and failing to convince himself that they mean what they say when they comfort and encourage him, he's pushing their boundaries, dropping hints, seeing if he can bring about the inevitable after all, prove to himself that he's not paranoid for doubting.

It reminds Frank of the utter disbelief he'd felt at the sight of his family's blood on the grass, technicolor-bright red on green, the ravaged brain matter blown out of his daughter's skull, clumping gory and wet in the silky sweep of her long brown hair, the barrettes at her temples still clipped neatly in place. After he'd woken up he'd cherished an infinitesimal trace of that disbelief in the core of his furious heart, feeling it prick at him every time he was alone and things were still and quiet. How it'd sharpened into a needlepoint pain whenever Karen talked with him, this queasy, undead yearning. He'd just wanted that voice, that nagging what-if to be proven right, because the reality was wrong, somehow, the alignment of the world inexplicably, ephemerally crooked.

But both of these stubborn, siren-call whispers, his grief-stricken nostalgia, Red's relentless self-defeatism, are the lies which their minds dress up as truths. Wolves decked out as sheep.

There's no way he knows of killing such suspicions. His still crop up sometimes like wistful specters in his dreams, and Red's, now... Red's aren't... his're something like a fucking personality trait of his. Built-in. These aren't questions which can be so easily carved out of a man like so many malignant tumors.

And of any of them, it shouldn't be Frank who realizes this shit about Red first. He is not equipped. It really shouldn't be him.

Fuck, nothing should ever be up to him.

“You'll get there,” Frank says, lies, like an idiot, spouting a sweet 'n soft kinda falsehood right after Red's reminded him he can tell whether it's the truth or not. But Red's the epitome of falsehood in and of himself, a walking oxymoron. A diviner of truth, a righteous, honest man who can't help but act out false prophecies, compelled over and over again to strive for the worst, in himself and in others, to hold the greatest faith in unfounded skepticism.

Red's face crumples, betrayed, but just as he makes to draw into himself Karen shoves Frank over to make room for herself on the couch. “Scooch over,” she demands, and there's a sort of chain reaction of rearrangement, Frank standing and reseating himself as Foggy shimmies over, pushing Red tightly into the armrest and releasing an oomph as Karen throws herself back into the cushions, her remarkably hard, angular hipbone shoved sharply into Frank's, crowding him bodily up against Foggy in turn. It’s a very snug fit.

“This couch is not nearly roomy enough for this,” Foggy complains, slightly short of breath.

“I could go,” Red suggests diffidently.

“Never,” Foggy declares, momentarily releasing Red's hand so as to hook their arms together and then grab his hand even more firmly with an emphatic little shake. “We are chilling.”

“Forever?” Red asks.

“Well. Until we wanna order something and have to get up,” Karen says. “That sounds okay with everyone, right? Matt?”

Red clenches his free hand against his knee, a flex of bruised knuckles, then lets go, curls his arm in to rest over his stomach with a soft, emotionless sigh, sinking deeper into the couch as the air leaves him. “Yeah, all right,” he says.

His breathing is very slow and shallow, but as all four of them sit there they begin to breathe in sync, Foggy stroking his thumb over Red's fingers in time to the deep rise and fall rhythm, their chests expanding on inhale, pushing arms and ribcages into each other like their bodies are trying to meld together, and then contracting on exhale, relaxing a little more and falling a little closer each time, an endless, oceanic pulse of connection flowing through them as artfully wandering piano notes drift soothingly around the living room, accompanied by a low, smoky female voice crooning some painfully apt, poetic pap about love.

“I don't want to fuck this up,” Matt says, flat on his back on the cool cement so as not to disturb the warm, purring weight of Nina, dozing on his chest in a regal little bundle, facing him with her paws tucked neatly beneath her. “But I think I already have. Or I will.” He'd fucking— he'd hit a table. To see how they'd react, if that was all it'd take. He hadn't been able to f— it was like he'd been on autopilot, as if he couldn't fucking feel anything, and so it'd seemed reasonable. To just be an asshole, to act like he hadn't given his word to try not to just say fuck everything. He'd fucking ruined it.

His breath hitches and he reins it in harshly, falls back into a meditative breathing technique to keep from scaring the as-yet unperturbed cat with his hysteria. The fur behind her ears is so fine that it catches on his callouses as he skims over her shape, mapping her out, and he cups a hand gently over the steep, delicate curve of her spine, resisting the urge to crush her to his chest to gentle the terrible tenderness slavering in him like a starving thing. The patch of skin Foggy's thumb had rubbed over still tingles.

Nina is, again, a welcome anchor, soft and heavy and undemanding enough to hold him in the present. Tangible, alive. The same way the other three felt to him, when they were squeezed together on Karen's uncomfortable couch, listening to jazz, ignoring the sour pall he'd brought down over everybody from the moment he stepped foot in her apartment.

For a while, there, he'd fooled himself into thinking that everything was okay.

They can't have forgiven him so easily. It wouldn't be right for them to let this slide.

“How'll you know if you've fucked it up?” Melvin asks, from all the way on the other end of the workshop. He's leaning against his workbench and courteously not looking in Matt's direction, careful not to accidentally catch a glimpse of his face.

“I—” Matt starts, and then he stops himself, trying to force his hyperbolic thoughts back in order as he had his breath. Tries to assess things objectively.

What would be the absolute sign of failure? Concrete, clear-cut. Independent of his own atrocious judgment.

“They'll tell me.”

“So if they tell you, then you'll know,” Melvin concludes. “But they haven't yet, so you're fine.”

Matt lets loose an ugly laugh, again stifling himself for Nina's sake as her tail begins to flick in reproach. Even if he manages to keep from purposely sabotaging things it'll still just turn out to be a matter of time, then. A waiting game.

He sucks at those.

#daredevil #fanfic #daredevil fanfic #dd ot4 #avocadokastle #bc screw it i like that one best #my fic

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