#pretty sure a pack of friendly ghost dogs would have the same reaction

[minty-bunni]

Cujo needs some ghost puppy friends.

Amity Park could have a pack of ghost dogs that travel the city doing dog stuff and begging random citizens to play with/pet them.

Many people who cannot have a dog and want one love the ghost dogs because they will randomly show up as a group looking for bellyrubs and games of fetch.

[touchingoldmagic]

Day 28 - Slimer

Day 28 of the 30 Day Ghostbusters Challenge!

"I can't believe you agreed to set this up once a month, man." Winston propped his hip up against one of basement consoles, after a quick check to make sure he wouldn't be leaning on any switches or levers. He had snagged a box of Cheez-Its from the kitchen and was now watching Ray with something between fascination and boredom. It was a slow day.

"Aw, there's no harm in it." Ray smiled as he made minute adjustments to the console. "And it's really a fascinating look at spirit culture. That spirits can HAVE a culture! And a social network! Heck, we could write a great parapsychology paper solely on the ramifications of forming a social structure with your own doppelganger from alternate dimensions."

Winston shook his head. He said, in a particularly dry tone, "I thought we already had plenty of excitement galloping across dimensions to reclaim a bunch of ghosts that escaped from containment and then dealing with a Chaos Goddess who decided to take all of us out in one swoop."

"It's been two months since then," Ray shrugged.

The Interspatial Teleportation Unit was a doorway that crossed dimensions. It was kept in the Ghostbusters basement, along with other equipment mere mortal men didn't need to know about. This was the second month Ray had attempted this meeting, and the coordinates were well known to him by now, so it went faster this time. Soon the space inside the doorway crackled to life, filling with pink light and sending a rosy glow over the entire basement.

"I'm doing Dimension 68-R first," Ray reported. Out from the doorway popped a small green ghost with a round body and stick-like arms. Orange eyes blinked curiously and looked around, a gap-toothed grin on his face.

The ghost from 68-R didn't pay Ray and Winston a lot of attention, other than to wave at them and call out a burbled greeting. He made one zip around the basement, casting a wary eye on the Containment Unit, then parked himself in front of the portal, obviously eager to greet his fellow spirits.

Ray called up Dimension 68-E next, and again a small ghost zipped through immediately, this one a paler shade of green. The two ghosts greeted each other in a frenzied and high-pitched language that Ray found fascinating. Did ghosts have their own language? Were the two communicating with something more than mere auditory sounds and hand gestures?

The last time the portal sprang to life, it was tuned to Dimension 80-C. The third ghost answering to the name Slimer floated through the glowing portal. He had a deeper pitched voice than the other two, but seemed just as jovial. Then the portal deposited one last figure.

The tall blond that stepped through the doorway seemed quite out of place with the first three. He was entirely human (well, in appearance if not behavior). He wore a pale pink shirt and brown slacks, with a dark brown vest. But regardless, as soon as he stepped through, the three green ghosts circled around him, offering him slimy high fives. Kevin Beckman had been named "an honorary Slimer" after bonding with the green spirits during the Ghostbusters' last adventure, and now he joined the others in their monthly get-together.

The party headed upstairs without bother to wait for Ray to lead them. Well, they were all familiar with the layout of the firehouse, of course, as it was the same as their own. Ray grinned at Winston. "You coming?"

"I am not a babysitter, man."

"Suit yourself, but it's pretty neat."

Winston considered for a moment, realized he had nothing better to do, and then fell into step behind Ray as they followed the group upstairs.

They passed Janine's desk on the way upstairs. All three Slimers garbled a friendly greeting to her as they floated by. They could be overly affectionate with anyone, even Peck, so Ray wasn't sure if they were cognizant of the fact that she was a separate individual from the Janine Melnitz they knew in their own dimensions or not.

Kevin stopped in front of Janine's desk, placed a post-it note that said OURS on top of her whale paperweight, then continued on to the stairs. Janine removed the post-it note without looking up from her computer after he was gone.

Once upstairs, the parade stopped when they reached the lab area on the second floor. All three Slimers hovered around Kevin. They created a huddle and a low murmur came from the group as an intense debate started.

Winston raised his eyebrows at Ray, who stood back, watching with much amusement and offering no explanation.

Then the first Slimer, from 68-R, broke off from the pack. He took a deep, deep breath, squared his little shoulders, and then zipped across the lab as fast as he could. As he neared the observation tank, the large green spirit held inside it snarled and reached out as if it could grab him. Slimer shrieked and spun a 180 so fast he was a blur. He zipped back to the other Slimers and Kevin, panting as if reaching the end of a marathon.

The other Slimers congratulated the little spirit for his bravery. Then the next in the pack readied himself and shot across the lab toward the tank. He got much closer than the first Slimer, but still the frenzied reaction of the aggressive specter in holding frightened him enough that he broke off and returned to his group of friends.

It took Winston a minute, but he soon caught on. "You're kidding," he said to Ray. "This is all they do?"

"I think it's kinda cute," Ray replied, watching the third ghost get ready to go. "Didn't you and your friends used to dare each other to do stuff when you were kids?"

Winston's lips twisted into a nostalgic grin. Then the expression took on an ironic edge. "Yeah, but I hope I'm not still doing it when I'm dead."

Then it was the living member's turn. Kevin, with the entranced face of someone watching a fireworks show at an amusement park, crept up to the research tank on tiptoe. The ghost within gave him a warning snarl, already aggravated by the entire process. Kevin was undaunted. He lightly touched the glass just as the ghost within let out a jaw-dropping howl of rage. Ray and Winston winced at the high-pitched tone, and even Kevin flinched back, but the setback was only momentary. He held his fists over his head triumphantly as he walked back to his fellow Slimers, ignoring the continued snarling and snapping of the ghost in the glass.

The trio of ghosts unanimously concluded that Kevin was the winner. The especially rotund one, who had also come from Dimension 80-C, had an expression on his face that could perhaps be interpreted as pride, as if he was pleased that the hero of the day came from his own dimension.

Kevin beamed happily, not at all reacting negatively to the patches of green slime left on his shoulders and back as they all gathered around him to give him congratulatory pats. The receptionist gave a small acceptance speech in which he thanked his dog for not accompanying him because he would have, apparently, kept Kevin away from the danger of the imprisoned ghost.

Winston shook his head. "All right, I've been distracted enough. I should find something actually productive to do." He turned to leave, and then stopped short when he found one of the Slimers hovering over his shoulder. It wasn't easy to tell them apart, but he thought this was the one from 68-R.

Little buggers can move fast, Winston mused. The ghost extended his nose like a bloodhound and sniffed at the box of Cheez-Its Winston held.

"You want some, buddy?" he offered, somewhat interested in how domesticated the little spud acted.

"Ooooooo," said the little ghost, looking at the box with rapture. Winston held it out. He was already prepared to give him the entire thing. (He certainly wasn't going to eat from it after a ghost had gotten ectoplasm all over it, anyway.) He was not prepared, however, for Slimer to open his maw to a giant angle and engulf Winston's entire hand up to his elbow. Winston hastily released the box and pulled his arm back.

Slimer swallowed the Cheez-Its, box and all, and then burped. He squeaked out something that sounded like a thank you and floated back to his buddies, leaving Winston standing in the hall with his hand and arm completely drenched in slime. Ray's shoulders were shaking with held in laughter.

"You know, I really should have seen that coming," Winston sighed.

[haledamage]

It has a name!! The Cait Cousland/Nathaniel Howe fic I’ve been working on now has a name. The two chapters I had previously put on here are posted there now, as well as the 3rd chapter :D

"Amaranthine, the Jewel of the North. How charming," Anders said sourly as he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. "If you like rain. And mud."

A gentle spring rain fell around them, the kind that soaks the earth and helps things grow. Cathain turned her face up toward the sky and said softly, "I love Amaranthine. My brother and I stayed here every summer - right here, at the Vigil - and I wanted nothing more than to stay all year."

"Is that why you've been moping around the last month? Because you're so happy to be here?" He said flippantly. His grin was wide and lecherous, but it didn't reach his eyes, leaving them sharply considering and full of something approaching genuine concern.

She pressed her palm against the familiar, sun-warmed bark of a large ash tree, its branches laden with delicate new leaves. Her head was full of days gone by, of sitting under this tree with Delilah making flower crowns, of climbing up into its canopy until she couldn't be seen from the ground. She sounded sad to her own ears when she said, "It's full of ghosts now. Memories of what it was and could have been." Nathaniel shifted in her periphery, adjusting a strap on his armor, and she added, quietly, "Some more solid than others."

Whatever Anders saw on her face, he put a firm arm around her back and pulled her away from the tree and back into the center courtyard. He was stronger than she expected from a scrawny man in robes. "So tell me, Caitie--"

"Cait," she corrected gently. A shadow passed over Nathaniel's face as they walked past him, dwelling on his own ghosts. She tried to catch his eye, but he still stared at the tree.

Anders steered her attention back to him and her feet towards the road. She heard Oghren fall into step behind them with a clatter of armor; she didn't hear Nathaniel, but she knew he followed. Byron ran alongside them, stopping to sniff at anything he thought looked interesting. Anders kept talking, voice so cheerful it had to be an affectation. "Cait. When's the last time you were here?"

She pretended she had to think about it, giving herself time to keep any sadness or nostalgia out of her voice and eyes. "Eight years ago. Nathaniel left for the Free Marches, Delilah went to university, and Thomas left to… do whatever it was Thomas did. Chase skirts and drink wine, most likely. With them gone, there was no reason for me to visit."

She saw Anders connect the dots, hearing all the things she hadn't said. He was much smarter than he let on, and Cathain cursed herself for underestimating him. "Nathaniel him? You were childhood friends?" He pointed over their shoulders at Nate, who was pretending not to listen, watching the small crowd as if the keep were full of enemies. Maybe to him it was.

Anders turned to walk backwards, planting a hand on Cait's shoulder to keep from tripping. He raised his voice to ask "Why would anyone want to be in the Free Marches for eight years? What could you possibly have been doing?"

"Not chasing skirts and drinking wine," Nathaniel sneered. He must have moved closer or she doubted she'd have heard him. She refused to let herself look back at him.

Cait's mouth started moving without any input from her brain. "No, you prefer to pluck your women out of trees if I recall."

Nathaniel huffed, a sigh or a laugh. "Better than waiting for them to fall on you."

"Oh, I get it!" Anders announced, still watching Nathaniel with that same sharp scrutiny he'd given Cait before. "You two had a thing! That explains all the" he wiggled his fingers and his eyebrows "looks."

"I was under the impression we still had 'a thing,'" Cait muttered, hoping she was quiet enough that it didn't carry to Nathaniel, "but I guess that remains to be seen."

She risked a glance at Anders' face. His expression was a mix of compassion and a worrying amount of gleeful scheming.

She scrambled to change the subject. "Anders, you don't like dogs, rain, or mud, why are you even in Fereldan? Those are our three biggest exports."

Thankfully, Anders took the bait. He turned back around and stopped studying Nathaniel like he was trying to read his mind. "This may have escaped your notice, Cait, but I am an apostate."

Cathain linked her arm with his as they walked. She could feel the bones in his elbow and forearm clearly under the soft linen of his robes. She made a note to increase his rations until he gained back the weight he'd lost on the run; he made a note of her noticing. Then she smiled at him and said, "Yes, but you could be an apostate just the same in Antiva, or Rivain, or the Free Marches."

He put a hand to his chest, dramatically offended. "Are you telling me to leave? We're just getting to know each other."

Cait laughed. "Against my better judgement I'm growing rather fond of you. I'd rather you don't leave, I'm just saying you can. If you want to." She squeezed his arm. "The Vigil is not meant to be another cage."

Anders stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, expression raw and broken and honest. Cait wondered at how bad his life had truly been beyond his offhand stories of Circle escapes, if such an innocuous comment got a reaction like this. She wondered if he'd ever had a friend before. She wanted to hug him.

She kept talking, voice light, giving him time to put himself back together. "Cage or no, I'm glad to be back on the road. I was starting to go stir crazy."

"Wasn't your father a teryn or something?" Anders asked, voice only a little rough. "Shouldn't you want to stay inside and wear pretty dresses? Have tea parties?"

"The only one of us wearing a pretty dress is you, Anders."

He touched the silver griffin emblazoned on the chest of his Grey Warden robes. "A pretty dress you picked out for me."

They didn't talk much after that, especially once they'd left the keep's walls. Oghren perked up after a while, the warm rain and promise of battle clearing the worst of his hangover, and Anders stepped back to chat with him for a while. They spoke in low voices that barely carried to Cait where she walked at the front of their little band, but the bits she caught were mostly bawdy jokes and friendly threats.

She felt Nathaniel join her more than heard him, his shoulders tense and scowl dark as he watched the woods around them.

"You and Anders seem close," he growled, barely louder than the scrape of their boots on the road.

Cait stared up at him, but he still wouldn't look her way. "Is that a problem?" she asked carefully.

"I didn't say that," Nathaniel finally looked at her and his scowl was replaced by a chagrined little smile. "That came out wrong. I didn't mean to sound jealous, I was trying to make conversation." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "It seems I've forgotten how."

She linked her arm with his, like she had with Anders earlier but also so much different. "He's just a friend, Nate."

"I know," he said. He turned his eyes back to the woods and added, "That's what you used to tell people about me."

She bit her lip to quiet her laugh. "Not quite. 'Nathaniel is my friend' is the truth. 'Nathaniel is just a friend' would have been a lie. You've never been just anything."

He covered her hand with his where it rested in the crook of his elbow. "Neither have you." His voice was as intense and warm as a summer day and it brushed her skin like a physical thing.

She almost didn't sense the ambush until it was too late.

She felt the buzzing in her blood, different from the feeling of her fellow Wardens, only moments before everything exploded into motion. But it was enough; when the first shrieks appeared, she was ready enough to dodge the rake of claws at her face.

The first died quickly to a volley of arrows. The second to her own blades and the third fell silent under Byron's snapping jaws. Then the next wave arrived and there was only chaos.

They had never fought as a unit and it showed. Oghren and Cait were used to flanking rather than taking the brunt of the attack, but without Loghain and his uncanny ability to make things want to hit him, they found themselves on the defensive. Nathaniel was a good shot, but clearly not used to aiming around people, and kept hesitating for fear of friendly fire. Anders had no such concerns; Cait's left arm went numb after a brush with lightning, and Oghren's beard was nearly set on fire. Only Byron was truly on his game, filling gaps in defenses, flanking, tearing limbs and throats and heads from darkspawn with a simple, canine glee.

Cait didn't see the hurlock alpha until it was upon her. It burst through the pack of lesser darkspawn, sword raised. She parried, only barely getting a dagger up in time, but it left her guard open.

His shield slammed hard into her face. She felt bone break and skin split from the force of it. Her mouth filled with the copper-sweet taste of blood; her vision went black and the world tilted alarmingly beneath her.

She didn't know if she lost consciousness, but she was pretty sure she didn't die. She's aware of Byron pressed to her side, warm and worried. The buzzing faded as the others picked the remaining darkspawn off, replaced by the throbbing of her heart in her ears.

When all she could feel in her blood was pain and Grey Wardens, Cait let herself collapse, legs buckling like a discarded marionette. Someone caught her. She tried to push them away, murmuring "I'm fine. I just need a minute."

Several voices spoke over each other and she could make none of them out. It took too much effort to concentrate on words over the pounding in her head. She should probably be concerned, too, that her vision hadn't righted itself, but lacked the energy for that as well.

"Hold still. You need healing," a voice said to her. She turned toward it and the world tilted again. Her knees gave out and this time the hands holding her couldn't stop her descent.

"I think you may be right," Cait said, or thought she said.

Something touched her head and set it on fire. She screamed and tried to fight it off, swinging wildly. Something else pinned her arms and she tried to fight it too. Blind and desperate, she trashed against the prison, but it held fast. It touched her face again, but the fire was quenched by warm, soothing blue light.

The light faded and took the pain with it, and Cait followed them into nothingness.

-------

The first thing Cait saw when she awoke was Anders' warm honey-brown eyes. He was wrapping a bandage around her head, but he didn't look surprised when she opened her eyes. "Have a nice nap?" he made no effort to hide the relief in his voice.

She looked past him. The rain had stopped, but the sun hadn't moved much since last she saw it, so she likely hadn't been out long. Or she'd been out a full day.

Oghren was setting up camp, erecting tents and getting the campfire started. He very pointedly didn't look their way, which meant he was worried. It must've been worse than she thought if Oghren was worried; she'd seen him nearly lose a leg and try to walk it off.

Nathaniel knelt by Byron, face serious as he gave the dog orders. Byron listened with a true mabari gravitas. He took a note gently from Nate's hand and ran off, back toward the keep.

Nathaniel watched the dog run up the road for a moment, shoulders stiff, then turned back toward them. He opened his mouth to say something, but when his eyes met hers he froze. His face was unguarded anguish, and in the seconds it took to school his expression, Cait saw the answers to a lot of questions.

She dropped her head back onto whatever they'd given her as a pillow - from the combined scent of it, the boys had all given her their cloaks. She closed her eyes against the afternoon sun, releasing Nathaniel from her contemplation.

"Do you remember your name?" Anders asked. His tone told her it wasn't the first time he'd asked it.

"Cathain Elissa Cousland. Hero of Fereldan, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, Commander of the Grey, Chancellor to Queen Anora, Arlessa of Amaranthine. It's been a few weeks, they've probably added more blighted titles since then."

Anders laughed. It sounded like he was walking around her, doing whatever healers did when they weren't sure if they were finished working yet. "Do you remember what happened?"

Cait pushed a few stray strands of hair out of her face; her arms were slower to respond than usual. "I got hit in the face," she muttered. "Drills. We are going to do so many drills when we get back to the Vigil."

"Agreed," Nathaniel said softly, voice so low she felt it more than heard it. "This can't happen again."

Cait sighed. "I'll send a raven to Loghain. Unless you have any experience training soldiers?"

"I'm afraid not."

The silence was loud with things unsaid. Cait could feel her heartbeat in her forehead, over her right eye. She wondered if she'd have another scar there, a mate for the other she had. It had been from a shield bash too, Loghain at the Landsmeet. She should adjust her guard to keep it from happening again.

"Okay," Anders said a little too loudly. "Don't let her overexert herself, she needs rest. I'll be right over there if you need me."

Cait reached out a hand and Anders grasped it warmly and gave it a little pat before turning to leave. She opened her eyes enough to exchange a smile.

"Anders," Nathaniel called, looking like it caused him physical pain to force the words out, "thank you."

Anders just winked at him and walked over to Oghren, giving them the illusion of privacy.

Nate caught her watching them as he turned back to her, but instead of the scowl she expected, the corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny, embarrassed smile. Now that he was closer, she could see a nasty bruise blooming across one cheekbone. He took her hand as soon as she held it out to him and sat on the ground next to her.

"How bad was it?" Cathain asked, because she knew he'd tell the truth. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Several skull fractures, broken jaw and nose, severe concussion," he said as blandly as if he were talking about the weather, "You have a killer headache, I imagine. Only cuts and bruises with the rest of us. I sent Byron back to the keep to warn Varel. If the darkspawn have other ambushes set up, his people will find them."

"Good. Good." She closed her eyes again. He wasn't kidding about the headache; it felt like an arrow was lodged behind her eyes.

"Caitie," he whispered intensely, "if we hadn't had a mage here…"

"But we did. And I'm okay." She squeezed his hand. She could feel the tension radiating from him. "I've had worse." Not much worse, but he probably didn't want to hear that.

"Worse? Caitie, you almost died!"

"But I didn't," Cathain said, sharper than intended. She struggled to sit up and Nathaniel assisted with a hand between her shoulders. It was only when she tried to stand that he moved to stop her.

"Anders said rest." He put his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to keep her seated. "You need to stay put."

"I don't have the luxury to rest. There's too few of us right now." She broke his hold and stood before he had time to recover. Her vision spun. She planted her feet and stubbornly refused to stumble as equilibrium reestablished itself.

When she felt stable again, she said "I'm going to patrol the area. If there are more darkspawn nearby, I want to know about them now rather than lay there like an invalid waiting for them to finish me off. You can come with me if you'd like, as long as you don't coddle me."

"As you wish, Commander," Nathaniel growled, too low to tell if it was anger or affection in his voice.

He didn't hover, but he wanted to. He kept his hands by his sides, but stayed at her arm, ready to catch her if she stumbled. They were barely out of sight of camp before she was tired of it and linked her arm in his to give him the illusion of assisting her.

And if Cait leaned on him a little to keep her steps steady, that was her secret.

They walked in silence, listening to the chatter of birds and rustling of leaves, alert for anything amiss. The forest was still and the only hum of darkspawn taint Cait could feel was in the man she walked beside.

Nathaniel stopped suddenly and turned to her. His hands hovered, a brief but poignant hesitation, before settling firmly on her shoulders. "There's no one here but you and me. Tell me the truth. Are you okay?"

"I'm… alive." It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it's all she had to give. "Sometimes, that's the best I can hope for."

"There was a moment there that I thought you weren't. That you--" he broke off and looked away.

"Hey," she put her hands on his face and pulled his eyes back to hers. "Don't dwell on it. The what-ifs will drive you mad if you let them. I'm alive. You're alive. It's enough."

"It's enough," he repeated.

His grip on her shoulders loosened and he slid his hands down to her biceps. She was suddenly very aware of how close he was and the position they were in, her hands on his face and his hands on her arms and so close that the buckles on their armor scraped against each other when they moved.

He saw it too. He covered her hands with his, pulled them down until they rested on his chest in a mirror of the fight they had barely a week ago. "Caitie…" he breathed.

Her head reeled from his nearness (and, most likely, from the concussion). She could see the exact moment the thought crossed his mind that he wanted to kiss her, when his eyes dropped to her lips, and she carefully pulled away before he could ask. Before she had to tell him no.

It wasn't a rejection, just a delay. What a strange feeling, to not be ready to kiss a man when you've already kissed him a thousand times before. But that was in a different life. A life in which they both had happy, living families. A life in which they were carefree children whose worst injuries came from falling out of trees, not onto darkspawn blades.

She wanted to tell him that, but the words got lost on the way, slipping through the newly-mended cracks in her skull. What came out was a truth, though not the one she'd been reaching for, "We should get back to the others. I think… I overestimated my recovery."

If he felt slighted, he hid it well. He gave her a wicked grin, the kind she'd have expected more from his brother Thomas or a man like Anders than from quiet, serious Nathaniel. It made her immediately regret her decision not to kiss him. "Do you need me to carry you, Caitie?"

"Nate, don't you dare. I swear to Andraste, if you try you'll lose a hand."

-------

It was just before sunset when he carried her back to camp. She had collapsed less than halfway back after a minor dizzy spell, but no matter how much she asserted that she was fine now, truly, perfectly capable of walking, he would not put her down. On the way back, she'd had time to go through indignation and anger and had just reached begrudging compliance when they spotted the tents.

Anders lectured her all the way through dinner and lectured her more as he unbuckled layer after layer of her armor - without a single lewd remark, even - until she was in the simple tunic and breeches she wore underneath. He even took her damned boots.

Oghren, Anders, and Nathaniel agreed unanimously that she didn't get a turn on watch tonight. She tried pointing out that she was the Commander, that she gave the orders, not them, but it fell on deaf ears.

"If your dog were here, I'd have him sit on you to keep you in bed!" Anders concluded.

"Every healer I've ever met thinks they're my mother," Cait pouted, but didn't try to leave her bedroll again. She stared up at the darkening sky.

"What was she like?" Anders asked, once it was clear that Cathain wouldn't be sleeping yet. "Your mother?"

"She was…" implacable, proud, fierce. All of the parts of Cait that made her a good Lady came from her father, but the parts of her that made her a leader were from her mother. None of that was what Anders would want to hear, though. "Have you heard The Soldier and the Seawolf? It was written about my parents."

"Bullshit!" Anders laughed, a quick, joyful bark of sound. "I know I grew up in a cage, but you can't really expect me to believe your mother was the Seawolf."

"She was. Eleanor Mac Eanraig, daughter of the Storm Giant, captain of the Mistral, teyrna of Highever." Cait laid her head back against her pillow, watching the stars come out. She wondered what Mother and Father would think of her now. If they would be proud or disappointed.

She kept talking, the words pouring out of her like water. "My father was Bryce Cousland. He served under Loghain during the rebellion. He was always so proud of the part he played." She sighed deeply. "And now Loghain serves under me."

"I bet he does," Anders leered, and Cait didn't need to look at him to see the grin on his face.

Cait closed her eyes. "Please tell me you aren't implying what I think you are."

Oghren cackled. "You did share a lot of intense looks, Commander."

"It's Loghain. Every look he shares with anyone is intense, it's the only way he does anything." Cait said incredulously, scrambling to figure out how they even got on this subject. "That doesn't mean we were sleeping together."

"I'm just saying, you clearly have a type. Dark hair, blue eyes, the scowl, even the same nose!" Anders' voice shifted; most likely, he'd turned his leer in Nathaniel's direction. "Now I think on it, are you sure you're a Howe and not a Mac Tir?"

"Anders," Nathaniel growled, low and dangerous. "You saved Cait's life today, so I am trying to be patient, but if you keep talking I am going to throttle you."

"Hey, I don't mean to offend you! I'm quite fond of the Howes!" He giggled and barely stifled his laughter as he added, "I'm also fond of the Whys, the Whos and the Whats."

"Anders!" Cait shouted, but a helpless little laugh escaped.

"I'm sorry!" Anders laughed, not sorry in the slightest. "I couldn't resist."

"I'm going to tell him you said that," Cathain warned. Her head was finally starting to clear, her body warm and heavy with the promise of sleep. "I'm writing to him as soon as we get back to the Vigil. 'Dear Loghain, Please come to Amaranthine and help us not be terrible soldiers. Also my friend thinks we're supposed to be lovers, so please come prepared. Love, Cathain'."

"Caitie," Anders said warmly, laughter still in his voice, "you said I'm your friend!"

"Don't be stupid, of course you're my friend. As if I'd put up with any of this shit otherwise." She yawned, then added, "And it's Cait."

"You let Nathaniel call you Caitie."

"I have let Nathaniel do a lot of things that you will never get to," she muttered, startling a laugh out of Nate. She grinned "I'll tell you what, Anders. If you stick around for a year before you inevitably get bored and wander off, I will let you call me Caitie."

"Deal."

The boys kept chatting for a while longer, the topic thankfully steered away from what disgraced nobles Cathain may or may not be sleeping with, but she was too tired to keep up with it. She let the warmth of the fire and hum of their voices wash over her until sleep finally claimed her.

[hekate1308]

Lost & Found

It's one thing, stumbling across Crowley as a homeless man. It's another to realize he has no idea who Dean is. 12x23 fix-it

I don’t think I’ll ever be done with these. Enjoy!

His first thought isn’t even Oh God or How? but Of course Crowley has to be fancy even as a homeless guy, because that is what his life ultimately boils down to. If he freaked out over every weird stuff he’s confronted with, he’d probably have a heart attack within an hour.

So the former king of hell sitting on a park bench and reading Robert Burns’ poems while his belongings are neatly packed away in two Armani backpacks next to him is no big deal.

“I’ll give you that, it’s a good cover” he says, stepping up to him.

No disgruntled demon would look for Crowley out on the streets of all places.

A small part of him feels annoyed that he hasn’t even thought it necessary to let them know he was alive, let alone that he’s back. Sure, they didn’t exactly part as the best of friends, but in his own small way, he even grieved for the guy. And continued to, after they dealt with Satan Jr. and Cas was resurrected once more, grieved through the whole year it took him to find Crowley here on a nondescript park bench in a nondescript park of a nondescript town.

The reaction he gets astounds him. Faster than he can blink, Crowley has put his book away, grabbed his two backpacks and stood up, saying tiredly, “Don’t worry, officer, I’m on my way”.

He waits. Waits to be hailed as “Squirrel” and thoroughly laughed at because of the face he’s certainly making right now, for the self-assure demon he knows to come through, but it doesn’t happen.

Instead, Crowley starts walking away.

“Wait!”

He rushed after him and grabs his biceps.

He flinches.

“Crowley?”

He turns around.

There’s absolutely no recognition in his eyes, and Dean almost can’t hide his shock when he realizes.

Crowley has no idea who he is.

“I told you, I’m on my way. I have no wish to get into trouble – “

“You’re not in trouble. Crowley, it’s me – Dean Winchester – “

“Crowley? Is that my name?” he asks so innocently Dean has to take a moment to breathe.

“Yes. It is.”

There’s something like hope in his eyes, now.

“You know me?”

“Better than anyone, I’d imagine”.

At least anyone alive right now. He doesn’t mention that detail.

“So we’re... friends?”

“Besties, actually” that same voice says loud and clearly in Dean’s head, so very confident and at ease, the complete opposite of the – man? standing in front of him.

“Yes. Yes we are. You disappeared a while back. We –“ he stops, realizing Crowley has no idea who “we” are.  

“Me and my brother and our best friend” he finally continues, “we were all worried about you”.

Well, less worried and more... kind of sorry no red-eyed dick was going to drop in anymore to annoy them. They even went so far to tell his story on hunter get-togethers, so that he wouldn’t be entirely forgotten.

How ironic. The only one who has forgotten all about him is Crowley himself.

“Look, I know you have no reason to trust me – “

“That’s quite alright. I haven’t got anything to lose either”.

Well if that’s not freaking depressing.

“So you’ll come with me?” he asks, somewhat astonished at how eager he is to have them all together again. “We’re working a case in this town, so it’s only a motel room for now, but you’re welcome to stay with us if you’d like”.

He hasn’t cleared it with Sam or Cas yet, but I can’t imagine them turning their... somewhat-ally away in his condition.

“Better than on the street” Crowley decides and Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

He sends a quick text to Sam, who’s been visiting the morgue with Cas – Found Crowley. Ask no questions; he has no idea who he is. Amnesia or something. Just get a bottle of holy water ready.

“You said case... did we work together?” Crowley asks (so freaking innocently).

“Now and then, yeah” Dean says truthfully.

They did after all hunt Lucifer’s hell hound together... that must count for something, right?

Oh God, he suddenly realizes, Juliet. Damn dog has been hanging around the bunker since a few weeks after Crowley’s death, when she just showed up out of the blue; each of them had an angel blade in hand in turn and couldn’t bring himself to do her in.

She’s going to flip out and Crowley will be thrown down on the floor by an invisible mutt slobbering all over him.

First things first: get him to a motel.

“Can’t be the feds” Crowley said suddenly. “Someone would have come looking for me then”.

He sounds so resigned Dean can’t take it.

“We thought you were dead. That’s why we didn’t search for you. Something... went wrong on a case”.

Crowley actually looks pleased.

Dean doesn’t stop to think whether he would have looked for him, because...

Well, because the answer would probably be an all too enthusiastic “Of course”.

Sam and Cas have readied themselves for the sight that awaits them and don’t even jump when Crowley walks into the motel room in front of Dean.

“Crowley” they say almost at the same time.

“This is my brother Sam, and this is our friend Cas”.

Crowley nods before drawling, “Sorry, boys, no idea who you are”.

That... almost sounds like the old him.

“I’m thirsty. You want some water too?” Dean asks casually.

He nods and he goes to the fridge.

Sam has left two bottles of holy water to cool, and while it’s thrown away on Dean, that’s a prize he’s ready to pay.

“Here” he passes him a bottle, and, as he expected, Crowley waits for him to take a drink before he does the same.

No reaction.

He came back as human as Cas, then.

That settles that.

“Look” he says once they’ve all sat down at the small table, “I know this will sound insane...”

“You have no idea” Crowley mumbles.

“Trust me, I do. Okay, there’s no way to sugarcoat this. I told you we were on a case... a supernatural one. Because almost everything you can think of – ghosts, monsters, et cetera – they’re real. And we hunt them”.

He thought he was prepared for every answer Crowley could think of, but he’s still shocked when he reacts with, “Do some of them have black eyes?”

“Yeah” Sam says, “how do you –“

“I see them from time to time. I try to get away; they attack me when they realize I’m there”.

His expression tells Dean there was more than one close call involved.

“Yeah. Those are demons”.

Again, not a single sign of recognition, not even the smallest suspicion he could ever have been one of them.

“Did they say anything?” Cas asks. “Before they attacked you?”

Crowley shrugs. “They mostly sprouted a lot of nonsense... about taking revenge or stuff like that. Of course this explains it.”

He waves a hand towards all of them.

Right. He thinks they were colleagues.

They could tell him the truth... but frankly, what would be the point? He’s already had it hard enough during the last year, and he did sacrifice himself for them.

Alright, also to get rid of Lucifer, but still.

Neither Sam nor Cas make any attempt to tell him.

Okay then.

And two days later, after they’ve solved the case (Crowley doing a pretty good job of manning the phones in the meantime) they’re on the way back to the bunker, and Dean is surprised just how complete the team feels with the former demon in the backseat.

They’ve warned him about Juliet (he seems to think she’s just their team’s pet) so he reacts pretty well when she jumps at him, barking excitedly.

“Guess she missed you” Dean says calmly.

And then they have Crowley living with them, and the goddamn guy seems so freaking comfortable.

It’s annoying Dean to no end because, if anything, he finally wants his make-shift family to be honest with one another, but how can they be when the truth would probably freak him so badly he might not recover?

What’s frustrating him the most is how obvious it must all seem to Crowley. They recognized him and took him in immediately, so they must be his pals, right? And because he’s been around since the First Apocalypse that never was, all their stories make it seem like he hung out with them all the time, and because they were on cases then, cases they can’t help but mention, and he’s got pretty good fighting skills, he must be a hunter in his mind.

See? Freaking obvious.

Naturally the thought of being anything else but human never occurred to him. Why would it?

There are a few things they have to tell him, though; he takes the news of his mother’s and son’s death pretty well, probably because why he understands what it means, there is no single remembrance he can connect with either of them.

Instead, it can be said that he grows more and more attached to them all, in exactly the way it happens when you become friends with someone.

And goddamn it – they like him to, alright?

The last thing Dean would have imagined, from his brief problem with human blood, would have been that Crowley could end up not only a decent man, but a pretty good one.

He’s just – he’s nice and kind and friendly all the time, exactly what you’d expect from a homeless guy who suddenly finds himself surrounded by friends with a room of his own.

Even Jody has to admit that, and he almost killed her some years ago.

As soon as she hears Crowley’s back, she comes rushing, only to stand absolutely still and stare at the ex-king of hell who’s leaving it up to her whether she wants tea or coffee, and oh, would she like something to eat with that? He’s sure he can scrounge up something for her –

“Oh God” she mumbles after he disappears into the kitchen, “how do you deal with those puppy dog eyes?”

“I’m in training, think of Sam”.

“Is he like that all the time?”

“Yep. Best roommate I ever had. And I’m living with an actual used-to-be-an-angel these days”.

“And he has no idea?”

“None. And to be honest, none of us can bring themselves to tell him. He’s so freaking happy here, Jody”.

“I can see that”.

She sighs.

“Alright then, looks like your “Team Free Will” got another member”.

It does indeed. Crowley is a pretty good fighter, and some of that demon knowledge he had must still be flying around in his head, because he finds lore incredibly quickly.

So, yeah, things are... good.

For a while.

Until... Dean can’t really explain it, but he knows Crowley isn’t happy anymore. He’s always slinking around in the shadows, suddenly, and Dean could swear he hears him walking around at night when before he had no trouble sleeping through.

One night, Dean has enough and catches him just as he’s about to go to the library.

And if those are not the eyes of a haunted man, Dean has never looked into a mirror.

“You remember”.

It’s not a question.

Crowley nods.

“A few weeks now”.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You want to know the truth, Squirrel?” he asks tiredly.

“Because the past you allowed me to believe in was far more pleasant”.

“It was, wasn’t it.”

Juliet comes up to them, invisible to every inhabitant of the bunker now.

“You wouldn’t have your doggie then, though”.

Crowley actually chuckles.

“I guess”.

After a pause, he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No”.

He can say that with conviction. None of them would feel comfortable, just sending their – friend out into the world.

Crowley nods.

“You’ll still bake pies, right?” Dean asks hopefully. It’s one of the talents he definitely didn’t expect Crowley to have.

He groans.

“Fine, Squirrel, but only if you make burgers.”

“I can do that. Now, come on; we both need a night cap”.

[crowcawcus-blog]

Interview with Rob Crow, circa 2012

Crow says you need to be “a real music nerd” to appreciate Devfits: Devo in the style of the Misfits and vice-versa. When I hear he's playing a benefit for UCSD's Ché Café, I jump at the chance to witness this spectacle.

After scuttling about like any good roadie, setting up his equipment, Crow steps into a corner and wrestles on a suit constructed of duct tape, a creepy skin-toned mask, and thick geeky glasses while a film clip of his five-year-old son instructs the audience to buy lots of merch and tell everyone how well the show went, "even when it sucks."

He bursts out onto stage and takes hold of the mic, which is hopelessly tangled around its stand. After belting out his first lines, he brandished the offending machinery and commands, “Please undo this thing from here.” I grab it and unravel it awkwardly, nearly spearing him in the process. He nevertheless tells me, “Thank you very much,” and forges on.

I'm charmed by his manners, but moments later my opinion shifts when he charges his way through the audience, trailing the mic wire behind him heedlessly. Me and two other spectators barely squirm our way out of a firm trussing-up, and I twist my shoulder in the process.

Yet his performance is hauntingly beautiful, especially his rendition of the Misfits song “Hatebreeders.” (Devfits (Rob Crow) @ The Che Cafe on 01.07.12) The herd of UCSD students seems mostly bemused. Near the end of the set Crow tells us that he’s “been coming to the Ché since way before you were all born, and that's not hyperbole."

Crow steps back into the corner and removes the duct tape suit. I watch him chat with a few fans, and after they help him pack up and he's at liberty, I approach. He greets me with a handshake and another thank-you for detangling his mic. His sweet demeanor makes it easy to screw up the courage to ask if he'd consider an interview.

"Sure!" he agrees. "You know I do 'em all the time, for my podcast. Can it wait a few minutes, though?"

I assure him I'm not going to interrogate him tonight, that I meant to schedule for another time. He looks relieved, pulls some rolled-up t-shirts out of his bag and spreads them out on the merch table, scribbling in Sharpie that they’re available for at least a $10 donation to the Ché. Again I am impressed by his gentility.

I email to ask if I might pick his brain at his "Super Amazing Happy Funtime Night" at Bar Eleven. The poster for the event intrigues me; someone pasted his torso onto a horse's body. He looks natural as a centaur. "Sure!" comes the scarily succinct reply again. I hope the whole interview won't go this way of brevity.

I sip a Monkey Paw Sweet Georgia Brown Ale while he painstakingly plots the trajectory of his projector. Then he upends a bag of 99-cent store toys: 20-piece puzzles, bubble wands, foam airplanes, barrels o' monkeys, and paint-by-numbers on all the bartops and booths. I grab bubbles. Then, again, he retreats to the corner and pulls on... a gorilla suit. Only then does he visibly relax, stationing himself in between the turntable and the bar. The smirking bartender, Justin Bess, hands Crow a beer. I start with what I hope is an innocuous question: why the gorilla suit? 

“’cause I hate thinking about what to wear,” he states matter-of-factly. I blink, at a loss. He adds that often he wears it around the house and forgets to remove it between home and the recording studio.

He downs a draught, then pauses and looks at his cell phone. “My Words are piling up,” he laughs, showing the screen with a long list of Words With Friends requests.

He busies himself in switching vinyl – so far I've heard King Crimson, Metamatics, Nomeansno, The Locust, Dead Ghosts, Electric Light Orchestra, and Neil Young. Does he remember the first album he bought?

"The soundtrack to Over the Edge, a phenomenal movie," he answers immediately. "It's the truest movie about the seventies I've ever seen. Cameron Crowe called it the greatest soundtrack ever. And I spent a lot of money on The Ramones and Cheap Trick."

A glance at the stream of videos on one screen informs me that "Your Masonic friend thinks very highly of you! You should be proud!"

"Where do you find this shit?" slips out of my mouth before I think about it. He chuckles: "I delve."

I inquire as to when he realized his voice is such a beautiful instrument.

“When I was a kid, I always thought I was gonna be a guitar player. The first band I was in [Heavy Vegetable], we didn’t know who would sing, so we’d take turns. I remember we’d go into the bathroom, which we thought would have an awesome reverb effect – which it didn’t -- and sing into this machine, and there was this giant boa constrictor living in the bathtub –"

I can’t help but interrupt. A boa constrictor?

“Yup," he affirms without elaboration, and rattles on: "And I’m standing over the toilet, all wrapped in this snake, with a drink in one hand and a mike in the other, trying to sing this dumb song – everyone liked it. And I thought, ‘Oh, okay.’”

He notes, in fact, that he likes his singing voice but despises his speaking voice as “super-annoying.” I respond that his speaking voice is very pleasing and radio-friendly on his podcast.

“That’s super-edited,” he replies. I shoot him a doubtful look. “Well, I’m being hyperbolic,” he admits.

A Western saloon-fight with dogs as cowboys starts up on the screen, and I remember that Crow said in an interview with popmatters.com (Contrary Opinions) that he does not like dogs.

In the same interview he says he dislikes the Beatles, confessing that “It’s also just really fun to tell people that you hate the Beatles and watch them flip out.” I wonder, therefore, if he’s merely being "hyperbolic" to be provocative. I mean, who doesn’t like dogs unless mauled when young? Does he really hate dogs?

“Ummm, nah," he says vaguely, distracted by a stubborn wrapper on a velvet paint-by-numbers set. "Well, it just depends,” he hems.

He seems disinclined to explain what makes a dog odious or not, so I switch gears. On the cover of his newest solo album, He Thinks He’s People, one of his signature illustrations shows a stick-figure in the doghouse under a starry sky with two feeding bowls labeled “calzones” and “Speedway Stout.” Is Speedway Stout his favorite local brew? “Pretty much. But it’s not something I could drink twenty of in a night.”

I ask, does he get his calzones from Etna’s?

“Noooo, no Etna’s,” he intones firmly. “Luigi’s. Not Pizzeria Luigi’s, who does have the best pizza in San Diego, but Luigi’s At the Beach, in Mission Beach… I’m from New Jersey; I know my calzones. Every year my family and Pushead’s meet to go there.” My eyebrows shoot up, and he pauses to gauge my reaction. “You know who that is?”

I nod. Pushead is a fixture in the heavy metal and punk scene. I best know him for his grotesquely gorgeous Metallica album art which features skulls, twisted body parts, and lots of fire and ooze and gore, beautifully rendered, a stark contract to Crow’s signature stick-figure art.

I mention off-hand that the San Diego Reader called his cover art 'crass.' His eyes flash and his heretofore soft voice increases an octave. “You know, I’ve never NOT been misquoted in those two magazines [the Reader and the San Diego City Beat]."

The white stick figure upon a black background is Pinback’s little unassuming avatar. After a show at the Belly Up I had watched Crow dutifully draw dozens of the unique pictures on tickets, stolen set-lists, and whatever else fans brought up to him. I ask him now, why a stick figure?

“Early in Pinback’s career, we wanted to do everything ourselves,” including album art. He pauses, meditatively, then surges on: “I feel the stick figure represents the Everyman, with all its foibles or alienation or loneliness… it means a lot to me in its sameness. It’s zeroing in on the darkest parts of mortality."

I in no way expected such a profound, introspective reply, and before I feel I’ve grasped it, he continues: “I think art’s pure escapism. It shouldn’t be the purpose of art to really express joy. I mean, through art one should know what true happiness is; but once you know the real states – this whole life-deathy thing we��re in – it becomes this mobius strip…” He trails off and laughs shortly.

“I’ve been in a mid-life crisis since I was 18… manaically depressed. I don’t want to call it a perpetual e-motion-al machine, because that’s just horrible –“ I stop him to demur, because I love wordplay. He shakes his head and continues:

“But to not be able to enjoy the best parts of life because it’s all worthless… worthless!... there’s no hindsight in death – even wasting your time feeling shitty about it is just a waste of the time you have left but you STILL don’t feel great – it’s endless feedback.”

I think of the song “Scalped” from his album. Crow’s plaintive, prophetic voice cants, “I suggest you don’t waste your time... /Don’t kneel to the alter.” When I first read this line, I thought “alter” as opposed to “altar” was merely a [sic] in his handwritten lyrics, but now I think he punned on purpose, implying one shouldn’t live in a constant off/on, binary state. When happy, be happy: don’t dwell upon sadness, or impending mortality. And conversely, if sad, then address it and embrace it, as Crow does with his music.

Then again, maybe he’s just a weak speller. But given his penchant for Words With Friends, that’s improbable.

Does he mind that his solo album wrapper boasts a sticker declaring it "The new album by one-half of Pinback!"? He blinks; it's news to him.

"Does it?... No, I don't mind. What I DO mind is when they call me the Pinback 'Frontman.' It's 100% a collaboration." [with Zach Smith] I ask if he attended Torrey Pines with Smith.

"Errrrr, I got kicked out of all the schools in Oceanside," he states somberly.

Crow's buddy Tony Gidlund, who has listened to my questions with half-lidded and somewhat suspicious eyes, mutters something to Crow, who notes they might not make it. I look at him quizzically. “In-N-Out," Crow explains. "We always try to hit it before they close.” I ask him what he gets, because every late-night fast-food aficionado I know ritualizes what they order, especially after a solid drinking bout of the sort he put in tonight. “Grilled cheese with onions” is the reply.

“Are you vegetarian?” I venture. “Yup! I used to be vegan, but I couldn’t keep it up – It’s awesome, though. I recommend it.”

“But I love eggs,” I frown, “and besides, the chickens GIVE us the eggs, don’t they?"

He looks thoughtfully at his beer and says, “You’re very close to a Woody Allen monologue right now.”

He seems wont to self-effacing mannerisms. His 2007 solo album Living Well features a song called “I Hate You, Rob Crow." He flips off his own reflection in a recent video, “Sophistructure” (a perfect slice of his hypnotic mesh of visual and sonic). And he introduces his podcast, "Rob Crow's Incongruous Show," by styling himself "San Diego's Foremost Overrated Indie-rock Manchild!"

Meaning to explore this theme of self-flagellation, I instead blurt that I think he’s brilliant. Incredulous, he leans over asks me to repeat myself, then utters a short ironic bark of disbelief. “What?! Look at me! I’m in a monkey suit playing with dinosaurs!”

When I mention this to my pub-mate on the right, she nods sagely and says, “He doesn’t revel in himself. He’s an artist but not... pretentious. He’s a creative genius. I mean—“ she breaks off and gestures at one of the screens, currently occupied by a band of skeletal warriors from Jason and the Argonauts who, eerily, are shimmying to the death metal music in perfect time.

As he's packing up, he mentions that today was technically his one day off. "I should've spent it with my mother," he says, mostly to himself. I ask him how his wife feels about his late-night solo projects, and he says that as long as her vampire shows have recorded correctly, she is content.

I ask him if he liked having the last name ‘Crow’ growing up. “No, I didn’t enjoy it especially.” I tell him I really like crows, and instead of giving me the odd look most normal folks do, he says, “The other day there were 43 crows in my yard.” He counted them? “Yup. But when I went to get the camera and they flew away.” Typical Crow behavior.