The Sitting Room

Mine: Sowing

vinvy — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 20:55:23 GMT

Title: Sowing
Rating: PG
Word Count: 575
Warnings: less than cheerful, vague violence
Summary: Once upon a time, a Nightmare walked the Earth.
A/N: For iron_fist123 because she's my best friend and I love telling her stories when she asks me to.

Once upon a time, a Nightmare walked the Earth.

He was at once slim and unfathomable with white irises and red lines swirling across his skin to make a language that had not been spoken since his birth. To set eyes upon him was to flinch away. The ground changed under his bare feet with every step, never again to be what it was. Women and men alike fled the phoenix feathers tied onto his bladed staff. Children stared in awe of his wings.

The nightmare made his way through the forest, scattering animals before him. At the edge of the field he stopped and waited.

Death set out to greet the Nightmare early in the day. It was her custom. She climbed down her building's fire escape to avoid notice and made the long trek to their meeting place on equally bare feet. The breeze tugged at her silvery hair but refused to touch any mortal thing. The asphalt cracked where she stepped and soil eroded around her soles. Where she followed the Nightmare's path exactly, fresh green leaves poked up through the ruin.

As was tradition, he had waited for her to arrive at sunset, the death of day. She disliked anything less than symbolic. It pleased her that he'd stood there the whole day- she almost felt special. The stars came out to watch the play.

The Nightmare stood a head taller than Death.

"Brother," she greeted.

They were twins but sight would never show it- their sameness was in their distinct difference.

He nodded to her, kind despite his task. "Sister."

Death summoned her scythes. They were slender tools, small ones, fitted to her hands and sharpened against light so as to sever even the faintest thread. The Nightmare was patient as she laid them on the grass at his feet. Ï am frightened," she said, looking up at her Nightmare. They had the same eyes, the eyes of their mother. His held love and some regret but they both understood the inevitable.

"I know, but you have been in this world too long, Sister."

"I know," she echoed, "Will you save them from me and me from them, Brother?"

The script held but hollow comfort.

The Nightmare nodded shakily and bent to kiss her cheek. Death sighed- her brother gave off heat like a miniature sun where she herself could only siphon it from others.

He stepped away and took up his bladed staff, the feathers catching the moonlight and glowing for it. They shared a single infinite moment- they both knew they would not meet again for many moons- and he decapitated his sister. She vanished as the blade sliced through her skin, a fine mix of powdered bone and spider's silk that drifted away on a wind that did not and never would touch him.

Life knelt and picked up his sister's scythes. He buried them at the center of the field and all the grasses for a yard around the small mound withered and died so that not even his step would revive them.

His path back to the city was marked by erupting vines and singing insects. Foundations cracked from the stress of new trees' roots and on the other side of the planet the ground trembled where new earth was being made.

It was his turn to go into the world and reign until the Nightmare would come for him. He would meet her gladly.

- Fin

Fic: Every. Two. Hours.

vinvy — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 01:41:45 GMT

Title: Every. Two. Hours.
Author: vinvy
Rating: G
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: ~ 630
Summary: By the fourth night of the Endlessly Displeased Baby, Dean at least was beginning to think Hope was already self-aware and that she hated their guts.
Warnings: Domestic smoosh of the smooshiest degree. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any affiliated characters. If I did this would be on the show. Duh. Now go read my fic.
A/N: Written for iron_fist123 in AIM while I was waiting for my eardrops to settle. The antibiotics must have struck the inspiration-lobe in my noodle or something.

Hope's first week as a Winchester was difficult.

"Difficult" means that the baby was adorable as hell and perpetually unhappy with everything her new fathers attempted to do for her. Her formula was swill, getting dressed a capital offense, and sleeping at night? Out of the question entirely. By the fourth night of the Endlessly Displeased Baby, Dean at least was beginning to think she was already self-aware and hated their guts, and he said so. Castiel, with tired eyes, just got up and stumbled to check on Hope because it was his turn to answer the cries on the baby monitor. Dean lay in bed feeling guilty until Cas returned.

Hope's days were restful and Dean and Cas spent them trying to sleep with limited success, as neither of them had made a habit of being up at odd hours of the night for at least three years now. Dean was on vacation from the shop and Cas had gotten paternity leave from the university, miracle of miracles. They couldn't do this forever, though, this whole not sleeping thing.

On the fifth night Cas was dead asleep with head under the pillow and his limbs sprawled out, taking up most of the space in the bed in that horrendous, blanket-hogging way that meant he was asleep, peaceful, and dreaming. Which is why Dean didn't bother to wake him up when Hope stirred for the third time that night-- good God why was there no peace in their house?

Dean picked up the baby and cradled her to his chest, then flicked the baby monitor off. "Sh, hey honey, you're okay," he soothed.

His eyes were burning and all he wanted was eight consecutive hours of sleep. Hope wasn't hungry any more. She didn't need to be changed. She was as healthy as a moose. There were about a million protection charms and sigils under the murals on her walls so she was the safest she could possibly be— there was no point going through all of that again. It took too much out of him.

He hummed a few bars of "Hey Jude" but he'd known since Night Three that didn't do the trick after midnight and it was 3 AM. "Hope, c'mon, your Daddy and Papa need their sleep," he beseeched, kissing her cheek. That only made her fussing worse. The cheerful wisps of cloud and sky painted on the walls mocked him with their calm.

The floor behind him creaked. "It is supposed to be my turn, Dean," Castiel whispered, which would have been funny considering Hope's crying, if Dean weren't so damn tired.

"You were asleep."

"So were you."

Dean sighed at the pointed look Cas gave him. The angel had perfected the "pointed look" and could give whole lectures without opening his mouth. That was probably why he was such a great professor of Philosophy— he could communicate without the difficult stuff without words.

"Come here," Cas beckoned. They stood that way for a minute, the world's fussiest baby in Dean's arms still refusing to be quelled. Cas gazed town at Hope and pressed a finger to her lips. "Hush."

The ensuing silence hurt Dean's ears. The glow in the dark paint on the ceiling— Cas had insisted that it be a replication of the night sky on the day Hope was born because Cas apparently knew where every freakin’ star in the sky was— was warm in the dim.

They both stared at their daughter then winced when she drew a breath to cry again--

"Little One," Cas began, and Hope actually closed her mouth and seemed to listen, "you are as loved as you could ever possibly be here and more. Do not be afraid-- we are not leaving you, I promise. Now you must rest and let us rest. We have long lives ahead of us and we need our sleep."

Hope yawned. The whole room was calmer, like a weight had been lifted from it.

"Did she actually..." Dean hesitated, "Did she understand all that?"

"Not the words, no. Of course not. She will not have that kind of a grasp on language until she is two, " Cas replied, "but she understood the meaning perfectly, I think. It looks like now all she needs is a lullaby and she will sleep soundly."

Three verses in to "Hey Jude", Hope was sound asleep but Dean and Cas stayed there for the rest of the song, watching over her. Then, once they'd gotten their assurance that she was peaceful, they wandered back to their bed and slept.

- Fin

Reverse Big Bang: Lightning in the Blood

vinvy — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 19:37:02 GMT

Title: Lightning in the Blood
Mix: #23 (of the same title) by dear_monday
Author: vinvy
Bands: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco (ish)
Pairings: past Mikey/Pete, a hint of Gerard/Lindsey
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 6,300
Warnings: questionable company, allusions to physical abuse, alcohol abuse, lots of awesome music
Disclaimer: As real as a seven dollar bill.
Summary: The Cabaret is a playground for souls. Let them do their battles elsewhere.
A/N: Written for Bandom Reverse Big Bang 2012. This is the fic that almost wasn't but the mods are wonderful and gave me some great encouragement. Thanks to juloreanand iron_fist123 for sticking around while this bounced about in my skull these last few months. They helped keep me going.

The Cabaret is a playground for souls. Let them do their battles elsewhere.

The house lights fall on the Band at just the right angle. It gives them an ethereal glow and halos of dust.

The Bartender takes the last chair down off of the last table- there might be a dozen of them in the room, strategically placed around the edges of a small dance floor. The Cabaret is small enough that it develops a haze quickly once more than one patron starts smoking. Once upon a time the walls might have been covered in red velvet but now it’s a stained burgundy, more the color of dried blood in some places, still as soft as the day it was put up.

“You ready to open up?” The Bouncer, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, calls from the door. The tall blond man isn’t as imposing as the last guy to hold the position but he’s made of far more muscle. He’s the perfect door hound.

The Bartender slides a hand over his hair, making sure it’s still slicked back and perfect, and slips off his coat, stashing it under the bar. “I was born ready.”

The Bouncer cracks his knuckles, says, “Whatever you say, shorty.”

The Bartender checks his watch- he has thirty seconds before he’s on the clock. Perfect. He grabs a bottle of McCallan. With nimble hands he pours two practice shots for fortification and the stage is set.

Without fail, the Artist and the Writer are the first two patrons to wander in.

With a notebook under his arm and a pen in his breast pocket, the Writer orders a Guinness and puts down roots in the far corner to the right of the bar so he can watch the room. The implication is that he likes to watch people come and go “for research”. More than a few people who’ve come in have asked if he’s some kind of pervert because the way he watches everything makes them nervous. The Writer has eyes that could strip paint and give a rock blisters. All he wants to do is see the truth of people- the problem is that the people who come to the Cabaret come so that they can lie. The Bartender doesn’t tell him that, though- telling would be unkind.

The Writer doesn’t talk to the Bartender much most nights. Some folks just need to be alone in a crowd. It’s as natural as dancing and the Bartender accepts this.

The Artist. Now this guy is one the Bartender knows well without knowing much about him at all. The Artist’s suit jacket is always clean but the shirt underneath is always stained- he knows because the jacket comes off by eleven each night. He wears cheap shirts so that somehow the mess his paintings leave on them is excused. He’s a chatty drunk- also a practiced drunk, which makes him easier to understand when he gets going about the seasons and the fall of a certain shadow and how it reminds him of that one time when he was a kid and his brother-

The heels of the Artist’s hands have charcoal on them tonight. He’s in an introspective mood, from the way he’s picking at his cuticles. The Bartender is disappointed and he pours the Artist his first drink. He always pays his tab before he leaves for the night and so the Bartender respects his desire to be solitary. As far as he can tell the Artist isn’t looking for anything profound like the Writer is- just the bottom of a bottle. It’s a fair trade.

Two hours into the night- when the Band has just settled in for the long haul with some melancholy number about fall leaves and old flames- she comes in looking drawn and in need of something that just can’t be found in the shops these days. The Artist pries his eyes away from where the Bartender is pouring him another whiskey so he can watch her sit down at the far end of the bar, taking the stool closest to the door. She won’t stay there long- both the Artist and the Bartender are thinking it. They’re here every night and they know her type- she’s either gonna leave after a sip of something fruity and she figures out this isn’t the adventure she’d thought, or she’s gonna stick around for the night, not here for a good time at all.

The Artist thanks the Bartender with a nod, his black hair trying to escape its greased-back position and failing. He lights another cigarette and inhales deeply, waiting.

She drums the fingers of her left hand on the bar, anxious and unaware of how rude she’s being. The Bartender decides he isn’t going to spit in her drink, besides, there’s a wedding ring on the woman’s finger, gold with diamonds that trap the dim light. She comes from Money. Maybe even Society. He’d best treat her right.

He spends a minute shining a glass before sauntering over- he figures she’s stewed enough- and she speaks before he can even lean against the polished surface of the bar.

“Gin and tonic. Please.” She tags on the last as a hasty afterthought. This close her eyes are candy apple red to match her lips and her bob is a bird’s nest under her prim little hat. She’s been crying.

The Bartender smiles. “Right away.” He can do business like this- he knows her type. She’ll be in the bucket within the hour, sharing her life story, possibly crying some more, possibly shouting. If she shouts he’ll have to call the Bouncer to escort her out. It’s hard enough to run this establishment legally without rabble-rousers.

The Housewife gives a wan smile to her gin and tonic. The Bartender’s a cutie with a big smile, even if he is a little condescending. She knows she doesn’t fit in- again she looks at the Bartender for that confirmation. The pictures tattooed all over his arms should make this an unpleasant place to be. But he’s really a refreshing sight after being stuck looking at her husband’s bullish mug every night after seven PM, cheeks and nose pink with blood vessels burst from too much liquor over the years.

She scoffs. Hypocrite. That’s what she is, a hypocrite staring down the Shadow of Death.

“Hey, what’s your name?” It’s that fellow with the greased hair, the one who looks too friendly with the Bartender. He’s made his way down the bar to sit on seat away from the Housewife. He doesn’t smell dirty- he just looks it. It’s a sharp smell that comes from him, though- not like soap but like chemicals that she doesn’t know the name of. “What’s your name?” He repeats and she notices that she didn’t answer him the first time.

“Um...” the Housewife waits a beat too long to be able to lie believably leaving her stuck with honesty for better or worse, “My name is Jamia.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jamia,” he says, offering a hand- the liquor is too strong in his breath, even at this respectable distance, and it makes her flinch. She shakes his hand anyway. “My name’s Gerard,” he adds with all the vocal coolness of a man who’s never touched a drink in his life. He holds his liquor very well, then.

“I’m charmed, Gerard.”

“What brings you here?” He leans forward his elbows on the bar, not looking too closely at Shauna and not avoiding her eye either.

“I- I needed a drink,” she says simply. It is so strange to be spoken to like an equal, especially by a man she doesn’t know from Adam.

The Band behind them winds down into a ballad. They sound like they’re playing a million miles away.

The Artist laughs a little, “Yeah, I know the feeling. Say, if it isn’t prying too much, why’d you need a drink?”

“I’ve got terminal cancer,” she snaps. Who’s he to be asking her that? He should be asking himself why he’s drinking. She draws back in on herself, looking at her hands and the French manicure that’s starting to chip but that she hasn’t cared enough to get touched up.

Amazingly, the Artist isn’t offended. The Housewife chances a glance and he’s stuck looking at her, his mouth is open slightly and his eyes- it isn’t pity that she sees. Something deeper. He understands death beyond the usual “Oh that’s horrid you poor thing I’m sorry please go away because it’s probably catching” message she got from the eyes of friends at luncheon. This fellow looks like death has laid Her cool and fair fingers into some place close to him.

Just under his right collar bone, and on the inside, the Housewife thinks, not in his heart but close enough to do this to him, to make him silent at Her name.

The second passes faster than she can follow the thought and wonder who he loved so much that their death would make him look like that at the mention of a stranger’s impending demise. The Artist bites his lip and looks away, takes another drink.

“The doctor told me that I have a month or two left,” she speaks more softly this time. “I’m sorry I snapped at you-”

“- It’s okay. I shouldn’t have pried like that. Don’t apologize- you’ve got every right to be angry-”

A startled sound leaves her mouth and it makes her jump. She realizes it’s a laugh- a real laugh with no armor or sarcasm in it- and that makes her laugh even harder. There’s enough hysteria, though, to force her to breathe and calm down so she doesn’t start bawling before she gets a second drink in her. “You don’t know the half of it sugar.”

Her glass is empty. The Artist’s is, too.

“Want another?”

The way he asks leaves it okay for her to turn down the offer and that’s why she says, a little giddy, “You bet your sweet ass, boy.”

The Artist waves a hand at the Bartender, “Gin and tonic for the lady- it’s story time!”

Sipping his second Guinness, the Writer focuses in on a couple. They’re sitting close to the stage. They want more music than conversation. They’re probably at the end of the “honeymoon” phase that he’s only read about. Comfortable in their own skin and in each other’s.

His free hand takes messy notes in shorthand. There’s poetry on the surface of their interaction, silent because they’re so close to the music, holding hands and playing with the different ways they can lace their fingers, finding new facets to fall in love with, calluses and lines, ridges of fingertips and tender skin between fingers.

The edges of his awareness register the vaudeville look of the Band and the acting that verges on scandalous.

The Writer loosens his tie and leans forward a little farther.

She steps in before the Housewife can start her tale of woe. She’s dressed in honey and the scent of red precedes her. Gold and cinnamon. She’s sexiest incarnation of Death any of the patrons of the Cabaret have ever seen and the Bartender has her martini waiting for her.

“In your shirtsleeves already,” she comments, “with so much of your life on your arms like that you may as well be nude.”

The Bartender blushes. (This floors the Artist.)

The Housewife sits and stares at this bright new woman with lipstick that is as red as her own. On her, though, it isn’t candied-apple but more alive and bright as flowing blood.

The woman doesn’t wait for the tattooed man behind the bar to reply- she just glides away. Sipping from the delicate glass she makes her way to the table in the back corner. The man there is very obviously staring at the dance floor. There are sleepless bruises under his eyes that somehow get deeper when the woman sits down across from him. It seems that he doesn’t appreciate this addition to his line of sight and the Housewife is amazed- who wouldn’t like looking at a lady like that?

“Who is she?” The Housewife clutches her own glass, unaware that some of the bronze liquid spills over the edge to dampen and stain her glove.

“A Conwoman,” the Bartender says simply.

Does he respect or reproach her?

“A Conwoman,” the Artist parrots. The affection in his voice almost too soft to be audible.

The Housewife hears it clearly, though, because her hearing has been sharpened against the stone of dinner parties and gossip for the sake of speaking with prizes of shocked laughter for whoever brings the juiciest cut to the table.

The Bartender doesn’t need to hear it. He knows the affection is there- he’s always known.

“Oh, Pete, you do realize that your staring puts them off, don’t you?” The Conwoman sits straight in her chair, her hands resting in her lap. If she were to put them on the table they would be close enough to touch the worn cover of the Writer’s notebook.

“They’ll never not be “put off” by me,” he replies, bitter and jaded. “Why are you here?”

“Yes, but I imagine it isn’t good for business. If word gets around about the queer little fellow with the pen who sits in a corner all alone, looking at people like they’re pawns or worse, insects, folks aren’t going to be as willing to drop in here anymore. It could put Frank out of a job or-”

“Would you rather I left,” he snaps, “or perhaps jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and save the world the trouble of merely being looked at?”

“No, never that,” she backtracks fast enough that she drops her composure and holds her eyes wide. This is not a night for their old banter and casual cruelty. She has made a mistake. “Never that,” she pleads, soft.

“Then what would you have me do?” The demand sits on the table between them. The Writer finally looks away from that couple across the room and meets the Conwoman’s steady eye. “We can’t all flee to Venice when our old tricks lose their charm.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. “So,” she hesitates, “then money isn’t the-”

“I am rolling in money, woman! My finances aren’t the damned problem! If I were poor that still wouldn’t be the problem. ” The Writer pulls at his hair and throws himself back in his seat, stares at the ceiling. He is quiet for a long minute.

“No answers up there, either,” he mutters, closing his eyes, “no words, no reason. This is pointless.”

The Band is between sets and the silence lingering under the conversation is a strait-jacket. The Conwoman will not let it get any tighter. “Is there nothing I can do?” There is a touch of fear in her whisper. She’d thought this had all been solved years ago. She’d been wrong.

“No,” he says, looking forward again. “No. This is normal. It. It passes. It always passes. Then I meet my deadlines, my agent and I get paid, another novel hits the shelves and my family is in food and new trinkets for months to come.”

“Oh, Pete.” She takes his hand where it rests on top of the notebook. “It that all this is to you anymore? A means to an end?”

The inner conflict and just how often it plays itself out shows in the lines of The Writer’s forehead. She doesn’t remember them being there in years past. A thought settles and the lines pan out. He squeezes her hand, reassuring.

“Yes, right now it is and when it’s done it will turn into that. Those are just the covers, though, as for the middle? The middle is life. It’s shadows and pulled teeth and fresh snow and loose electricity. When I’m writing it’s more, so much more, than a means to an end. This will pass.” He says the last three words like a prayer. A mantra that he believes in more than flowers believe in sunrises.

The Conwoman feels her shoulders relax a small measure. The Writer is convinced of his own ability to soldier on and revel in another day regardless of quality. That is enough for her. She smiles at her old friend for the first time this evening. “Tell me why that couple is so fascinating to you. I don’t see it at all.”

His answering smile is too big for his face, and maniacal, too. She’s glad to see that hasn’t changed and she hopes it never does.

The Artist doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash at ordering for the Housewife when she graduates to ginger ale. He then borrows a pencil from the Bartender and starts to scribble away at the backside of a pilfered bottle label. He keeps his back to the smoky room and the Housewife faces it bravely, not thinking about much at all.

The wake after her life story is a silent one with no mourners. It’s a comfortable silence that clicks along to the swinging tune the Band’s got going on to rev things up after their short break. The dance partners are few but that doesn’t keep them from making the most of it. They whirl and laugh like it’s a friendly and televised competition to see who can have the most fun.

The Bartender has left his post to check on the tables around the outside of the room and to fill orders for those too lazy (drunk) or too busy dancing to make their way to the bar. The Housewife wonders about the insanity of that. The Cabaret is hopping with life in the high moon- he could be robbed blind with no one at the bar like this!

No one spares the empty space behind the bar a glance, though. No one but her, that is, the ever-attentive wife. She twists her wedding ring, idly considering how much it might get her at a pawn shop, if that would be enough to head West ... and the idea that this place is a one-man operation is unbelievable. She straightens her smart green jacket and smiles as the Bartender returns to pour her yet more ginger ale. This is good service.

Impending sobriety is giving her a headache but she won’t let herself be tempted to join the Artist for another gin. She’d sooner drink kerosene and eat lit matches. She knows better than he. She knows the dust of this place tastes of lemongrass and the future and unlike the Artist she knows she wants to see it in its terrifying glory.

She’s got no reason in the world to believe that this place is anything other than it is: a hole in the wall Cabaret with the best band she’s heard in a decade, more patrons than the fire code allows for, and magical, headache-curing ginger ale, all run by a single tattooed young man whose grin is as infectious as the Spanish flu. To make things more absurd, the Bartender isn’t an inch over five and a half feet if the Housewife has been alive for a day. It’s unbelievable that he could do it all alone. (And the way she sees it, the silent man at the door doesn’t count.) It’s almost like- and she hesitates to think it because she is a woman above childish fancy- this place has a twinge of magic to it.

“Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” the Bartender says in the tune of the Band’s active song.

She’s got the good sense to be startled because she knows that none of those thoughts were said out loud- but then, the Bartender isn’t even looking at her. He’s focused his clean hands on the task of rolling himself a cigarette and is turned towards the corner where the Conwoman has been chatting up the fellow with the strange eyes for the last half hour.

Voices just have a way of carrying in rooms like this, the Housewife supposes, that’s all.

The Devil drops in once every six weeks. He puts the Writer in a state that drops far beyond the man’s average melancholia. Not even the Conwoman’s presence can bring the Writer out of it when the Devil is involved.

The Writer can smell the Devil’s cologne the second he steps into the Cabaret and it makes him skittish. It’s nothing he knows how to control- he can only obey it. The chant of “out, out, out” scribbling over his old mantra of “this, too, shall pass” with images of horror that Frankenstein and his monster would balk at. The Writer can sense the evil in him and it makes his every molecule want to flee.

“Quit being melodramatic,” the Conwoman smiles, “your life is not a novel, Pete.”

The Writer has his reasons for this melodrama. The Devil- and that will be his name from last summer into forever- is worse than the Conwoman could ever dream herself to be. He’s fluid in his movements and unassuming. The oil in his hair is slight enough to fool- trick the unsuspecting into thinking him stylish. But it’s slick enough to let him slip through prison bars. He’s every stick-like ghoul designed to scare little boys into obedience- only dressed up in pin stripes and spats instead of horror rags. No smile ever graces his mouth in public.

“You’re jealous. He went off and got his head back on straight, found himself a pretty little wife, and now you’re jealous,” the Conwoman insists. (Clearly, she does not understand.) “You won’t see sense about this, will you?”

“Oh, I see sense. You’re the irrational one, my dear viper. That young man’s sinews and marrow are nothing but bad blood.”

The Conwoman rolls her heavily-lined eyes and steals the last of the Writer’s beer.

“Speak of the devil,” the Artist crows, stopping in the middle of a story about carving pumpkins as a child. Apparently his little brother has made a habit of mutilating them so that instead of an eerie grimace they sported chipper, gaping holes.

“I really don’t see the resemblance,” the Bartender remarks. The Housewife wonders if he means resemblance to the Artist or to Lucifer.

The man they’re speaking at- and he has yet to so much as acknowledge any of them- is slimmer than the Artist in the way of lanky, his hair far lighter, and his face more closed. His pressed shirt is spotless. The same goes for his suit. He might be a banker or a lawyer.

“Jamia, this is my brother, Mikey,” the Artist gestures between the two, “Mikey, this is my friend Jamia.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the Housewife smiles on cue, extending her manicured hand, “I’ve heard great things about your prodigal talent for carving gourds.”

The Devil’s lips twitch into a bit of a smile. “I prefer the abstract, which for some reason Gerard fails to appreciate.”

They shake hands, his long fingers warm around the Housewife’s hand. It’s unnerving that he’s so warm, with January howling outside and no mittens in sight.

The Housewife would love to make conversation with this new gentleman- he looks exciting in the harmless way of bored married men and the gin is making her reckless. He could be fun to flirt with. Those glasses of his make him seem like he wouldn’t quite know what to do with a tipsy socialite with a death sentence. She shakes her head at herself- she doesn’t want to fool around with him. She wants to fill the hole in her heart before it stops beating.

There is no chance for flirting, though, because a slender set of heels saunters up beside her, topped with a gold sheen-ed dress.

The Conwoman approaches the Housewife without sparing the Devil or the Bartender a second glance. The room is muggy with too many bodies- but the profit is so good! - And heavy with smoky perfume. The music swings down into her bones.

"Do you dance?" She tucks a stray black curl behind her ear and waits patiently while the Housewife's mouth opens and shuts at the proposition.

"You don't even know me."

"Lindsey," she replies, extending her hand, "You're Jamia. I heard the Bartender say your name."

She doesn't speak.

"Dance with me," the Conwoman says again, one part offer, two parts challenge.

The Housewife is still at a loss. She glances at the dance floor doubtfully- her toe is already tapping to the beat. She wouldn't mind a dance, even if the only thing she can manage is a tipsy waltz. "You're a woman," she manages at last.

"Yes, and so are you. Let's dance."

"But what about-" she casts a look at the rest of the Cabaret's patrons, suggesting what she doesn't feel brave enough to say in the wake of the gin.

The Conwoman rolls her eyes. "Dance with me. I know how to lead."

She still says nothing, unsure.

"You have problems and I can help you with them, so let me take you for a spin."

That gets her interested despite her timidity. "You can't fix cancer."

"No, but I don't intend to fix the cancer." Her mouth curls with just a hint of mischief. "You only have a couple months to live, right? Why not have some fun before your brain turns to soup?"

The Housewife winces because no one has been blunt about her illness, no one has been honest. They love so much to dance around the truth and minimize what is going to be her demise. She isn't an idiot, despite what her husband would like to pretend. She knows what's going to happen to her- she'll have more headaches and then the memory loss will begin until she doesn't know her own name or how to eat or sit up or breathe. The rampaging cells in her head will kill her.

She takes the Conwoman’s hand and lets herself be led onto the floor. There are a few unexpected wolf whistles but no distinction for who they're for. It makes the Housewife blush anyway.

"Hey, Pipes," Lindsey shouts at the singer- somehow she is heard- "Gimme a good ballad, will ya? Something waltz-y!"

"I got just the thing," he replies with a click of his tongue and a wink. Pipes- That cannot possibly be his real name, the Housewife thinks- is slick with his face painted like a vaudeville actor. The novelty is distracting but she has no choice to look away because the Conwoman’s hand is at her waist, the other hand reaching for the Housewife’s left, and the waltz begins, with a sway to it that's got more jazz than anything the former debutant was familiar with.

The piano is lazy and the bass pressing, the steady 1- 2- 3 of the waltz still present but not nearly as noticeable as she was used to. The Conwoman wasn't lying- she'd been taught to lead, with straight back and confident steps.

“So, I hear you have a problem with a guy,” she smiles, mischievous.

The Housewife startles. She does not want to think about him right now.

The Conwoman nods, appraising. “Is it like that, then?”

“Like what?” She tries to stop but the Conwoman pulls her into another turn, keeping time to the song.

“Do you know what this song is called? It’s called “Ballad of Lizzie Borden”. You don’t have to spend the end of your life with that man.”

The Housewife scoffs.

“No, really, you don’t. I know some folks who can help you out, get you a new name. He’ll never know where you went.”

In college, between Home Economics and Cooking, the Housewife had had an English class. She’d learned a Latin phrase: deus ex machina. It meant literally “God out of the machine”. In context it meant when something popped up out of nowhere to get characters out of a jam or save the world. It was a flimsy device and she’d always thought it was stupid, too- the real world didn’t work like that. Things only happened if you worked for them to and some things you just didn’t ever change because you’d signed up for them.

She is having a hard time processing the deus ex machina that has been dropped into her lap as she dances with a suspicious woman wearing a loud dress in a hole of a Cabaret. “Why?”

“I hate to see my fellow woman suffering, especially when she hasn’t got long left to suffer.”

The song winds to an end and a new one picks up. The Housewife and the Conwoman don’t move from where they ended up, by the bar.

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” the Conwoman squeezes the Housewife’s hand, the sincerity of the gesture almost painful in its suddenness. “The Bartender’s gonna give you a set of keys when you leave- they go to that baby blue Corvette out front. If you decide you need a break from life as a punching bag go ahead and take them.”

“You are not giving me a car.”

“No, I’m not giving you a car. I’m giving you my car- I didn’t steal it. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t need it now, anyway. There’s a gentleman staying at the Carlton who’s going to be getting me a new one here pretty soon. You’ll find a few hundred bucks in the glove box and an address for the boy who can get you a shiny new name and apartment.” She kisses the Housewife on the cheek, like a sister or best friend, and strides out of the Cabaret.

The Housewife thinks she sees the Conwoman pinch the Bouncer’s rear as she passes him. She wouldn’t be shocked if that were the case.

The Bartender smirks as he watches the Housewife. She leaves the money to cover her tab under her glass and waves shyly at the Artist, bidding him a farewell that isn't as fond as it looks. She’s glad to be out of there- the Conwoman must have said something. He's a few feet away but he slides the keys down the bar and they stop right at her wrist. He mimes tipping his hat to her.

"Take a nap in the back seat first, doll," he says.

"Don't call me doll, pretty boy," she teases back and she's gone.

The Artist contemplates his whiskey. "She gonna be alright?"

"She's got cancer, Gerard, she's going to die."

"Yeah, but is she going to be alright?" He looks at the Bartender hard, staring down the shorter man.

"You don't know her."

"So?"

The Bartender appraises the Artist quietly. He polishes the bar. The Artist’s cigarette burns unchecked. Eventually- after the Artist's green eyes have burned into him for several minutes and the Bartender stacked clean glasses and the Band broke down for the night- he gives a slight nod. "Yeah. She's gonna be alright... I don't know so much about you, though." He casts a glance, worried and cryptic, over the Artist’s shoulder.

The Devil who has returned from the back room. "It's about time for you to head home," he says, setting a hand on the Artist's shoulder and handing him his overcoat.

The Artist, they both know, is farther along than he looks sitting down. Getting him upright and mobile will be a challenge. His feet tangle in each other and the floor taunts him. Getting him home and to sleep will be even worse. When he drinks he does not sleep. He has no rest from that mind of his that never shuts off anyway. He stares at the pretty ceiling and talks to it- the Devil has a long night to look forward to.

The Devil sighs and supports his brother with one arm. He has a silent exchange with the Bartender:

You do this to him.

He does it to himself.

You're a Bartender.

He's the paying customer.

I can't help him.

No, you can't. He has to do it himself.

The Writer likes to wander through the mornings that follow his nights in the Cabaret, especially when it's rainy. It makes him mournful. It's masochistic but he can hardly help himself any more. At least he feels something.

The streets are closing down or opening up- it depends on the block at this wee hour of the morning- and all the people he passes are too tired to look past their coffee cups or their shoes. The wind rustles the Writer's hair. He turns up his collar against it and pulls his shoulders towards his ears for protection.

At home he knows his wife and son are in bed, tucked up warm, possibly together, possibly with the radio on. They keep each other company when he can't handle staying inside. They are great without him- they used to wait up. It was one thing when his wife would be sitting on the couch, leafing through one of his manuscripts at 3 AM, but to have their son curled up with his head on her thigh, Bearington the Bear in his tiny arms, at that same hour because he didn't want to miss Daddy coming home?

The worst part is that he can't help it. The penthouse apartment makes his skin itch. The wallpaper is too dense with complementary blues and greens. Shadows walk behind its vines. He can't think. He can't stay there at night- not sleeping and itching and keeping his wife awake with his pacing or frantic scribbling on the wood of the nightstand.

Below him- he realizes he's standing on the bridge- the river tumbles swiftly thanks to the rain.

"What are you thinking about, Pete? The next Great American Novel?"

The Writer jumps, clinging to the side railing for support. The Bartender is standing beside him, clearly heading home himself. He lives on this side of town, near the steel mill where his dad worked. The Writer heard him mention it once to the Artist. No surprise there.

"Um. Yeah, I guess so."

"Liar," the Bartender accuses kindly. He leans back against the rail. "Go home, Peter. Your kid misses you. Your wife needs a hug."

"No," he says, honest in reflex, not because he wants to be. The despair is just seeping out of him. "They don't-"

The Bartender grabs him around the shoulders- they're close in height, which is to say, short- and starts leading him off the bridge, to steady ground beside the street where cars are slowly coming to life. He has a headache starting. Suddenly, the Writer needs to sleep in his own bed more than he's ever needed anything in his life. The Bartender points him up the hill and gives him a gentle push, "It's a long walk but you'll be better off there than out here. Give the Missus my best. I don't wanna see you for at least a week, Pete, capiche?"

The Writer laughs nervously and it turns into a yawn. "Yeah, okay. See you."

The Bartender nods and tucks his hands into his pockets and watches the Writer vanish over the hill.

The Housewife wakes up around noon. Her mouth tastes like old nylons.

"Oh, God," she groans. Her head doesn't hurt too terribly- that is not the problem at all.

Last night. She'd gotten into a car given to her by a woman she didn't know from Eve. She'd driven said car far enough to be just outside of town where she wouldn't be noticed, and gone to sleep because, really, she had been in no shape to drive. It's a miracle she wasn't pulled over. Her husband is going to be furious.

Her heart clenches. Her breath comes too short. Tears prick at her eyes. He is going to kill her for this. She didn't go home last night.

She didn't go home last night.

For the first time ever.

The Housewife stares at her own eyes in the rearview mirror. She'd always been told they were sweet, which is a nice way of saying "plain" where she grew up. Brown and plain and unassuming. Unquestioning. She is losing her mind, she must be because now there's something in them, something that looks like gold or honey or perhaps both.

A smile picks up the corners of her mouth. She reaches to open the glove box with a shaking hand. It pops open with a springy sound. As promised there's a large wad of money and a folded piece of paper. She unfolds it and reads the name and address. She needs to get to the big city, it seems, and find a phonebook and a map before she can make any progress. The drive will probably be a few days at least.

The money in her lap is enough to pay for the rock on her ring finger and a matching necklace. It looks like it is, anyway.

The money might be stolen.

It might have once belonged to nuns or someone equally harmless and kind.

They did call her a Conwoman after all.

The money might also have once lined the pocket of a politician. Some kind of man who wouldn't help feed the homeless because they were freeloaders in his eyes.

The Housewife has no way of knowing.

The money stares back up at her, heavy and very green.

She takes a deep breath and drops her wedding ring into the ashtray then puts the money and address back into the glove box.

She turns on the radio, finds something loud and like the jazz from the Cabaret, aching head be damned.

She puts the car in drive and heads for the interstate.

- Fin

Fic: Look at What You've Done

vinvy — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 08:01:30 GMT

Title: Look at What You've Done
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Pairing: Gabe/Pete
Word Count: ~ 975
Summary: “This is bullshit, man. I didn’t come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day.”
Warnings: profanity, spray paint, a little bit of angst, shameless fluff
Disclaimer: If you have found this by searching anything for yourself or one of your friends GO BACK RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. Also this never happened and I don't do these things for profit. Duh.
A/N: Written for iron_fist123 for the prompt "Pete, eyeliner, and a notebook" because she knows just what to feed my brain. The first in our Gravity!verse. There is totally more to come, okay?

The worst thing about really nice eyeliner pencils is their tendency to be made of hardwood. When sharpened, if you aren't lucky, you'll get jagged edges that'll slice your eyelids off once the pencil wears down.

"Is that why you're using that thing to write with?"

It's rude to read over people's shoulders, Gabe, Pete writes with a flourish. The oily consistency of the eyeliner makes flourishes run smoothly. They're out of place in his messy print but he adds them anyway to keep things classy.

Tuesdays are boring, even in the studio they're boring. It's because they're too. "Too" as an adjective. Too-sdays. Too muddled after Mondays and too early in the week- nothing to look forward to, just more days. The walls here are too soundproof- Pete wants to hear traffic and chatter, nothing pretty or euphonic, just rattling and bustling and alive. The air is too cool and the carpeting is too beige. Far too beige. He can almost taste the beige for fuck’s sake. It's like oatmeal but without a half cup of brown sugar and too much water instead of cream.

"Want me to find some spray paint? Then we can fix the carpet before the next take," Gabe says.

Pete sighs at his notebook then resharpens the eyeliner pencil, meticulously twisting it until it's got a needle-point. That’s not going to do any good.

Gabe's exit barely registers in Pete’s brain- it’s too busy telling him to make a meticulous border around the edge of this page- but Gabe must have been running because he’s back in ten minutes with something ridiculously loud that keeps hitting the wall and what sounds like a plastic bag. Pete’s curious but Gabe is incapable of not making a loud entrance so the curiosity isn’t to the point that he’ll look up. This “Too-sdays” business looks promising. Paper rips- hopefully Gabe isn’t messing with any scores- duct tape (oh the familiar sound of shoe-repair) coming off of a roll follows. There’s rustling for a few minutes, blessed white noise.

Finally, Gabe huffs like he’s done with his racket. “This is bullshit, man. I didn’t come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day.”

“Not moping, writing.” Well. Doodling. Little cartoons going to war in smudged eyeliner in the back of his notebook.

There’s a plastic rattling sound. “Holy shit he can still speak!”

This is the point where Pete would say “Fuck off” except there’s a telltale hiss after Gabe’s exclamation that turns it into “What are you doing to my studio?” as he snaps his eyeliner pencil and flails to get to his feet. The wheeled chair goes flying and knocks over the Monster he left on the floor- the poor thing didn’t even see it coming.

“Your studio needs new wallpaper,” he explains without looking at Pete. The can of spray paint in his hand produces the most violent shade of orange Pete has ever seen against the massive sheets of paper that have been taped to the wall. That eye-bending orange becomes the outline of a penis- that’s all the artistic talent of bathroom stall graffiti right there.

“Are you kidding me?” Pete rolls his eyes and catches the can Gabe tosses him. “Other people have to work here, you know.”

“This way they know what they’re getting into!”

The jovial, almost manic, grin is catching. Gabe starts to add a caption to his piece “For a good time call” but Pete intersects- in fluorescent green! Nice!- whatever name Gabe would have put with “Juliet” in sloppy cursive. Next comes a stick figure girl with goggling eyes, a zombie, wholly appropriate, he thinks. His jeans are neon casualties. Gabe comes back with purple this time and gives the zombie girl a dream bubble- and of course she’s dreaming of brains. What else would be on her mind? Poor, starving Juliet who’s only looking for a good time which in her world means a feast of grey matter. Purple matter. With orange spots.

It’s a good thing that the paper covers the whole wall- it turns out that this was just what Pete’s brain needed. Shouting and color and paint fumes. Lyrics he’s been tossing around for weeks get dashed in the corner. Gabe adds something to them about rain which is perfect when you looked at it in dripping paint. They wrestle for the last of the purple paint and it ends up sprayed all over their shoes and hands. There’s a good-sized splotch of it on Gabe’s neck, too.

They wheeze with laughter, each glance they spare the newly christened wall making them double over again.

“I can honestly say that’s something I’ve never done before,” Gabe announces, settling onto the floor to admire their work once the giggles subside.

Pete grins and drops down next to him, swaying. “I am dizzy as fuck. What the hell made you think to do that?”

Gabe hums. There’s a fan just out of reach and he stretches to turn it on. “Paint fumes, dude. Magical stuff.”

“You’re magical stuff,” Pete says and snorts because, did he seriously just say that? It sets Gabe laughing again. The things that come out of his mouth are things he should not be responsible for. Especially the things that worm their way out when he’s high on paint fumes. “You got me high on paint fumes,” he accuses Gabe, who’s leaning back on his elbows and giving him a cheeky grin, “This is your own fault, then -” He leans down and kisses Gabe because Gabe’s mouth his open at the start of a reply and Pete has always been a sucker for perfect angles- really, how could he not?

- Fin

There's This Girl

vinvy — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 07:17:07 GMT

I'm going to tell you all about her over here because this is the only place that isn't seen by anyone who goes to my college. (Why, oh why did I add K on tumblr? I love her but my last haven of secrecy is gone- all anyone has to do to find my LJ is use my twitter handle. God, I am an idiot.)

Here goes nothing.

Last week she cut her hair. It really shouldn't matter like it does but, you see, I'd just gotten to the point where I could safely look at her and not want to avert my gaze for fear of being caught looking. I was on the verge of that 'just friends' feeling. Somehow, this haircut changes all of that- or maybe I never wanted my feeling to change to begin with? It isn't as if I want them to go away entirely because they feel absolutely beautiful, if a little melancholy.

(Let it be known that she knows. Oh, how she knows, even though she may have forgotten or brushed it aside. She claimed not to like long distance relationships but she's recently acquired a boyfriend who lives in Canada. I don't mind the boyfriend- they're happy together and it's grossly cute. I mind being lied to. Holy fuck, if you learn nothing else about me, learn this and remember it: never lie to me. It is wrong. I will not trust her now thanks to that.)

Back to the hair.

It's short in back now with barely-bangs and with a little off of the sides it could be a fauxhawk with leftovers of last month's bleach making it reddish at the tips. I don't know how to say it with proper words, but that does things to me. It doesn't help that she's got pseudo-military posture (thank you, NJROTC, thank you so very much) and gives really good hugs. All of this setback because of her bloody hair.

I really want to touch her hair. Run my hands through it, maybe pull without hurting- just to see what kind of reaction I'd get. I want to hold her hand because she radiates heat, okay? She's a human space heater and it's as wonderful as it is odd. I want to do these things without feeling uncomfortable about with. Without her knowing just how much it makes me think (which is to the point when my brain shorts out) when I spend too much time looking at her. Sometimes I wonder if she can see my eyes dilate because I'm pretty sure I can feel it. Then, if she does pay that much attention, is she watching because it is genuinely interesting to her or because it's just a fun game to watch me squirm like some pinned insect?

This is a little ridiculous. I waste these feelings on people who don't appreciate them.

On Empathy, Grief, and Abuse

vinvy — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 23:39:10 GMT

Grief and Abuse are so entirely unique that once you've experienced them you never, ever forget them. Watching someone else feel them is incredible because that level of empathy is rare. So painfully rare.

Every shaky breath or twitch of a muscle is familiar. Every thread of conversation, every subject change. Every awkward silence that leaves you thinking, "I know" not because you've heard it before but because you've felt it before and you know there isn't anything that you can do about it. You know what it's like to wait and hold yourself together day by day. That need to organize and clean and move and adjust everything so you don't have to think.

You reach out with unsure hands because you remember wanting someone to hold you but having no idea how to begin to ask for it. You press gently the offer of a new home in hopes that they won't be too terrified to take the out you give them when it comes time for them to need it because you remember the horror of needing to leave to survive but having absolutely nowhere to go.

The fear of dying in a cage.

The fear of the dead and gone.

It makes your fingers tremble and twitch and you want to open up your rib cage and tuck whoever's hurting away inside the bones, right between your lungs and a little behind, to the left of your spine so your heartbeat can keep them company. So that they are safe and warm at night. So that they can skip to the end and not have to go through the process of hurting in order to heal. So you can spare them everything you have gone through because, damn it, one person should be enough. One person should satisfy Grief and Abuse, assuage them so will leave your friends out of their fray. You've already done this- they shouldn't have to.

Sadly, one is never enough and so you're stuck with all that empathy, trying to catch blood in a sieve.

Doctor Who Meme (Huzzah)

vinvy — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 05:32:34 GMT

Your job is now your Time Lord name. The last digit of your phone number is the current regeneration you are in. The nearest clothing item to your right is now the most notable item in your current wardrobe. The last person you texted is your current companion. Your favorite word is now your catchphrase.

(Got it from dsudis)

Name: The Student (Oh lord, that sounds so tragic.)
Regeneration: 4
Notable Clothing: highwayman's coat
Companion: julorean(Ready to go, Jules?)
Catchphrase: Huzzah

I Sing the Body Electric

vinvy — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 06:35:53 GMT

Yeah, there's an overused Walt Whitman reference as the title. Too bad, folks- 't is already done.

Sometimes I forget that I'm human.

Meaning: not only do I forget what I look like but my gender slips my mind, as does the fact that I am not actually a floating mind but I am a mind within flesh and muscle and bone. I'll look in the mirror or put on a dress or some part of me will start hurting and then I will be reminded of my physical form. I'm not a creature of thought- I have a body that is classified as human by other humans.

It isn't that I want to look some other way, be another gender, or be something inhuman (with the exception of jokes about being a robot). My body looks alright by my standards and I think I'd feel the same about being a man as I do a woman (which is to say, "Whatever, it's what I am") and being human is awesome because it means that I have the capacity to think about these sorts of things and articulate them! ... Nevertheless I still forget what I am from time to time, only to be pleasantly surprised when I remember it. (Again, I'm on good terms with my body- however they don't seem to be good enough that they're at the top of my mind...)

I've been doing a little bit of thinking about why this is, and the answer is freakishly easy and so I don't want to believe it's true: I forget that I'm human because I simply spend less time focused on the reality of myself than I do on the reality of others and things which are immaterial. I don't pay attention to myself. End of discussion.

Can it really be that simple? I want feedback because this feels very strange indeed.

If the Internet is Censored Y'all can Kiss LJ Bye-Bye

vinvy — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 19:29:36 GMT

Seriously. We're talking kiss-kiss bang-bang here. BLI and George Orwell and V for Vandetta kinds of things. The government is considering passing laws which will censor the internet and potentially do away with sites like LJ, tumblr, facebook, and more.

Do you know what that means?
No more witty rambles.
No more fic.
No more new opinions.
No more new people at the click of a button.

http://americancensorship.org/

http://americancensorship.org/

http://americancensorship.org/

http://americancensorship.org/

What are you people waiting for? Click the link and at least try to get something done about this. Please!

ATTENTION ALL READERS

vinvy — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 04:15:47 GMT

Hey, do you guys remember when I did Bandom Big Bang? Way back in September? And I wrote Parks and Recreation?

No, I'm not just here to whore out my own fic. (Though if you went to go read it and comment I would be so, so grateful, okay?)

As it turns out, the lovely juloreanwent and comment!fic'd a companion to Parks and Rec. Then, with some tweaking, it turned into this: Set a Fox to Catch a Fox. It's adorable and a quick read- a nice jaunt to tie up some things with Brendon and his nasty werefox problem. Go read it. You'll giggle.

I'm procrastinating again...

vinvy — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 22:16:56 GMT

Strange things happen when I get bored.

1. Had beer.

2. Smoked an entire cigarette.

3. Smoked a cigar.

4. Done drugs.

5. Written on a bathroom wall.

6. ~~Read a George Orwell book.~~

7. Had a physical fight.

8. ~~Used Twitter.~~

9. ~~Listened to Lady Gaga.~~

10. Been in a car accident.

11. Got suspended.

12. Got expelled.

13. ~~Been allergic to something~~.

14. ~~Got a computer virus~~.

15. ~~Touched a real gun~~.

16. ~~Had a dog.~~

17. ~~Had a cat~~.

18. Been pregnant.

19. ~~Camped out.~~

20. ~~Swam in the ocean.~~

21. ~~Wore a bikini.~~

22. ~~Driven a car.~~

23. Been sent to the principal.

24. ~~Ever liked someone.~~

25. Failed a class.

26. Failed a test.

27. Went to summer school.

28. Got worse than a D.

29. ~~Read an entire book. (WTF?)~~

30. ~~Recorded my own music~~.

31. Had an xbox.

32. Worn heels more than 3 days in a row.

33. ~~Wore fishnets.~~

34. ~~Wore skinny jeans.~~

35. Been in love.

36. ~~Hated someone.~~

37. Been cheated on.

38. Cheated on someone.

39. ~~Did something sexual with someone of the same sex.~~

40. Practiced Christianity.

41. ~~Worn makeup.~~

42. ~~Lied to my parents about where I was going.~~

43. ~~Had surgery.~~

44. Had my license.

45. ~~Been to college or university.~~

46. ~~Graduated high school.~~

47. ~~Attempted suicide~~.

48. Worn colored contacts.

49. ~~Painted my nails black~~.

50. Broken someone’s heart.

51. ~~Had my heart broken.~~

52~~. Cried for an hour straight.~~

53. ~~Lost something very valuable~~.

54. Got separated from one of my parents as a kid.

56. ~~Got stung by a bee.~~

57. ~~Eaten something bad/expired.~~

58. Threw up from being so drunk.

59. Saw someone throw up from being so drunk.

60. Danced with someone of the opposite sex.

61. ~~Owned an ipod.~~

62. Owned an iphone.

63. Fell for a best friend.

64. Stole a friend’s significant other.

65. ~~Went far away from home for more than a week~~.

66. Moved out.

67. ~~Ran away.~~

68. Teased my brother/sister.

69. ~~Been to a hospital.~~

70. ~~Had food poisoning.~~

71. ~~Had a job.~~

72. Been fired.

73. Lied to a friend.

74. Lied to a family member.

75. ~~Had a Facebook.~~

76. ~~Posted a video on Youtube.~~

77. Started a rumor about someone.

78. ~~Talked bad about someone.~~

79. Dropped out of school.

80. Deliberately failed a test.

81. Been skinny dipping.

82. Counted to a million.

83. Counted to a thousand.

84. Ate rabbit meat.

85. Ate duck meat.

86~~. Had fast food.~~

87. ~~Been to church.~~

88. Been to Canada.

89. Been married.

90. Had a divorce.

91. ~~Broke a glass.~~

92. ~~Hugged someone today.~~

93. ~~Texted someone today.~~

94. Received a phone call today.

95. Threw something out of the window.

96~~. Ignored a text from someone on purpose.~~

97. Had my feelings hurt by a friend and never told them.

98. ~~Wished I was somebody else.~~

99. Gone on exchange.

100. Got drunk and made out with a friend.

47
Was this supposed to have a point?

Has She Lost Her Mind?

vinvy — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 18:48:23 GMT

Alas, no, she has not. Not yet, anyway.

Nay, 't is not maddness but plague and the looming bandomreversebb. Yes, that's right, she's writing for it.

... You wouldn't believe how awesome the everything is at this place! Like, there aren't words for it, I am so excited. Overwhelmed and sick, too, but also excited in my own, phlegmy way. I'll keep y'all posted on how this goes!

vinvy — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 21:43:15 GMT

I have a computer!!

That's right, folks, now y'all can talk at me all the time and timely replies are pretty likely to happen.
So, do you have any requests? My fic-brain needs prodding to get it back up to speed after all of this school business.

Love and muffins,

Rae

Masterpost of Fic!!!

vinvy — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 03:34:50 GMT

FANFIC

Blanket Disclaimer: This never happened- otherwise I probably wouldn't be sitting here making up nonsense about it. I don't own any of the people or trademarks I reference and I don't seek to profit from any of the fanfic posted here. If you got here by googling yourself or anybody you know you'd probably hit your browser's "Back" button immediately lest you risk being scarred for life.

Blanket Permission: If you want to make podfic of or do any artwork for any fanfic I've written, please let me know so I can show off the finished product, then go for it!

MCR AU's

Atlas: PG-13 (WIP)
Mikey Way starts a blog during his freshman year of high school. It is for no one's eyes but his.

Chocolate Syrup: PG-13 (Hiatus) Frank/Gerard
"See, there's this guy..." Gerard and Mikey are renting a room in a boarding house. Shenanigans over boys ensue.

Groceries: G (One-Shot) kid!fic
She does her very best to keep her son, Frank, from finding out that mommy isn't as rich as a queen.

La Forchette: PG-13 (One-Shot) Frank/Jamia
Jamia works at La Forchette. Frank Iero is the last thing she needs to deal with today.

Peach Fuzz: PG-13 (One-Shot) Frank/Mikey
Mikey had too much time to think after waking up in the hospital. It was supposed to be a 'Ghost of You' fic but it kind of went haywire along the way. Oh well.

Umbrella: PG (One-Shot) Gen
Ray and Gerard play an open mic night at a coffee shop. It's raining and a stranger died. That's about it.

Big Bang(s)

Parks and Recreation: PG-13 (Big Bang!!) Frank/Gerard
"At first, he’s pleasantly surprised because- “Frank?”

...but Frank doesn’t look like that. Frank doesn’t have a green cast to his skin. He certainly doesn’t have a nice set of long, sharp teeth inside his slack jaw or holes in the back of his sweatshirt for- what? Are those wings? Black, veined and iridescent wings?

Gerard falls out of his chair."

Faeries! Spells! Deception!

Lightning in the Blood: PG-13 (Reverse Big Bang!)

The Cabaret is a playground for souls. Let them do their battles elsewhere.

Jazz! Romance! Allusions!

Dustverse

Extra-dimensional Affairs: PG-13 (One-Shot) Ray/Jet-Star
This'd be a weird relationship to explain to the parents.

Literature is Dangerous: R (One-Shot) Frank/Gerard
After two years in statis Fun Ghoul needs to get laid and all Poison can think about is reading.

Strategy: G (One-Shot) kid!fic
A young not-yet killjoy plays chess with an Exterminator.

Teenagers: PG-13 (One-Shot) Gen
Puberty and Battery City do not mix.

Turn Up the Fakes and Lies: R (Hiatus) Frank/Gerard
Frank is cool with getting mixed up with the wrong sorts of people. Oh, wait, his name's 'Fun Ghoul' now.

Wakey Wakey: PG-13 (One-Shot) Gen
Frank is involved with the kind of people his government warned him about.

Miscellaneous

Desperate: PG-13 (One-Shot) Frank/Jamia (ish)
There are some pretty ridiculous solutions to nicotine cravings.
The first of the toaster!fics.

Everything: PG (One-Shot) Gerard/Lindsey
Love and ambiguity!

In Which there is Coughing and Cuddling: PG-13 (One-Shot) Frank/Gerard (if you squint)
Truth in advertising- it's exactly what it says on the tin.

Superpowers: PG-13 (One-Shot) Gen
Showers are kryptonite and Mikey Way is hungry.
The second of the toaster!fics!

Gravity (a wedding bandom WIP)
In which Pete Wentz and Gabe Saporta are going to get married. Contains fluff, metaphors, kid!fic, profanity, and shenanigans.

Look at What You've Done: PG-13 Pete/Gabe
"This is bullshit, man. I didn't come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day."
Pete is having a down day and Gabe is so not cool with that. The first in Gravity!verse, penned by iron_fist123 and myself.

Announcement: PG-13 Pete/Gabe
Pete would be irritated if he weren't about to vomit.
Public speaking is a bitch. (This one is on AO3 because I am lazy. Sue me.)

Calm After the Storm (a domestic Supernatural WIP)
In which Dean and Cas have settled down and have adopted a daughter.

Every. Two. Hours.: G kid!fic Dean/Castiel
By the fourth night of the Endlessly Displeased Baby, Dean at least was beginning to think Hope was already self-aware and that she hated their guts.

ORIGINALS!!

All of these are property of me, vinvy, and I will be incredibly irate if anything untoward should be done to or with any of these writings that follow, do you understand? No plaigarism or use without my express permission, please and thank you! I hope you enjoy.

A Knight in Shinging... Aluminum?
It was altogether an unpleasant place that also smelled a bit of boiled cabbage… that could also have been his grandmother’s ancient sofa...

Demons
Roidhen did not understand these men with shining limbs, olive skin and eagles on their banners.

Equality Fetish
There are no free-thinking women. They do not hold positions of power- certainly there is no mention of a female World Controller

Estate Sale
Their music haunts my bones, makes them tremble and quiver like the Jell-o molds she brings into the back yard in July.

Integrity
You are holding the hand of a dying man.

The King of Unanswered Questions
The day the skin started peeling from his back... he knew it wasn't good.

Poetry!
There's quite a bit of it and most of it is bad but hopefully you'll find something you like here.

Now THIS One is a Call to Arms

vinvy — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 02:13:20 GMT

Yup, I honestly need your help this time, duckies.

How do you feel about standardized testing?
Any Strong Feelings?
What about horror stories?

If you do, please give them to me in the comments, preferably along with some sort of name (I don't care if it's a pseudonym- we're all anonymous here) because it's for a research paper I have to turn in on Thursday. Please and thank you my beloved Friends!

-Rae

A Call to Arms Duckies!

vinvy — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 23:57:23 GMT

Not really a call to arms. I just wanted your attention. Hopefully one day you can forgive my lie.

I'm sitting here in the computer suite thinking about LJ and post-y things and wondering just what I want to write about. It makes for quite the to-do list.

So far I've covered original fiction and my promises of smooshyness and fluff fic. (See tags original and toaster!fic because the toaster-related fic may very well become a universe of it's own. I am accepting prompts on all accounts.)... I think this counts as a personal post and fic recs are waiting for a new laptop. Sequel-type things regarding Parks & Recreation will be around in 2012. If you haven't read it yet, here's the you can find the masterpost here and I would be much obliged if you read it. It is my baby and I love feedback.

By the way, it seems that this is a call to arms! I'm looking for a beta because it seems that mine is on hiatus! D: I'm very bummed about this turn of events and if she comes back onto my radar I'd be eternally grateful. As it is I'm needing someone with an objective eye to go over my fic for various things, as listed here. Please and thank you very much!

One more thing! I want prompts. My reverse big bang starts next week but I'm kind of at a loss until then, so if you have anything you'd like to see written, I may very well be the woman for the job.

Love and Muffins,

Rae

P.S.

If any of you wanted to leave comments here or on anything (and I meant anything) else that I've written I would be very okay with that.

Fic: Literature is Dangerous

vinvy — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 02:50:02 GMT

Title: Literature is Dangerous
Author: vinvy
Summary: After two years in statis Fun Ghoul needs to get laid and all Poison can think about is reading.
Word Count: ~2000
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Frank/ Gerard
Warnings: profanity, "adult situations" (Is that what they're calling it nowadays?), vague background information, reading!, an author who can't write porn to save her life.
Disclaimer: Lies, all of this is composed of lies!!
A/N: I tried to write this back in spring and I never finished it properly. If anyone wants to do so for me, please post it in the comments. <3!!

Party Poison is laying stretched out on the twin bed, reading. He’s holding the book above him with both hands. He’s been lying like that for at least half an hour, turning a page every minute or so, completely still aside from that and silent.

Fun Ghoul’s been watching him. The clock he was tinkering with sits on the desk, forgotten, next to a stack of Poison’s sketchbooks. He’s almost hypnotized by the way the sunlight filters through the small window, lighting up the dust floating through the air and settling on Poison’s red hair. It’s very hard not to just sit there and watch, absorbing the quiet of the empty diner. It’s very hard to sit in silence and do nothing but watch. Ghoul can’t focus on picking apart the clock’s gears- he’s done this too many times before and he knows the innards of this clock like his own tattoos- and the intense concentration coming off of Poison as he reads is tangible in the air, making it heavy.

The assumption is that Poison is eventually going to notice that he’s being watched but so far, no luck, and Ghoul is about ready to die for some attention. He remembers that Kobra Kid and Jet Star have taken Grace out for the day.

“It’s high time she learned to scavenge and bargain,” Jet had said over the twelve-year-old’s head and that was that. They’re probably going to be gone for most of the day seeing as they’ve got to track down Tommy Chow Mein.

This gives Fun Ghoul ideas.

He goes over to Party and straddles his legs. “What are you reading?”

“The Wanting Seed,” he says in a distant voice, turning a page, his eyes still darting over the lines.

Ghoul knows that voice. He’s used it himself. That voice means that Poison doesn’t even realize that he’s answered a question, he’s so far into his book. So deep in the world of fiction that he’s running on autopilot. Ghoul knows that particular book well, too, but he can’t read it anymore- it reminds him too much of how the world is today and he prefers not to think of those things when he doesn’t have to.

Just the same, though, Poison is enjoying the book and he probably can’t be distracted from it.

Fun Ghoul accepts that challenge with great enthusiasm.

He scoots up so he’s seated more comfortably on the other man’s thighs and not-so-subtly slips his hands under the hem of his shirt. He runs his hands over Poison’s stomach, taking stock of the scars there, and distantly notes that Poison’s gun isn’t strapped to his thigh. Poison flips another page and arches his back a little so Ghoul can push his shirt up. Aside from that he doesn’t show that he notices Ghoul’s presence, just goes on reading and annoying the hell out of his significant other.

Ghoul knows he really isn’t paying attention, either. There’s no way he is, because because Party is painfully self-conscious about letting even Fun Ghoul look at him nowadays. Being in stasis in the BLI labs for so long made much of the Killjoy’s muscle dissolve and atrophy. It had happened to all of them but Fun Ghoul is pretty sure it effected Poison the most. He’s the one who’d gotten dissected, after all. There was a long scar from his navel to his sternum as proof. At least the scientists had put everything back once they’d decided there was nothing too spectacular to be seen, just smoked-out lungs and a mostly-salvaged liver.

He avoids touching that scar, tracing along others. There’s a flasher burn just above one hip bone, flat, shiny and smooth as silk. It’s old, from before Fun Ghoul joined the gang. That’s one of his favorite spots on Poison’s body- he could probably just stroke it all day long if he were allowed to. Not in any sexual way, either. It’s just a nice texture. It makes him feel at home, that texture, reminds him what he’s made of.

The smaller scars run deeper and some of them are crooked at angles. Shrapnel wounds, scarring ghost-white skin a pinkish grey. He still remembers being stuck in the back of the Trans Am, passing out while Poison bled buckets after an attack on the safe house. Now, looking at the two dozen short scars, it doesn’t seem plausible that there could have been that much blood.

Another page is turned. The soft sound of paper sliding along paper twinges his nerves. Keeping one hand on Poison’s hip (that really is his favorite patch of skin) he leans in and licks all the way up the dissection scar. The skin there is too warm and tastes like dust.

“You really should give your eyes a rest,” he says, looking up at him, “Kobra says you should for at least two hours twice a day. That was serious surgery, Poison, even for you and your freakishly fast healing.”

BLI hadn’t found Poison’s organs interesting, no, but they’d had a field day with his retinas. When they discovered how Kobra had modified them they’d been quick and sloppy in removing the additions. Waking up blind had driven Poison insane for a while, turned him into something hopeless and half-dead. Fun Ghoul had never seen him like that before, full of self-blame and -loathing and pills. When Show Pony had given them the most cautious of go-aheads, Poison had forced Kobra to take him back into Battery City to break into an experimentation lab and repair everything he could- not that Kobra was that hard to persuade. As it stands now, Poison is not the type to recuperate.

“I don’t want to. You have to understand. I thought you liked to read.”

Fun Ghoul spends a little time kissing back down Poison’s stomach, delighting when he feels the muscles jump under his mouth. “I love to read but the fact remains that your eyes are still new and you need to give them a rest.” And pay me some goddamn attention he adds mentally, though if he’s honest with himself his wants have gone from attention to sex and not much more. He can’t really be blamed for that, though- it isn’t his fault Party Poison can make reading so fucking hot.

“Come on,” he implores, “don’t make me blindfold you.”

Poison turns another page. “As if you-”

He stops talking when Fun Ghoul licks his nipple. There we go. He bites down, just barely, savoring the light gasp that follows.

Poison composes himself for half a second then huffs and looks down at him, holding the book off to the side. “I’m really trying to read here.”

He seizes the opportunity and snatches the novel out of Poison’s hand.

“Hey! Give that back!”

He’s got to bend his arm and lean back at an odd angle to escape Poison’s reach but it works. They end up pressed tight together, Poison’s arm clenched around his waist while his free hand grabs at the book. This is doing great favors for his insistent boner. He tries to turn on Party and the plan backfires. Nothing new there. He isn’t complaining- he just rocks into the friction that Patry’s struggling creates, grinning.

“Nope. You need to close your damn eyes for a while or you’re going to get a migraine and your eye muscles will start doing that weird twitchy shit where you look two ways at once and that is not cool.”

“That only happened once!” He flails for the book once more, forcing Fun Ghoul to bend a little farther and pop his back. Ghoul sighs with relief.

“Only because Kobra has been here to threaten you with death every day since. Come on, just relax and close your eyes. The book isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s just starting to get good! Beatrice-Joanna is knocked up and Tristam is trying to get out of prison! Give it!”

It’s getting a little hard to breathe bent like this with Poison crushing his waist. He will not be tempted to give in. Much. “I’ll read it to you, okay? But you have got to rest your eyes. I’m not kidding.”

They’re nose to nose in a staring contest. Poison must finally figure out that he’s not kidding because he relents and leans back, tugging down his shirt. “Fine, just make sure you read it right.”

“This ain’t an education unit, Poison, I’m entirely capable of reading a text and not sounding like a drone. I’m insulted by the implication.”

“Whatever.” Poison rubs both of his hands over his face and tucks an arm under his head.

Fun Ghoul sighs and slides off of Poison, propping himself up on his elbows beside him. He’s trying really hard to lower his testosterone levels by sheer mental power alone and it isn’t working so well- since coming out of a two-year-long stasis there’s been more focus on things like working through atrophy and surgical reparations than sex. That’s been just fine up until today. Now it’s all he can think about.

“Where were you?”

“Page 125. The warder just told Tristam that he had a visitor.” Poison sounds impatient and Ghoul finds himself jealous of the book.

A few pages in Fun Ghoul feels the bed shift. Poison has moved to be able to watch over his shoulder.

“What the hell?”

“I can’t help it!”

“I’ll make you help it!” Fun Ghoul drops the book and wrestles Poison onto his stomach, pinning his arms down with his knees. The book slides onto the floor with a decisive thunk. He unties the bandanna from around his neck. Poison catches sight of it and starts wriggling again.

“Are you kidding me? Wait a minute- where has that been? I’m gonna tell Kobra you’re trying to give me an eye infection.”

“Please, your immune system is ten times better than everyone’s. Besides, unlike yourself and your brother, I actually bathe and do laundry regularly.”

“I resent that, Fun Ghoul-” he yelps and makes several attempts to bite Fun Ghoul’s hands when the bandanna is tied around his eyes. “Fuck you!”

“Wow, I never knew this was a kink for you.”

Poison growls. “You do realize I can take this off when you go get the book, right?”

“I’m trying to take care of you and not get killed by your brother. Fucking shut up and listen so I can read to you.” He retrieves the book and returns to his spot, getting comfortable and finding his place in the book again.

Party Poison rolls over onto his back, making a big deal out of sounding inconvenienced. Fun Ghoul waits until he’s settled in to continue reading.

At the end of one chapter Poison’s hand has worked its way into Fun Ghoul’s hair, playing with it while he listens. He chuckles at the bitter and ironic parts and makes disgruntled sounds at the disturbing social commentary. In the window the sun is moving towards one side of the window but it’s not going to set- it’s too early in summer to hope for that. The best they might get is an eight hour sunset before it starts heading in the other direction, heating things up all over again.

Fun Ghoul finishes out the next part of the book and he’s interested in it again despite his best intentions. He remembers why it’s a classic of American Literature even though neither of those things exist any more. Poison has gone from playing with his hair to pulling on it.

“What?”

Poison hasn’t taken off the blindfold so he ends up placing a messy series of kisses along Fun Ghoul’s jaw until he finds his mouth.

Ghoul can’t help grinning and pulling away. “Don’t you want to find out what happens to Beatrice-Joanna and the baby? What about Tristam? He’s going to war, you know.”

Poison makes an irritated sound and tugs him back, kissing him like it’s Armageddon and they’ve got seconds before the bomb drops. He thrusts his tongue into Ghoul’s mouth, a little more than suggestive, and Ghoul can’t help moaning. He drops the book and threads his fingers through Poison’s hair, climbing back on top of him.

When they come up for air Ghoul rasps out, “Look what you made me do. I’ve lost my page.”

“That’s a damn shame ‘cause listenin’ to you read is now on my list of turn-ons.”

“Oh is it?”

They’re both shedding their shirts between kisses.

“Fuck yeah,” Poison wraps his arms around Fun Ghoul’s waist and bites into his neck.

A Knight in Shining... Aluminum?

vinvy — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 01:37:19 GMT

Title: A Knight in Shining... Aluminum?
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG
Warnings: fluff, shameless and references to Terry Pratchett's amazing work, giddy teenaged boys, lacking any character names whatsoever
Summary: The Captain rescues the Prince from a Werewolf.
Word Count: ~ 1000
A/N: Mine, mine, mine. An original story written (actually, "lovingly and painstakingly plucked out character by character on my phone's keyboard over the course of an evening" is more accurate) for iron_fist123because everyone needs fluff on Halloween, okay? Anywho, part of my brain saw this being fanfic but I did not feel like working that hard, so assign your own faces to them, alright? I love you darling readers, and a happy Halloween to you all!!

Once upon a time there was this boy who lived in the sort of neighborhood where you didn’t keep your jack-o-lantern outside and you brought the cat in at night for all of October and November. It was altogether an unpleasant place that also smelled a bit of boiled cabbage… that could also have been his grandmother’s ancient sofa that was a supposed family heirloom. One could never be too sure. It also happened that this boy came from a family who, though of old money and well-established bloodlines, was desperately poor.

This meant that there were no costumes on Halloween. He was okay with this for most of his years. The family usually spent the spookiest of all nights bobbing for apples and telling ghost stories and seeing who could stay up the longest. As if the seedy nature of the formerly-prestigious neighborhood were in their DNA, the thought of trick-or-treating was too frightening for the boy and his brother (though their parents did try to convince them to go once when they were twelve.) This year, however, things were different. He was too old to go begging for candy (or razorblade-infested rice crispy treats, more likely) and too old for the same ghost stories from years past… but he was of that particularly precocious age that was perfect for costume parties.

He was excited about the party, in the nonchalant way of most teenagers… if nonchalant involved a slightly manic grin and odd intervals of apathetic, unconvincing skulking over the course of a week. In the spirit of tradition he was set on making his own costume and he managed to do so magnificently. Naturally, he didn’t expect anyone to understand that he was dressed up at Captain Samuel Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork Watch (that would be expecting a lot, even for him) but the general idea of a regal guard was evident in his freshly-cut curtain-cloak and foil-paste-and-cardboard armor and sword.

His mother insisted, to his endless irritation and his little brother’s glee, upon taking pictures before he left the house.

Eventually, he set off down the cobbled street, striding against the cold wind and fighting the urge to run in his excitement. (It should be noted that undaunted by the cold he may have been, cozy and warm he was not. The Captain should have worn a sweatshirt under his breastplate.)

The music from the party could be heard from a block off. There were strobe lights visible in the windows. The house was an impressive three stories- it came straight out of a Hollywood movie set in a bygone era when vampire bats were strung on wires. All it needed was a thunderstorm.

He shivered with delight and grinned.

Inside the imposing house, he felt the novelty of the atmosphere since. The girl who’d invited him was nowhere to be seen and while that did take some of the “date” pressure away it left him with no one to talk to. Quite honestly, people made him nervous- people from the good side of town most-especially- even when he was supposed to be playing at the sardonic Captain Vimes.

A plastic cup of poorly-spiked cider found its way into his hand. He sipped it, his alter ego despairing at the low alcohol content, his self glad for it. He found his way to an unoccupied patch of wall and settled in.

Ten minutes of dedicated people-watching- well, more like being half-blinded by the lights flashing off of his armor- and boredom dropped in for a visit. It would be much better to be at home fighting with his brother over which film to watch at midnight-

But he stopped at the door.

Understand, that there is a certain kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have money- loads of people had that one. There’s another, bolder, braver kind of confidence that comes from knowing your great-great-great-great grandfather had money, supposedly, if the paintings in the parlor are any indicator.

The Captain had this kind of confidence bred into him. It was what kept him in the foyer.

There was a Prince- or some other breed of noble, judging from the plumed silk hat that he was twisting violently in his hands- bickering with a… Werewolf? The Captain couldn’t be too sure. They were arguing nonetheless and it looked painful. Like the Werewolf wanted to have this conversation and be proven right, Right Now, in front of all these people because the Prince needed to be shown he had No Clue what he was talking about. All the while, the satin-cloaked Prince wanted to leave without making a Scene because the night had been going to Well and maybe the evening could be Salvaged if they could be Alone for a little bit to talk…

There was obviously more going on there than the Captain cared to know. All he understood was that he felt ridiculous in his homemade costume and his night needed to be livened up.

So he arrested the Werewolf for harassment, like any good Captain of the Watch would.

What happened next was sort of a haze- that’s what happens when you get hit hard enough- but it involved a good amount of running after the initial blows were exchanged. (The tinfoil did a number on the Werewolf’s knuckles. Teach him to strike an officer of the Law.) That’s what he got for being a good method actor. His drama teacher would be proud.

When the adrenaline cooled, he noticed that he was not in his own bathroom and, indeed, the person calling him a “valiant idiot” was not his mother.

The Prince held an ice pack to the Captain’s face when it was evident that the Captain was too dumbfounded to manage the feat of gross motor skills on his own.

“What were you thinking?” The Prince admonished with a glare, dabbing the Captain’s split lip with alcohol. The sting punctuated his scolding nicely. “Just who do you think you are?”

He snorted. “Captain Samuel Vimes of the Watch, at your service, sir,” he quipped.

“From the optimistic charging-in back there I’d have had you pegged for Constable Carrot, though I suppose you are neither tall enough nor blond enough. That was as bad as trying to arrest a dragon, honestly,” the Prince replied without missing a beat.

There are a few precious moments that can be called truly “perfect”, in which crossed stars realign themselves with such a song that volcanoes are calm and all is peaceful bliss in the universe.

This was decidedly not one of those moments.

It wouldn’t have done to try and convince the Captain otherwise, however, because in that moment he fell a little bit in love with the Prince.

The Prince raised a shapely eyebrow at the Captain. “Your armor is in such a sad state and you’re confessing your love for me? Captain, just what sort of boy do you take me to be?”

The Captain looked down at the ripped cardboard hanging from his shoulder (with some difficulty- that punch may have given him whiplash) to see that there wasn’t much tin foil left pasted to it. His sword was bent in half on the floor. He looked back up at the prince. “The best kind out there,” he said, “a boy who reads Discworld novels.”

The prince smiled and winked- Oh, that would be why they call him “prince charming” in stories, the Captain thought- and replied, “Good answer, Captain.”

The End.

ATTN: My Most Beloved Friends-List!!

vinvy — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 15:01:14 GMT

**Okay, maybe not.

I've been gone for approximately forever in internet time. My laptop finally died (I'll be holding a wake and eulogy a week from Sunday, if you'd wish to provide anything for me to read at the service) and I've been slammed with essay after essay... and this week I have mid-terms! Yippee-skippee, am I right?

So! When everything is said and done here is what I hope you can look forward to:

The sequel(s?) to Parks and Recreation! There may also be companion pieces in the future, so keep those peepers peeled! [ Here's and ugly link to my lovely P & R masterpost. A word to the wise: keep the masterpost open in one tab because I couldn't get the links to go at the end of the five parts because LJ simply has it out for me. http://vinvy.livejournal.com/22711.html ]
My Reverse Bandom Big Bang! I can't wait to start on that, no lie guys. If you haven't signed up or at least trolled the community a little you're missing out. It's going to be a blast. You should join us. [ Crude link to beautiful things: http://bandomreversebb.livejournal.com/profile ]
More one-shots full of smooshyness and fluff!! They're all tagged with "fic" at the front of them so there's absolutely no question of you'll be getting. Feel free to check them out and comment- in fact, I encourage it! I'd link it but linking to my own journal would be redundant and a little bit egotistical. (Also: There may or may not be angst and/or killjoys mixed in with the smooshyness and fluff. I haven't written everything yet so I promise nothing.)
Original fiction and poetry! I cannot attest to the quality of these things but so long as I keep writing it, y'all will keep seeing it posted here. Original things are tagged with "mine" preceeding the title just in case there's any confusion about that. Poetry is tagged as such. I'm quite the creative wit, aren't I?
Fic recs galore!! I have a whole pile of awesome fic in my bookmarks waiting to be thrust upon unsuspecting friends. I just need the time to post some of them.
Personal posts! What journal would be complete without the internet equivalent of Stitch and Bitch? Exactly! From time to time you'll get to hear about the titilating melodrama that is my non-existent life as a college student. It's more thrilling than my sarcasm implies, I promise.

Please leave me recommendations! They can be for fic or blogs or original writing or music or novels- I don't care! I just want to broaden my horizons.
Please ask me to beta things! I LOVE editing. No lie, darlings. It's fun for me.
Please talk to me! I promise not to eat you! I might nibble but that's the worst of it- at best you'll get me to write fic for you. Ask around. It totally happens!!
Please read my writings! Like everyone else on the internet, I'm here because I'd like some attention, most-especially where my writing is concerned. So feel free to drop in and share your thoughts about anything you see, okay?

Fic: Superpowers

vinvy — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 16:14:09 GMT

Title: Superpowers
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Pairing: none
Word Count: ~ 750
Summary: Showers are kyptonite and Mikeyway is hungry.
Warnings: late-night shenanigans, misleading titles
Disclaimer: As far as I know this never happened and more's the pity.
A/N: For both iron_fist123 and juloreanbecause they take such good care of my plot bunnies and I. I'll stick defect_no9 in here, too, because we haven't talked in FOREVER.

Mikey had expected touring to be surreal from the start but it didn’t stay that way. They all grew accustomed to Gerard’s piles of dirty socks and Frank’s habit of sprawling out on the comfiest parts of the couch, Ray’s relentless desire to perfect riffs old and new and Mikey’s own supernatural ability to sleep anywhere. The feeling of shiny and new never once wore off of gigs and the after-parties didn’t disappoint (except for that one time when Frank had to punch some asshole’s lights out but really, he had it coming so we aren't gonna go there).

Then, suddenly, it was over. Time to go back to life as usual but without the dead-end bookselling job and sniveling customers. That was surreal. After long days of living in the stench of unwashed men and nights full of beautiful, screaming fans anything less was, well, less. Regular showers and mom’s potpourri hadn’t sunk in yet- Mikey felt tingly and numb all over, like when he was seven and he’d stuck a fork in a light socket. It felt like such a dream that he couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours, even after three days. (Apparently regular showers were his kyrptonite as far as supernatural-falling-asleep-abilities went. Maybe there was something about days of grime acting as insulation and padding so that sleep could happen at any given location and time?)

He was a little delirious and definitely adrenaline-high. That’s why the sudden and loud burbling noise from the area of his stomach made him think for all of ten seconds that he was the unfortunate host of a parasitic alien that was about to rip its way through his abdominal wall.

He threw himself off the couch and flailed for a moment. After watching at the DVD player’s clock change from 02:10 to 02:12 Mikey realized that he wasn’t about to be baby alien chow after all- he was just hungry. Very, very hungry. He was pretty confident that it'd gotten to the point where his stomach was trying to eat itself.

He shuffled into the kitchen, bracing his hands on his lower back to crack it. (He wished Ray were around because it always made him cringe when Mikey did that.) Mikey tugged on his hair and idly perused the cupboards. Nothing in the house looked appetizing. He was going to starve or, worse, be forced to go to Wal*Mart and risk being sighted looking like cuckoos were roosting on his scalp. Admittedly, they’d have to be very clean cuckoos since he’d been showering all the time- hot water was a godsend- but he was a mess nonetheless.

Mikey’s stomach growled again, louder this time. Then, like a sign from the patron saint of late-night hunger, his eyes fell on the bread-box and the toaster next to it. He may or may not have uttered a sound of quiet awe and the grin on his face stayed... until he got a closer look.

This wouldn’t do at all. Some kind of grime- a plaster of crumbs and jam?- was smeared along the side. He could just make out the crust of a pop tart trapped at the bottom of one of the slots.

Mikey frowned. He did not approve of a sloppy toaster- it was abuse!- and neither did his stomach, considering the three irritated grumbles it gave at the sight. The toaster needed to be cleaned before he could enjoy his toast, assuage his hunger and go to sleep... but it wasn’t a matter of simply emptying the crumb tray. No, this mission would require warm, soapy water and possibly a fork where the pop tart crust was concerned.

Mikey knew he wasn’t supposed to put toasters in water or put forks in toasters- Gerard would have a heart attack when he found out, just like that time with the space heater in the shower. (And there was no question about Gerard finding out. He had a sixth-sense about Mikey and electricity that was infallible. It was like he could smell it from at least half a mile out- that was Gerard's superpower.)

His stomach cramped, threatening fainting from hunger, and Mikey unplugged the toaster. He emptied the crumb tray and started to fill the sink with warm water. It was amusing to watch the lemon-scented dish soap form a froth of bubbles around the faucet. He figured he’d just dry the toaster really well before making toast. In the meantime he’d pray that Gerard’s sixth sense was worn out and wouldn’t wake him up.

Mikey was busy scrubbing diligently at the reddish-purple mystery substance on the shiny side of the toaster, so he didn’t hear the basement door squeak when it opened or feet slapping on the tiled floor. He totally noticed when Gerard tackled him, though- apparently being home didn't effect his super-sense at all.

Fic: Desperate

vinvy — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 15:57:34 GMT

Title: Desperate
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG-13 (profanity)
Pairing: Frank/Jamia
Word Count: ~ 500
Summary: There are some pretty ridiculous solutions to nicotine cravings.
Warnings: fluff, profanity, late-night shenanigans
Disclaimer: As far as I know this never happened and more's the pity.
A/N: A ficlet for iron_fist123because she was there at its conception. Many thanks to 'bandom texts from last night' on tumblr, as well. :D

“Sonofawhore,” Frank muttered, pacing back and forth on the porch. It was late and Jamia and the girls were asleep. Frank needed a cigarette. Frank’s lighter was on the nightstand. This was a problem because he needed a cigarette.

He bounced on the balls of his bare feet, debating. Upstairs was such a long way to go for a lighter- and he would have to come all the way back out into the cold because there would be flying cats before he polluted the air that Cherry and Lily breathed when he was supposed to be kicking the habit. (Honestly, though, he’d been doing a great job of cutting back lately and he deserved a reward after the last few days. Recording was insane. Productive but, fuck, none of them were sleeping).

“Goddamn it,” he scrubbed his hand over his face as the bassline that Mikey’d been messing with that afternoon got stuck in his head again. The syncopated rhythm was perfectly catchy and it was going to be part of one of the album’s tracks because of that, if nothing else, otherwise Frank was going to smother someone.

Mikey Way. Mikeyway. There was a thought attached to the name that had nothing to do with music but Frank couldn’t work it out. His throat itched.

Mikey fuckin’ Way... Toaster! He let out a happy yelp, sounding more like Sweet Pea than he would ever admit to in human company. He snuck quietly into the kitchen and returned to the porch, closing the front door without making a sound. Now those outlets on the sides of houses made so much sense! They were perfect for more than just Halloween lights.

It took some finagling but Frank got the toaster to heat up and he lit his cigarette from one of the burners, smiling at the accomplishment. He wanted to wake Jamia and tell her but that would defeat the whole point of the exercise, wouldn’t it? He inhaled deeply. He was loony from work and satisfaction and the whole world was beautiful, even at midnight in autumn when his toes were about to freeze off.

Frank made it halfway through his cigarette before he stubbed it out on the railing.

Jamia didn’t mind being woken up- he loved his wife so much it was crazy- and she laughed at his antics. Her hair was sticking otu at odd angles- God, she was adorable when she was sleepy. “You poor, desperate thing,” Jamia said, grabbing him around the waist.

Frank fell into bed beside her, giggling.

“Bed time was two hours ago, mister,” she scolded lightly.

Frank kissed her cheek. “Sorry,” he yawned, then offered, “we wrote a couple more songs today. This is starting to come together- I can tell ‘cause Gerard’s considering dying his hair again.”

Jamia snorted at his babbling and threw her leg over his. “You’re grounded. No work tomorrow. You’re sleeping in then we’re going to the park for a picnic with the girls and to raise hell with the dogs and the ducks.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“None whatsoever.”

Frank wriggled out of his jeans and curled up around his wife. “Sounds perfect.” He yawned again.

“I knew you’d think so.”

Fic: Everything

vinvy — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 15:35:06 GMT

Title: Everything
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gerard/Lindsey
Word Count: 254
Summary: Love and ambiguity!
Warnings: Brush your teeth because this is so sweet it might rot your teeth.
Disclaimer: This never happened!

He gave her his Everything without even trying or noticing it. It happened in small measures while watching her on stage, watching her smile. Then holding hands in the alleyways between tour buses. He felt a bigger piece of his Everything go the first time they debated the finer points of comic book plots but he thought nothing of it- it felt good. They stayed up late some nights, pretending they could see the stars from the rooftops of whichever city they were in. She named the invisible stars and he made up their mythology.

He only realized that she had his Everything when he decided to propose and it kept him awake until dawn thinking about it. She had his Everything, so why didn’t he feel empty? He felt like nothing was missing at all- he could just give forever and be happy doing it. The answer showed up around the time his alarm clock was going off- it wasn’t just him giving. She gave back to him, too, her laughter and insight and tactile art that thrilled him after he got over being just the slightest bit intimidated. He had her Everything- he knew it like all those stupid nature analogies about flowers and sun that didn’t begin to cover the feeling.

They gave each other Everything and that only let them give more- more new, old, known, unknown, irritating. They were Everything, run over and flattened by the same unexpected truck nicknamed Love.

So, he proposed and she married him.

Big Bang: Parks and Recreation Masterpost

vinvy — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 02:03:25 GMT

Title: Parks and Recreation
Author: vinvy
Band(s): My Chemical Romance with a side order of Panic! at the Disco
Pairing(s): slight Frank/Gerard
Word Count: over 35,000
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, profanity, angst, slightly ridiculous magic tricks, shoddy gaelic translations, dream sequences, and faeries

Summary: At first, he’s pleasantly surprised because- “Frank?”

...but Frank doesn’t look like that. Frank doesn’t have a green cast to his skin. He certainly doesn’t have a nice set of long, sharp teeth inside his slack jaw or holes in the back of his sweatshirt for- what? Are those wings? Black, veined and iridescent wings?

Gerard falls out of his chair.

Gerard Way is an art school drop out with no prospects, student loans to pay off, and a dead end job. His mother works too hard and his little brother Mikey is keeping secrets. His boss runs shady contracts and smiles too much. It's nothing special and he tells himself that he'll learn to make peace with that- in the meantime he's got to carve out a living that doesn't involve artwork. Really, he's going to be okay. Then a crazy homeless kid comes along and screws up Gerard's Adventures in Normal Employment with his hippie magic and soulless eyes. Gerard can't shake the feeling that this guy "isn't quite right" but he's too busy fending off the freak accidents that are following him around to worry about that particular winged freak.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

Bonus Content

Fanmix:
Fanmix by auctorial

A companion piece that happens to also be fanfic of this fic:
Set a Fox to Catch a Fox by julorean
It started as comment!fic and turned into this adorable gem. Please enjoy and leave lots of love!!

Author's Notes:

I have few people to thank! First and foremost, iron_fist123 because she was there when this mess was conceived! Followed closely by julorean, my cheerleader, and defect_no9, my beta. This probably wouldn't have happened without the regular ego stroking and application of the cattle prod! Finally, props, praise and affection to auctorial for the amazing mix! I've never had anyone do such an awesome thing for me before and I love it to bits and pieces! Thank you so very much.

Oh, and one more thing to add! It isn't detrimental to anything but I want to let you all know that there is a sequel in the future, tentatively titled "Desiccant", in which the Faerie hi-jinks will continue on with more depth, adventure, snogging, and color.

Love and Muffins,

vinvy

Big Bang: Parks and Recreation (Part 5)

vinvy — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 01:34:27 GMT

Title: Parks and Recreation
Author: vinvy
Band(s): My Chemical Romance with a side of Panic! at the Disco
Pairing(s): slight Frank/Gerard
Word Count: 34,152 (total)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, profanity, angst, slightly ridiculous magic tricks, shoddy Gaelic translations, dream sequences, and faeries

Part Four

It feels like drifting. Aware to unaware. “Let’s go home ‘cause medical attention would be a good idea” to “let’s stick around here ‘cause the tiredness is bone-deep”. From hurting to not. It’s so pleasant, not hurting. There’s a word for hurting but why isn’t there a word for the feeling of not-hurting? There really should be one. Maybe he’ll make one up.

He moves his left arm a little and that breaks up the not-hurting. He’d better not do that again.

Through the slide he hears the ground hum up at him for a few minutes and go quiet. He hums back. Then there’s a bump and shuffle, far away, dragging zombie feet, he imagines. It doesn’t scare him too much- zombies are kind of cool. He’s already puked once tonight but he’s about to do it again.

“Oh, shit.”

Shush. It’s late and good little boys are tucked in and asleep. Gerard’s good. He needs to go to sleep.

“Is that him? Shit is right- hang on, Mikey, I gotta put the phone down-”

“He’s bleeding. I don’t do human blood, dude. There’s iron in it-”

“Mikey, Mikey, hang on. Yeah, we found him, now wait- Bob, quit being a baby. Wrap him in a jacket or something. You’re smarter than your species label- Still there, Mikey? Yeah, it’s him. Get a first aid kit or call an ambulance or something. He’s not doing too well. Yes, he’s alive. Still bleeding actively and everything.”

It’s hard for Gerard to speak up with his stomach climbing up his throat. He feels bad for whoever’s bleeding. Something big- Bob’s hand- lands on his shoulder. A strangled yelp works it’s way out of his mouth on the heels of a bubble of bile. That’s right, he’s the one who’s injured.

“Sorry, Gerard. You know there’s an arrow in your back, right?”

Gerard puts forth the monumental effort required to lift his head over the edge of the slide and spit the sour stomach acid onto the wood chips. “It’s a fashion statement. You thought I got shot, didn’t you? Asshole.”

“Is that all? Your brother can deal with it then.”

Getting a response knocks Bob out of his hesitance. Gerard can tell he tries like hell to avoid tweaking the arrow too much, not that it does any good. Bob gets points for effort until he gets tired of apologizing when Gerard whimpers and tells him to suck it up. Apparently trolls are immune to pain. Gerard resents Bob for that vehemently from within his jacket-cocoon.

Bob picks him up at an awkward angle to keep from breaking the arrow or shoving it in deeper. Gerard can tell when his blood gets on Bob’s skin. When it happens Bob hisses out some colorful adjective attached to the word “shit”. He tries to keep count. Bob is moving him around, though, and screwing with his equilibrium. Now he’s very confident that puking is in his future.

“Drive slowly,” Bob instructs, “he’s kind of green and I just had the upholstery done.”

So they’re in a car. That, or a couchmobile. Gerard saw one of those on the news once, in one of those fluffy human-interest stories. He always wondered what it’d be like to ride on one. He imagines it’s kind of like how this feels- supported and held upright by something absurdly warm and comfortable. Of course, couchmobiles aren’t trolls in the back seats of sedans but that’s beside the point. Bob does such a good job of keeping Gerard from getting jarred around on the short drive that Gerard passes out gratefully.

He wakes up later, smelling home all around him, to Mikey’s most indignant voice. “You just told me “no”.”

“Come on, he’s sick, dude.”

“The poisons used by those guards are serious, Ray. I need to see if he can at least hold himself upright or walk. From there I can figure out what he needs.”

“I’m not invisible,” Bob’s voice rumbles under Gerard’s cheek.

Gerard can hear Mikey’s irritation and he doesn’t understand it. “Then what are you waiting for? He’s awake. Stand him up.”

Gerard turns his face into the wall of muscle that’s kept him from dying so far tonight, pleading for mercy with his mind. Bob isn’t a mind reader and Mikey is a merciless little fucker masquerading as a holistic healer. Bob gingerly sets Gerard on his feet. The muscles in his back and legs tremble even though the troll is still supporting most of his weight. Gerard flails for Mikey and latches onto his arm, too. He can almost feel stable like this-

Mikey shoos Bob away, sneering like he’s a begging pet. He stumbles under Gerard but keeps him up.

“Mikes,” Gerard mumbles, meaning to be scolding and sounding weak. His brother’s hands are cool and white. Too pale. “Inhumanly pale,” he slurs.

He looks up from those long fingers to catch a loud “Oh fuck” radiating from the black eyes behind Mikey’s glasses. The dragonfly wings snap tight against his back like he can retract the last five seconds and write them over again. Never has the silence between them been so loud.

Gerard wants to say something snarky about Mikey being caught out of the house without his glamour. He wants a witticism that’ll make Mikey Way feel three inches tall because he’s been lying for his whole life. Something that’s perfect and will cut to the bone of the matter.

Instead, his legs give out entirely and he vomits onto Mikey’s shirt as he drags him down to the beige carpeting. His stomach cramps, wringing itself out, and his head pounds. He blacks out to the sound of his changeling brother snapping orders at Ray.

He comes to again in small increments. It starts with noticing his position- flat on his stomach, a familiar, cushy towel under his chest. His shirt is lost to the house, he supposes. Mikey’s there. He has one hand in Gerard’s hair, making knots in it, and he’s saying something. His tone is soothing.

That makes Gerard mad. The only tone this kid should be using is a beseeching, humble one while he begs for forgiveness and explains why in the fuck-

The arrowhead jerks inside of his shoulder, stabbing deeper before ripping backwards and out. Somehow that’s even worse than having the arrow stuck in the muscle. Gerard’s back runs hot and wet. Tears slip down his face out of reflex. Pressure on the deep puncture draws a whine from him like a wounded cat.

“Chew on these, swallow them if you feel like it.” Mikey’s fingers push sharp-scented things between Gerard’s teeth then make him close his mouth them. “You can use the fiber, I’m sure.”

Hahaha. Not funny, Mikes. You’re in deep shit with me.

Whatever plants he’s got under his tongue are overwhelmingly sour. The taste turns to heat that numbs his mouth and opens his sinuses. It prickles the backs of his eyes in a kinder way than the pain does. The numb creeps down his jaw, through his shoulders- thank God- all the way down to his toes. He drifts away again.

Everything in his room has a distinct smell that is loud and refuses to be ignored, even by a dying man. Pencil shavings on the desk from last week. Unwashed, sweaty collared shirts. The collection of herbs that Mikey keeps is olfactory hell incarnate. Burnt coffee in the bottoms of mugs on the windowsill. They’re vying for his attention mercilessly, at all times. They never stop begging to be noticed and seen.

Whenever his brother catches him awake- and probably when he’s asleep, too- Mikey makes Gerard choke down some tonic or bitter, leafy thing in the name of his health. He triple-checks Gerard’s temperature in the hope that it’s gone down. He gets fresh ice for the swollen, angry arrow wound.

Gerard throws the ice across the room with his good arm and spits out the thermometer before its alarm goes off. He doesn’t mean to throw up what he’s fed but that’s what he does and it just happens to suit his agenda of furious sickbed-defiance nicely. Mikey bears all of this in silence that Gerard can’t read. He doesn’t want to read Mikey anways.

… His brother. Can he even call him that anymore?

He is so pissed off that he can’t articulate it. He wants to shake the kid and question him. If he’s a changeling, where’s Gerard’s real brother? What if there is no “other Mikey”? Why didn’t Mikey tell him he was a Faerie earlier? Why even bother in the first place? What was so great about spending 17 years pretending to be a human? In anti-utopian Bellevile with Gerard’s sorry ass as a big brother no less? Why?

He shudders and dry heaves. Being alone and angry sucks. Dying of poisoning while alone and angry is worse.

The sleep he gets isn’t restful. He has nightmares about James and about Frank. The ones with James wake him up screaming in remembered agony. The ones with Frank pull him awake carefully, drawing it out, making him cry. Frank’s probably dead and now Gerard is going to die, too. He’s heard Mikey muttering to himself when he thinks Gerard is asleep and Mikey doesn’t think the situation is looking up. Mikey’s scared. Gerard is sick and bitter and satisfied that Mikey is afraid.

Satisfaction shouldn’t feel guilty. It shouldn’t make his eyeballs burn like this and roast in their own jelly.

His fever makes people from grade school show up and tease him all over again. Fly away if you don’t like it, Peter Pan.

Brendon sits on his desk with purple hair and one of Mikey’s scarves, taking notes and doodling bubble cartoons about his Faerie crush. Rats skitter along the floorboards, their tails scratching while they slide over the carpeting. Brendon isn’t so irritating, even with his unending chatter in gibberish. The rats, though, they keep him awake the most.

Lucidity is overrated, he decides when Mikey is at school.

Gerard’s crawling out of his skin with fever and shakes and he doesn’t want to die in the basement. He drags on a sweatshirt and coat over his bandages and then the only folded pair of jeans in his dresser drawer. From his little window, it looks like a nice enough October afternoon. He’s not too sure what day it is but he thinks it might just be Halloween.

Who could imagine his luck?

The breeze at the park tastes cleaner than anything and it feels sublime against his face. The perpetual-sunburn sensation that came along with this fever got old on day one. Leaves tumble and scatter across the playground to get caught up on the slide and jungle gym. In a nearby neighborhood there’s at least one fireplace burning- he can smell the drying, dying wood.

Gerard plants himself under the blackthorn tree with the heart carved into it. Sunlight filters through the spidery branches and orange leaves. It’s the cool kind of sunlight that tricks you into thinking it doesn’t burn. He digs his bare toes in under the pile of leaves at its roots then into the soil. Damp and chilly, it’s comforting. Starting on the burial process early. Going home.

He watches through bleary eyes as woman with dark hair comes up to him and sits down. It’s like she appears out of a mirage- she’s probably a hallucination. She’s got to be a hallucination. Only Elena’s eyes are allowed to match his like that and only she is able to get away with those gaudy strings of beads.

She smoothes out her long skirt and tucks a dark curl behind her ear. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he replies shakily, “you aren’t Elena.”

A small pout comes over her face. “No, I’m not. I thought you’d find this more approachable, though.”

He shrugs. “Next time remember that she’s a lot older.”

“Humans and your aging,” she sighs, sad beyond what her face can contain, “you always confuse us.”

“Who are you?”

She flushes a light lavender. “One name for me is Ametrine. I’m the queen of the Seelie Court.”

“Are you going to try to kill me, too?” He’s not going to beat around the bush. This woman- this queen made of porcelain and a picture from his grandmother’s college days- will not waste the rest of his life with formalities.

“I applaud the boy’s valiant efforts at keeping you alive but it’s not doing any good. It’s a shame- I’d always hoped for my son to be better with herb lore than that. ... Now, why would I kill you? It doesn’t suit my interests.”

“Oh fuck your interests,” he groans. His head is throbbing. Faerie games make him miserable.

The well-bred lilt to her voice makes what she says next laughable: “Yes, fuck my interests,” she hums, “indeed.” She pauses to pluck a dandelion, which irritates Gerard- they aren’t her weeds to pluck. They’re his. No one can touch his plants.

“I’m sure no one has bothered to ask you what your interests are, Gerard. You’re stuck with the lot you’ve drawn, I’m afraid, but if you could have anything to go with it, what would it be?” She’s holding him in a mothering way. Having her hand on his head makes the headache ease up and the shivers quit racking him quite so much.

“This is hypothetical right, since I’m gonna die?” He wiggles his toes in the earth.

She doesn’t say anything at all.

He imagines the tree roots underneath him and how they feel about all of this and, for the most part, they’re glad he’s there, like the shape with the missing piece in that children’s book. He doesn’t remember it too well- did it ever actually find the missing piece? Or is he making it up to make himself feel better?

The trees’ opinion is clear if drawn out.

The goblin didn’t make for the nicest company, even though he did do his job. The poor, poor goblin who’s not going to be around any more. They miss him for his faults and his responsibility. They can’t have him back and their displeasure ripples a low bass note, resonating. They need resolution, closure, even more so than Gerard does. They’re older and more fragile and not having closure might break them like he never thought he could be broken. Then they might break others and that’s where things get dangerous, so very dangerous with no one to guide them.

Now that Gerard’s here, the trees don’t plan on letting him go. He can stay with them and watch them, make sure they keep in their place and that no one- Fae or human- hurts them. Keep them from being massacred again. Stop humans from burning them with their iron bars and poisoning them.

They’ll put down seeds in his wounds and sickness and grow them over like gashes in bark over centuries. They can keep him well if he keeps them. Symbiosis. Sheep and shepherd. Treefolk and treeherd. My blood their sap and their roots my veins. This is what we are and I am. Not separate or whole-

Gerard’s eyes snap open. The low rustling that’s easy to mistake for voices fades out again. His ears and cheeks burn and he remembers that he’s not well. The trees are talking to him. It’s all because he’s got some kind of toxin or disease on a rampage through his brain. None of this is real. His whole life could be a feverdream and he will never know any better.

So he goes with that the trees are saying, with that deep and angry note that he can feel against the soles of his feet.

What’s the harm?

“Revenge.”

A small smile comes over the Faerie woman’s lips. “I can do that.”

She sings Gerard to sleep.

Back to the Masterpost

Big Bang: Parks and Recreation (Part 4)

vinvy — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 23:53:54 GMT

Title: Parks and Recreation
Author: vinvy
Band(s): My Chemical Romance with a side of Panic! at the Disco
Pairing(s): slight Frank/Gerard
Word Count: 34,152 (total)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, profanity, angst, slightly ridiculous magic tricks, shoddy Gaelic translations, dream sequences, and faeries

Part Three

Strangling the nurse at the front desk is a morally reprehensible thing to do, he has to remind himself when he finally gets to the hospital. After speeding the whole way here, parking crooked in the fire lane, then almost trampling a woman in labor on his way up to this floor he is not going to be held up by some asshole who refuses to believe he’s Elena Way’s grandson.

“I don’t care,” he growls, leaning in close to the squat man’s face, “if visiting hours are over. My mother and brother are in here and my grandmother is sick. Let me in.”

A rumpled and sleep-deprived art school drop out must be an intimidating sight because the nurse can’t give Gerard the room number fast enough. Maybe it’s the insane-hobo hair. He should have gotten in the guy’s face to begin with- it was much more effective than being diplomatic and showing proof of his identity and answering inane questions.

Mikey is slouching in a chair outside of Elena’s room. Their mom is sleeping against his shoulder. He seems even more bothered by the pervasive stench of ether and sickness and the muted pastels than Gerard is. When he hears his brother approach his head snaps up. He straightens his glasses and sets his jaw.

Gerard assumes the worst. “Oh, no-“

“-No.” Mikey interrupts him quietly so as not to wake Donna. The tension in his voice still reads clearly. He’s unhappy with Gerard. There’s probably a very long list of reasons.

“I- I’m sorry I’m so late. I didn’t get any of your texts until- and then, you see-“

“She wants to see you, not us,” he interrupts again.

“What? ... Oh. I. Uh.”

“Yeah.”

Gerard bites his lip. He’s thrilled that Elena is all right and wants to see him but she’s excluding Mikey and mom. That’s not like her. “Mikey, I’m sorry-“

“I don’t care, Gee, just go see grandma. We can talk later.”

Gerard nods, choosing to take it as a promise and not a threat.

The soft hiss of oxygen through tubing is punctuated by the steady chirp of the heart monitor. The TV is rerunning informercials on a low volume. It smells like her apartment at the assisted living facility- loads of sweet herbs to cover the stench of medicine. Elena is sitting up in bed, looking frail and small on the mattress. She looks over when Gerard comes in and smiles, deepening the lines around her mouth and eyes.

“Gerard, it’s so good to see you.”

“Hi, grandma,” he offers a small smile and pulls a chair over to the bedside. The plastic squeaks when he sits down.
“How are you?”

“Oh you’ve been listening to the so-called doctors, haven’t you?” Her voice is lively with a hint of rebellion, “Don’t pay them any mind, sugar. The elf-shot missed me this time. Those idiots think I had a stroke but, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

In a second his brain flips from taking her seriously to disregarding her delirium. It takes conscious effort to remind himself that Faeries are real and Elena isn’t losing her ability to function in reality. “That’s good, grandma. When will they let you go home?”

“They won’t tell me. They want to ‘run a few more tests’. They can’t seem to take my word for it. I know my own body than any of them,” she snorts and picks up a plastic cup from the rolling table at her bedside. “You look worried.”

“I kinda- yeah,” he agrees so he doesn’t have to explain, “I am.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Then here,” she offers him the cup, “your brother made me tea. It might calm your nerves a bit.”

“Thanks grandma,” he says and takes it. It burns his hand a little when some sloshes over the side. He sniffs it. It has a sweet smell, not like the knock-out juice Mikey had given him when Frank was sick. He decides it’s safe and takes a sip. It tastes like apples.

“I swear he lives for this stuff.”

“Well there are those who believe that tea can fix everything.”

Gerard nods and they sit in companionable silence for a minute more. Then he hears himself say, “I... I learned something a few weeks ago.”

“What would that be?” Her hazel eyes gleam. “Don’t forget about your tea,” she adds.

He takes another drink. It makes him feel warm down to his knees. “Faeries are real.”

Elena winks. “Whatever would give you such an idea?”

Gerard chuckles hollowly. “Lots of things, grandma.”

She nods and pats his free hand where it rests on the bed, “There are always lots of things to prove their existence if you know what to look for. Now, what do you say we watch Jeopardy? If I remember correctly there’s a rerun coming on right about now.”

“That is a great idea, grandma.” He really should stick his head out to get Mikey and mom. They deserve to be in here. But mom’s asleep and Mikey is going to be pissed no matter what Gerard does. What’s more is that Gerard is selfish when it comes to Elena. He’ll share later.

The tea seeps through his skeleton while he and Elena watch contestants answer trivia. He starts to forget that there have been two attempts on his life in the last day. (Four since he came home from New York, counting the first meeting with Frank and getting attacked by the thing that was going to eat his eyes.) Elena shouts an answer to the Daily Double that the contestant gets wrong.

“You just won three grand,” Gerard says.

“Damn straight.”

That makes him feel even better. There’s something too perfect about this little old lady swearing that’s entirely comforting. He finishes off his tea and leans against the bed. He ends up hugging one of Elena’s spare pillows while she runs her bright red nails through his hair. It reminds him of being a little kid again. He drifts off feeling nostalgic and safe into a gray haze.

Something shifts and things come back into focus. It’s only a little though. Enough to make him want to go back to sleep. He feels fuzzy and can’t figure out what woke him up.

“Hey, Elena- oh.”

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep. He never could tolerate seraph flax. I used to give it to him when he was a little boy to calm him down.”

A small chuckle. “I remember that.”

“You know you have some explaining to do.”

“...I know.”

“Then start.”

“I didn’t mean to. Well. I meant to, otherwise I wouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to. She-“

“- made you?”

“… Yeah, pretty much.”

“Something has to be done about this.”

“I know.”

“You’re better than that.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“I think he’s awake, Elena.”

“He’s just dozing. He’ll drift back off in a minute or two.” She starts tracing her fingers over Gerard’s scalp again and he does.

The not-dream he’s having (it’s not a dream because he isn’t entirely asleep but it is because he’s not awake either) has something to do with sunburns. It has his back stinging. He doesn’t like how it feels. It feels like anger. If it tans he’s going to be very unhappy. He knows it inevitably will because Italian genetics pretty much promise him that.

The tone of the room catches up to his brain and that’s why he feels sunburnt. People are angry and he can feel every breath of it pricking his skin and leaving behind pain.

“- so help me god if you touch my brother-“

“God? You don’t buy into that human illusion do you? He’s not even your-“

“Not another word out of you-“

“Boys.” Elena’s quiet tone stops the whispered argument.

It’s soft and low but it makes Gerard feel more aware. He can feel life tingling back into his limbs and he stops thinking about sunburns.

“I think you both should go.”

“Elena-“

“Grandma-“

“I’m not angry with either of you. He needs his sleep.”

Somehow the weight of sleep comes back as footsteps retreat and he doesn’t wake up again until the middle of the next morning. Donna and Elena are discussing the finer points of foreign affairs while Mikey knits what looks like a sweater in a corner. Elena has forgotten the year again and she believes that Kennedy is still the president. Donna seems content to humor her, agreeing in all the right places while Elena laments the scandal Kennedy’s affair with an East German caused.

The surreal feeling that Gerard has sticks around for the next few days. There’s no further talk of Faeries while he’s visiting his grandma- probably because Donna is around- and no mention of who’d come to visit Elena that first night. Gerard thinks he knows but admitting that to himself would break the illusion. He’s rather fond of his illusions so he keeps his nose to his sketchbook.

At the moment he’s doodling out a nonsense comic about a zombie-caterpillar who is trying desperately to become a butterfly. Faced with failure, the undead bug goes on a rampage through some poor human’s ear, eating her way straight through his brain. The angst and hilarity really get going when-

“-Gerard,” Elena puts a cool hand on his arm. She’s sitting in a wheelchair with one of her get-well-soon bouquets in her lap. “It’s time to go, sugar.”

Mikey stands at the door, his face obscured by a massive vase of red daisies. Beside him Donna holds a duffel bag of Elena’s things.

“Breaking out already,” Gerard jokes, stashing his sketchbook and pencil in the messenger bag Mikey finished off that morning. (The kid is possessed by a knitting demon, seriously.) He takes his place as navigator of the wheelchair without a passing glance at the nurse he has to elbow past to do it. It’s the same guy from the admissions desk and Gerard hasn’t forgiven him just yet.

The drive to the nursing home is uneventful.

The whole way there, Elena stays confused about the date. It clearly gets on Donna’s nerves as she drives. It makes Gerard feel a little sick and a little jealous. Forgetting things for a while might be nice. He wouldn’t have anything to question- he could just wander aimlessly and do whatever he was directed to.

He pinches the inside of his wrist to stop thinking that way. He has no business romanticizing Elena’s decline. Eventually, she won’t be able to remember him or Mikey or even her own name. Forgetting like that must be hell on earth. It isn’t like Elena is oblivious to the holes in her mental timeline.

That gets him good and depressed, complete with a hollow feeling in his chest. He hangs on to Mikey’s hand and stares out the window for the rest of the drive. Once in a while Mikey’s fingers will give a reassuring squeeze but he’s more withdrawn than Gerard is. It’s hard not to wonder what he might be thinking. Neither of them notices the Faeries they pass as anything other than blips on the radar. The rest is autumn chill and red, red leaves.

Kisses and prolonged hugs are given multiple times. No member of the Way family wants to leave though it’s unlikely that she’ll realize she’s being left. Not today, at least. When they finally get out of the plush suite (since it was “decided” that Elena needed assisted living they’d made sure to get the best they could afford) Gerard has to turn on his heel and go back one last time. Elena is rearranging her flowers when he wraps his arms around her. She gives a surprised laugh and pats his back.

“I love you, grandma.”

“I love you, too, Gerard,” she stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, “and if they kill you I’ll miss you. Try not to let them kill you.”

Gerard groans quietly and sits up. Last time he checked, his room wasn’t tiled and brightly lit. This means he’s either been abducted by aliens or he’s dreaming. There’s a shiny table a few yards away. It is quite possibly made of porcelain. Seeing as he isn’t on it he can safely assume that he hasn’t been taken by the aliens.

A door swings open. Several men in white enter. They’re carrying something. They’re carrying color.

It’s Frank, he thinks in a voice that isn’t his own the second the colors catch is eye. It must be all the white that makes the goblin look washed out, more gray than green or black.

Then men in white lay him out on the table and Gerard throws himself to his feet. Veins stand out a dark green everywhere there’s bare skin. The shade reminds Gerard of blackthorns in summer. The men are speaking English around him but he can’t understand them. He doesn’t really want to. Someone has just wheeled in a table that looks like the ones he sees on medical shows full of sharp horrors like needles.

When he wraps his fingers around Frank’s wrist the goblin’s eyes snap open. They’re all iris- no cornea or pupil- brown shot through with warm gold like someone replaced his eyeballs with marbles of tigerseye. “Don’t be afraid. It’s just what they do to us.”

He is definitely not speaking English but Gerard hears every word. He doesn’t understand, though, until the of the humans takes up a scalpel, dictating into an out-of-date microphone. The tape reel clicks as it rolls on -

- The clicking follows him into waking.

“Nightmare?” Mikey has somehow sandwiched himself between Gerard’s back and the wall without disturbing his brother. He’s knitting. What reason he has for being awake and knitting in the middle of the night Gerard can’t fathom.

“Frank,” he says around the phlegm at the back of his throat. He’d better not be getting sick.

“He’s a bad influence. Wanna watch ‘The Lord of the Rings’? The first one is already in the DVD player.”

“I don’t think I have a choice.” Gerard sits up and stretches. He debates whether or not there’s a point in getting out of bed.

“Nope, but it’s polite to ask anyway. Here,” Mikey finishes off the sweater and drops it into Gerard’s lap, “You don’t need to get sick.”

“Mind reader.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mikey commandeers his brother’s pillow and snatches the remote from the nightstand.

Gerard curls up against the headboard as Galadriel’s narration starts, wrapping a blanket around them both. He’s out again before the Fellowship is even formed. Mikey’s bony shoulder make a better pillow than he’d thought possible.

When his alarm clock goes off- why did he leave it set on the weekend?- it takes some time for his brain to catch up. The basement is bathed in a blue glow from the TV screen. He and Mikey slid out of sitting position and now Mikey is curled up at the edge of the bed with all of the blankets bunched around his shoulders.

Gerard vacates the bed gingerly to avoid waking his brother and impaling his foot on any stray pencils. He changes in a ratty pair of jeans he hasn’t seen since art school and tugs on the sweater Mikey knitted. Somehow, he’d managed to knit a cartoonish, lopsided skull onto the front of it. Gerard decides he will wear it with pride. His brother is a knitting genius.

“Where’re you headed?” Donna sticks her head out of the kitchen right as he passes. Then she sees the sweater. “Oh he is getting so good at that. Being grounded could make him some money.”

So does not being grounded he doesn’t say out loud. He’s having a brief flashback to Mikey’s freshman year of high school. Immediately the younger Way brother had found a lucrative niche in the party scene. From cigarettes to pot to ecstasy- Mikey swore up and down that he never touched the stuff, just that he’d made a killing selling it.

“I’m going out for coffee. Do you want anything?”

“If you see anything I like. Don’t be too long- I’m making waffles once the kitchen is cleaned up.” She hugs him. The static from her pink pajamas and stale smell of last night’s bar tending follow him out the door.

The world outside of Gerard’s front door has moved well into October without consulting him on the matter. Front yards are piled with fiery leaves. Storefronts are bedecked with shiny black garland and cutouts of witches and goblins. Oh, God, he does not like goblins.

He must be getting pretty comfortable with the Sight because this time he barely registers the barista’s antlers when he buys the coffee. The Faerie is hardly worth mentioning, really, outside of the magnificent coffee she makes. She does the same steps as everyone else who works there but somehow her caramel machiatos are just better.

The trip back down the block to his car is a pleasant one- the sunlight isn’t too harsh and the air is crisp enough that he can pretend it isn’t polluted. Until Frank steps out of the air and shoves Gerard into a doorway. He takes the coffee and sets it on the ground. Gerard’s still-sleepy mind goes from zero to panic in that second. Headlines about murders, muggings and rapes happening daily in broad daylight on crowded streets just like this one are bubbling up all over his brain and-

The goblin isn’t doing anything other than keeping his hands on Gerard’s shoulders. Even with his hood up and hair in his face, his eyes catch the light. It reminds Gerard of his nightmares and he stops being scared.

“Why’d you try to kill me?”

The second he says that Frank’s hand shifts down to Gerard’s chest, settling right over a small bruise and a faint, healed scratch that Gerard has done his very best not to think about this week.

“I didn’t want to,” Frank says, frowning, like he’s been interrupted “I still don’t. ...and I don’t think the element of surprise is the way to go with this.”

“Then-”

“I have to, but I can’t. It’s complicated.”

His stomach turns. Maybe his fear of getting killed in broad daylight isn’t so invalid. “Explain it. I’ve got time.”

Frank shakes his head. That one gesture hangs there in silence, final and taunting. A car passes. A gaggle of teenaged girls fall into a startled hush that breaks the second they’re three steps away from the doorway.

“Tell me, Frank.”

“Can you just... accept that I won’t kill you and move on?”

“You’ll keep trying, though.” Living with Mikey has made him very good at listening to the truth between words.

“I have no choice,” Frank replies, despairing.

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, you’ve got to know that.”

Frank sighs, his breath coming out in a puff of fog. He breaks eye contact. His eyelashes almost touch his cheeks when he looks down. The darker shade of green-blue that creeps up his neck doesn’t register as a blush at first but Gerard almost announces it aloud when he figures it out. Frank is ashamed. Of course, he has a very good reason to be ashamed because attempted murder is a shameful thing! ... That doesn’t mean Gerard can get rid of the pity he feels for the Faerie.

A passing draft kicks up a whirl of dead leaves and dust that their doorway conducts perfectly. This close Gerard can see Frank shiver and break out in goosebumps.

“My trees need me,” Frank says before Gerard can articulate what he’s thinking.

“They won’t miss you that much. They’re trees. come on- my mom is making waffles.”

“You’re inviting someone who tries to kill you on a regular basis home for waffles- think about your decisions for a minute.”

“You said you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Besides, they’re delightful waffles- think about your decisions.”

“That is true.” He finally takes his hands off of Gerard. “I can’t even let someone else do it.”

“What? Seriously? Couldn’t you have gotten someone who didn’t reek of old milk?”

“No, all the sirens I know were busy, sorry. I had to call in a family favor...” he sounds irritated, “Why else did you think he was so pissy when I showed up? It was a legitimate reason for me to step in, though- blinding you was not part of the contract.”

“You really have tried everything, haven’t you?”

“Not quite everything yet but either way Elena is displeased," Frank says quickly, like he can't control his mouth.

“How do you know my grandma? You need to tell me what this is about,” Gerard surprises himself with the authority in his voice.

“No. You have to work it out on your own. I mean, the whole not being able to kill you thing is evidence enough for me but I still can’t say anything. It’s up to you. You’ve got all of Elena’s books- do some reading.”

“Some reading!” Gerard is annoyed and about to storm off but then he has a minor epiphany. He pinches be bridge of his nose, unable to believe what he’s about to suggest. “... What about ... What if I found, oh, I don’t know, a study buddy? To help make sure I don’t get distracted.” He chews his lip.

“I really don’t know,” Frank starts slowly having caught on instantly,“of any humans who would be up to the task-”

“- you’ve got a point. There’s really no one better for studying magic and mystery than a Faerie-”

“- I invented magic and mystery, thank you very much-”

“Come here,” Gerard grabs Frank and leaves the coffee, “you’re coming over for breakfast.”

Stepping into the house, the air shifts and feels heavier. Frank winks at him and that’s when he notices the dull shimmer that the goblin has taken on. If Gerard doesn’t look at him directly he looks entirely human. He’s even glamoured himself some clothes that aren’t full of holes. To anyone without the Sight the effect is the opposite- it’s only when they look out of the corner of their eye that they see the goblin.

“You go out for coffee and bring home company. I’m not even properly dressed.” Donna’s tone doesn’t match her words. She stands in front of the waffle iron smiling and humming to herself. On the counter beside it is a steadily growing pile of waffles.

“Mom, this is-”

“Tony,” Frank says with a charming smile, stepping past Gerard and offering his hand, “it’s nice to meet you, ma’am. Gerard talked a lot about his family at school.”

As far as Gerard can tell Frank hasn’t lied. He hasn’t actually claimed that “Tony” is his real name. Nor does he seem displeased to be talking to Donna. The myth about Faeries being unable to lie seems to hold water... How does he know that Gerard talked about his family at SVA?

“Call me Donna, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. You must be Mikey,” Frank turns his grin to the table where Gerard’s brother sits.

Mikey says nothing, does nothing to acknowledge Frank’s presence in his home. Gerard has to sit by him at breakfast, though. While the glamoured goblin is chatting up Donna about soap operas, the strength of the emotion rolling off of Mikey almost makes Gerard sick. He never thought it was possible for Mikey to be this angry. It goes deeper than anger, though, but it’s not a feeling he can put his finger on and he’s glad to retreat to the basement with Frank once their plates are cleaned off. So far as Donna knows Mikey is an antisocial brat and Gerard is going to have a vigorous videogame marathon with a friend from SVA. Oh, what Gerard would give to swap places with his mother.

By the evening, the basement smells like book dust. Gerard has taken on his reading endeavor seriously from the first box of books they’d opened. He’s cleared out a space on the floor for piles of useful books, interesting books and useless or illegible books. Frank sprawls on Gerard’s bed. He’s supposed to be supervising but he’s far more interested in playing Snake on an ancient cell phone that has appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“What exactly am I looking for?” Sure, he’s interested in the mythological histories of Ireland and Scotland but it doesn’t seem to be relevant to anything and the archaic wording is giving him a headache.

“Not the Ulster Cycle, that’s for sure,” Frank reaches down and plucks the book out of his hands. “Try this one- it looks more promising.” This book is falling out of it’s leather binding. It’s a journal.

“I can’t read someone’s journal.”

“It’s, like, fifty years old. You won’t be hurting anything,” Frank coaxes.

“Yeah, but it’s private.” He peeks inside the front cover. “And it’s Elena’s!”

“There’s a reason she left it in her books, Gerard.”

Gerard makes a scandalized noise. “So? I won’t read her journal. That’s wrong- she’s my grandmother.”

“Do you want to figure out what’s going on or don’t you?”

“Who’s making you try to kill me? It’s a woman. I remember that much from when you were talking to my grandma- how do you even know her? Ignore that last question.” Gerard is not going to be the first one to break the staring contest they’re having. He needs answers.

“Don’t change the subject like that,” Frank puts the phone aside, “it isn’t fair.”

“Don’t dodge the question. You can’t tell me why but you must be able to tell me who.Quit wasting my time.”

“No, I’m not. It’s against the damn rules.” Frank groans dramatically, half hanging off the edge of the bed, the ends of his wings splayed on the floor. “It is way harder to bend the truth than you humans appreciate. Have you ever even tried to say something without saying it? Do you understand the mental acrobatics that go into it?”

“Quit dodging. Say it. I demand that you tell me,” he puts on an authoritarian tone, not expecting to get a useful reply.

“Oh fuck you, pulling the official order card like that.” Frank’s hands knot in his hair. He closes his eyes and stays like that until Gerard wonders whether he’s passed out due to the blood rushing into his head. “You boss wouldn’t like that,” he whispers, eyebrows drawn in like he’s in pain.

“Who gives a fuck about-” He stops himself. “No way.”

“Have you been inside that bitch’s office?”

“Hey, Clara is-”

“A bitch,” Frank insists, “Trust me, dude, I’ve known her way longer. You don’t even know her real name.”

“No way.”

His eyes snap open and he points at Gerard, “Don’t start this outright denial shit- I have no patience for it.”

“Why?”

“She eats people. There are more reasons than that for her wanting you dead but, essentially, that’s it. I’m, like, her zookeeper. Regular feedings and all that.”

“For how long?”

“A long, long time,” he replies, and the years show in his eyes.

Gerard feels his eyes go wide. “… The kids they found in the park-“

“Yeah, but I’ve been unable to kill you or anyone in your family for decades longer, if that helps.”

Gerard pouts. “It doesn’t.”

“It’s the best I can do. I’m pretty sure that this is going to make me sick anyway.”

“Sick?”

“If I try to lie or if I break a promise it makes me sick. Violently so,” Frank says, looking pale already, “Sometimes it’s respiratory, other times it’s only a fever or sores. We’re meant to be truthful and loyal, which is why it’s fucking impossible for us to guarantee anyone anything.”

“All the stories about farmers getting screwed out of treasure-”

“Exactly.”

“That’s ironic.”

Frank slides off the bed and sits beside Gerard, their shoulders touching. “Aren’t you going to ask why I can’t kill you?”

“If I do, will you tell me?”

“No.”

“That answers your question, then.”

“He can be taught,” Frank says triumphantly. He leans close across Gerard, his wings brushing velvety soft against the underside of Gerard’s jaw. “Here,” he says when he sits back up, “try this one.”

This book is a much more modern. The cover has a castle on it. It still has a sheen to it and the spine snaps like it hasn’t been opened before.

“Organization of Medieval Fiefdoms,” Gerard snorts, “It sounds fascinating.”

“Oh, it’s as dry as dust,” Frank assures him, laying his head on Gerard’s shoulder and flipping past a few chapters. “It’s useful, though. Read the bit on military conquests and how land got divided up after that.”

It’s harder than it should be to focus with Frank this close. The goblin might as well be laying on him, his wings stretched out of the way and legs falling against Gerard’s like they are. Curled slightly into himself as he is, though, Frank doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. He’s much more fascinated with the outdated brick of a cell phone in his hands.

Introduction to the Feudal System is the first heading. Gerard drops his head against Frank’s with an irritated sigh. Land equates to power. That’s all that feudalism means. How in the hell could there be a whole book on it?

“After you read that there’s an article in one of the older dictionaries that you might want to look at. I promise it’s more interesting. It’s got to do with, like, getting to Otherworld if I remember properly.” He reaches out with his foot and knocks over a stack to slide the dictionary in question closer.

“Lazy.”

Frank sits up a little. There are still far too many points of contact between them for Gerard’s liking. “Says the college drop out.”

“Hey, I had a good reason.” He gives Frank a look that he hopes reads as “watch yourself”.

“No reason is good enough to give up on something you love,” Frank says. He’s leaning too close again with his forehead resting against Gerard’s neck. His tone keeps Gerard from snapping at him. He isn’t really arguing so much as- caring? Trying to give advice? The warm way that Frank’s breath ghosts over his throat goes a long way to distract Gerard from being defensive.

He glances up at his prized poster from Indiana Jones. Posters are nice- they don’t cast judgement. “I just... couldn’t create anything any more, Frank. You don’t understand.”

“Maybe you should have gotten a new roommate. I have a feeling that the one you had was probably jealous. Jealousy makes people do stupid things.”

He rolls his eyes. “Like physics? There wasn’t a creative bone in James’s body.”

“Like feed off of the creativity of others by warping labradorite to kill inspiration instead of draw it. Did you ever look under your bed? There was probably a good-sized chunk of it sitting there in a bowl of toad entrails.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was cursed. Of course I was. That’s... disgusting.”

It also explained the smell- it’s nice to know it wasn’t just his squalor- and how he’s been getting back to drawing lately, albeit slowly and in short bursts. The curse must be wearing off like a lingering sickness- he’ll be rid of it eventually. That’s good to know. It hums a giddy tune in his veins.

“You’re telling me. The really unlucky thing about being part goblin: the school lessons. I will forever wish I could forget most of the magic they taught me.”

“Was it all gruesome?”

“No,” Frank says with a slight shake of his head, “That doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. Corporeal punishment wasn’t banned, especially where social anomalies were concerned. I’m a breathing contradiction- Sidhe and goblin. They aren’t supposed to mix so well. You’d think there would be some fundamental genetic difference there that’d keep the likes of me from being conceived but... I suppose not.”

“That’s not such a bad thing, I think.”

Frank looks up at him with his eyebrows raised in curiosity, like he genuinely doesn’t understand how it could be a good that he was born. Gerard has a split second to change his mind and he doesn’t take it. He dips his head so that his lips brush gently against Frank’s. The second he does it his brain catches up which makes his stomach start doing anxious flips. He lets go of the book and cups Frank’s cheek to keep his hands from shaking.

Kissing a goblin- now that he’s willing to pay attention to it, it isn’t quite what he expected. Inhumanly warm and soft lips. Behind them, jagged teeth that are too much fun not to run his tongue over. No lacking enthusiasm on either side.

Frank chuckles into Gerard’s mouth and reaches up to run his hands through Gerard’s hair. The laugh makes Gerard pull away so he can giggle, too, because the attack of nerves is dissolving into giddiness. Frank slides his mouth away and down Gerard’s neck, pausing here and there to suck on the skin.

The light vibration against his side isn’t noteworthy until it keeps up and makes Frank detach his mouth from Gerard’s throat. The source- that old cell- gets tossed over the goblin’s shoulder to fend for itself in the wilds of the basement floor. Frank leaves a line of half-kisses up Gerard’s jaw and buries his face in the human’s hair.

“Hey, Gerard?”

He hums in response, busying his hands with pulling Frank onto his lap. Frank giggles, letting himself be moved.

“Gerard,” he says again in a sing-songy tone that ends in a little gasp. Gerard has discovered that there’s a scorpion tattooed on high Frank’s neck and he’s intent on showing the goblin just how much he approves of it.

“Yes?”

“Wanna go out? There’s this- this party that I’m supposed to be at,” his fingers dance through Gerard’s hair, making new knots and snarls at the lightest touch, “and you should really come with me.”

A party is not very high on Gerard’s list of things he’d like to do. Unless, of course, said party involves no more walking that what it takes to get on his bed, losing a whole lot of clothing and the privilege of drawing on the little uninked skin that Frank has left in the afterglow.

Frank must be able to hear him thinking that because he makes a small, needy sound and nips at Gerard’s earlobe. “Please? It’ll be really quick,” he promises, “just need to be there long enough to be seen. Then we can make our escape and come back here and…” The not-coy chuckle at the end of that sentence does its job.

Gerard, a tragic victim of his nonexistent sex life, can’t agree fast enough and he ends up regretting it.

Seedy parts of town always make him nervous. He doesn’t appreciate being drug through them at ten o’clock at night in the cold, either. He wishes sorely that he had been willing to be seen in the skull sweater, but parties at chic clubs aren’t coffee runs.

“Thin Iron Maiden shirts aren’t sweaters, either,” he mutters where Frank can’t hear him, wrapping his arms around his middle. How Frank handles running around like a Dickensonian orphan he can’t even guess.

Gerard’s car is a block behind them and they’re headed into a gratified and surprisingly well-lit alley.

The expectation he has is one of beats, black lights, and glitter. Of heated bodies that smell like perfume and liquor and sweat. The plan is simple- let Frank get his face time while trolling around the bar. Once whatever strange social requirements have been met he’s going to take Frank straight back home, no detours, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Gerard decides to implement this plan as soon as they get inside.

Clearly, Frank’s been here before because he strides past the long line in the alley with Gerard in tow. The backs of the bouncer’s hands and head are covered in hedgehog spikes. He exchanges a few words with Frank- this foreign language thing is getting very old, if anyone asks Gerard, which they don’t- and let’s them in without further ado or cover charge.

A distinct lack of homo sapiens in the club is the first thing that Gerard picks up on. Everything breathing in the club is a Faerie. Wings, tails, tentacles, fur, shells, talons and hooves. Even the most human-looking are freakishly beautiful and tall without any real color to their complexions. They’re so beautiful that Gerard wants to just look at them forever…

Which makes him notice they they’re all looking at him. There’s no outright staring but every eye meets up with his while Frank leads him along by the elbow. Each step has him less and less enthused.

Frank comes to a stop, suddenly, to lean up and kiss Gerard’s cheek. “Just be patient.” The breath against Gerard’s ear feels like a whisper but he still hears Frank perfectly. The goblin pulls sharply away and slips away into the crowd.

Then, just as quick, a blond that Gerard doesn’t quite believe he’s seeing sidles up to him. “Hey, wanna dance?” James smiles at him, standing too close for comfort.

The urge to ask him about SVA gossip and rumors of professors hitting on students dies when instinct screams at him to back the fuck up right the fuck now because touching James will not end well. The pale strands of hair that hang in the man’s face remind Gerard of a box jellyfish’s tentacles- poisonous, pretty and barely visible. It’s an absurd idea but he can’t make it stop.

“How’ve you been Gerard? Still drawing?”

He swallows to get some moisture into his throat but it doesn’t really work. “I’ve been great,” he says. He steps into the lie like his favorite pair of jeans. “I’m looking into getting an agent, actually. I think I’m about ready to start doing shows. I’ve already taken a few commissions.”

“Oh you always were a prodigy,” James sneers at the half-truth. He comes even closer and Gerard backs up another step.

Before he knows it he’s been herded into the middle of the room and the music has stopped. The lights are still going. James is grinning and the Faeries are watching like Gerard is some titillating masterpiece.

“That’s quite enough, James.” A girl in French-braided pigtails says.

James doesn’t back off but he stops moving.

Behind the girl- shouldn’t middle-schoolers be in bed this time of night?- is Clara in her business-casual best. She’s got hooves. Of course she does because she’s a Faerie- how else would Frank know her? Beside her Frank is staring down at his toes. Gerard can see a slice of his neck and his ears and they’re burning that dark shade of green that means humiliation. His eyes go back to the girl. The dainty circlet that dips in line with her widow’s peak isn’t fake- queens don’t do fake jewelry, he thinks.

His lips go icy cold and that means he’s as white as a sheet. Betrayal, fear and anger turn everything a gross shade of yellow with black spotting the edges.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gerard,” the queen says again, “I’ve heard quite a bit about you and I’d like to welcome you personally to the Unseelie Court, however short your time with us will be.”

He’s not going to vomit on his shoes. He isn’t. A trickle of cold sweat goes down the middle of his back.

“I have a proposition for you and I want you to understand,” she continues with a smile, “that you will die no matter what decision you choose to make. You have no reason not to do what I ask of you.”

Gerard gapes at her, hands trembling.

“Now, as I understand it, you are in possession of some land which is of no importance to yourself but it is of great strategic importance to me. You’re going to take this lovely knife here, give just a little of your blood and hair, then repeat what I tell you. That will clear up this whole mess and you can die knowing that your property is under my protection and you’ve done right. Do you understand?”

The Unseelie Queen moves to stand in front of him and she is beautiful in the way all Faeries are but she’s better. Every inch pale and regal. Her black eyes tell him she feels nothing, not for him. He’s below her and to be glanced at- much less spoken to- is a high honor. He should be on his knees, groveling for some form of mercy, grateful for being allowed to breathe the same air. Gerard loves her. If he never sees her again, he has glimpsed heaven in her face. He can’t ever look at anything again and see anything but ugliness. She is his queen and there is nothing else. He will do anything-

The sharp smell of overripe sloes clears Gerard’s head of the glamour. Frank is staring over at him, his eyes panicked and black. Gerard’s got no idea what the queen is talking about but Frank does. Frank obviously does. Land? Since when? Maybe she means Frank’s trees? There’s a whisper of understanding, like wind through dead branches, that chases the numbness out of his face and fingertips.

It takes a couple of tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I’m- I’m going to die regardless of what I do.”

“Yes, Gerard. Clara has decided that she requires your blood to keep her going for this year. I’m not about to interfere with my general’s dietary needs.”

He has a flashback to having blood drawn for medical records before he went off to college. The sick feeling from that fear is so normal that he hangs onto it. “Then, no. I’m not getting anything out of this. I might as well irritate the fuck out of you in the meantime.”

“I don’t think you understand me, boy,” she looms, somehow intimidating in her sun dress, “you do not want to deny me anything. I’m getting my way regardless of what you say- however, things will be much easier for you if you simply agree.”

“Fuck easy. That’s Elena’s, not yours,” he says it as it pops into his head. He doesn’t stop to think how Elena is involved- he doesn’t want to know. He just needs to get out of here, go home and sleep. He’ll probably buy a gun first thing tomorrow-

She scoffs. It’s a barking, mocking sound. “What’s the quote? From that nonsensical wizard? Oh, yes,” she pats Gerard’s cheek, “I gave you the chance of aiding me willingly-

- but you have elected the way of pain” the line finishes in Gerard’s head but he doesn’t hear her say it.

James has his hand on the back of Gerard’s neck and Gerard wishes it’d snap. His skin is burning but it goes deeper than that. Straight pins lodge themselves into his vertebrae and start picking out the discs in between. That’s what must be happening because nothing else can hurt this badly.

He guesses he screams. He knows, in some distant way, that he collapses. James follows him down to the greasy floor, perching on top of him. Clothes don’t dampen anything.

Now his torso is on fire- he can smell the skin bubbling and boiling off. Where James’s calves are pressed against his thighs the muscle is being sliced off the bone again, and again. A hand settles on his chest and the air flies from his lungs, a pneumonia-like ache that morphs into a boulder on his rib cage.

His eyes hurt and bruise from how hard they’re rolling into the back of his head. He’s definitely screaming. He listens to his bones cracking and tastes blood in his mouth-

“You’re killing him,” Frank says, shocked and cutting through to that deep place where Gerard is still aware of his surroundings.

“Of course. Clara needs his blood, not his life. There are ways around getting a treeherd’s consent.”

“Don’t you know who I am?” Frank is comically indignant, “Tell me all of you Sidhe aren’t this stupid-”

- James shifts again, probably because a writhing body isn’t the most comfortable thing to straddle, and the hell shifts with him. Gerard now knows exactly where his liver is because it’s being ripped to shreds inside his body. He vomits and chokes. His abdominal muscles seize.

Then it stops.

No weight, no fire, no knives, no poison.

There’s a light pressure inside of his ears. It’s a special kind of ringing deafness that comes only after spending too many hours next to a speaker at full volume. The dark feels like he’s floating. It feels kind of like glamour except he really doesn't mind it because it doesn’t hurt or feel like he’s being manipulated. Cushions line his body from the inside out and he wants to stay feeling comfortable like this.

There’s nothing.

No James, no school, no pain, no time at all.

A jarring shove.

Flashing, colorful lights.

“Move it motherfucker! I can’t keep time stopped like this- not my area!”

Gerard is on his feet and being pushed forward. That’ll bruise. He stumbles on trembling legs, goes down on his knees. He’s uninjured but pain drains the body. A giant leech on his heart. He could sleep for a thousand years-

“If you don’t keep the fuck up you’ll be sleeping like the dead,” Frank snarls at him, manhandling him by the collar of his shirt.

They’re running and they’re being followed. Out of the corner of his eye he spots projectiles. They round a corner just in time for an arrow to get stuck in the wall by his head. This is great.

The club isn’t so much a club as a glamoured castle and Frank knows where he’s going. Gerard hopes Frank knows where he’s going. If they get lost... he can’t handle that. His bones are too weak to hold together long enough to backtrack.

He bangs into sconces and walls. Metal decorations take pieces of skin out of his arm. Real pain like this wakes him up. The sting and steady throb-stab from moving his arm while he runs. It doesn’t matter that he’s out of shape and having a hard time breathing because if he stops running there’s a horde of Faeries that wants him dead and he can’t let that happen.

No way, no how is he going to let that happen, however tempting giving up may be.

Frank shoves him around another sharp corner, into a room. In three seconds Frank has the door locked and barred with a heavy-looking table. He pushes Gerard towards the other side of the room and the staircase waiting there. “That leads straight to a door. Go through it and it’ll get you back to your world.”

“We’re in Faerieland?” Gerard feels dizzy again. This lull has him confused.

“We’ve been in Otherworld since we left your house. It was a bitch to keep you from noticing. Now go, okay? If you die, I die, and that shit ain’t cool.” Frank pushes him into the stairs.

“I’m not leaving without you!”

“The last time I checked, you don’t do magic. You don’t even have enough Faerie in your blood to give you the Sight- I had to huff fuckin’ pesticides so you could get it from me. You go and keep yourself alive and I hold off the people who want to eat you. That’s how this works, Gerard. It’s my job.”

That opens up a whole battery of questions but now really isn’t the time or the place. He does his best to commit each one to memory for an interrogation at a later date. “Come with me.”

Frank has gone back to the door. He’s got the pocketknife that’s responsible for everything out and he’s gashing little symbols into the frame. “Don’t make me use magic on you, asshole. I need to save it for the guards and James. You could have mentioned that he’s your ex-roommate. I could have prepared for this.”

“Well maybe if you’d told me there was something to be prepared for I’d have told you!”

Something runs into the door for the second time. Whatever yelling is happening is unintelligible through the wood. Frank mutters while he works on the doorframe. When Gerard’s hand lands on his shoulder he whips around and snaps his teeth.

“Rith, leathcheann,” he growls, planting his hand against Gerard’s sternum and sending him reeling backwards. “Don’t make this a waste of my time.”

Gerard wants to get up and push him back then drag the goblin out of this crazy place so they can go back to pretending that life is a somewhat stable thing.

He manages the getting up part. His legs aren’t acting on his orders when he starts for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Behind him there’s a massive sound that by all rights should knock him over. Six inches of solid wood shattered. Again with the yelling and he knows Frank is back there, fending for himself, protecting Gerard for some absurd sense of duty or whatever his damage is.

Cold lodges itself up and in where his neck and left shoulder meet. He pitches forward. It startles him enough to make him forget to breathe but it doesn’t hurt until he slams into the door at the top of the stairs instead of opening it. That makes the muscle feel ripped and jammed tight. He fumbles with the glass doorknob, lightheaded. He slams it on the footsteps climbing behind him without looking back.

His shoulder burns. He’s bleeding, hot down his back. When he tries to crane his neck to look at whatever’s stuck there- he has a sickening feeling it’s medieval weaponry- pain laces all the way into the back of his head and down his arm. He really wouldn’t mind if the hurting thing would quit. He’s tired of it.

A cursory glance tells him he’s in the park. How convenient. There are no doors or Faeries or goblins in sight. It’s a freezing night in late October and the street lamp is flickering, telling him in Morse code that it’s time to go home in case the monsters came out.

He collapses onto the slide. The chill of the metal feels nice on the burning that’s started to creep over his entire body. He can’t get his back against it because of whatever’s stuck in his back- damn it, it hurts- but he lays down, twisted on his side, feet still braced against the ground.

The fever in his cheeks warms the slide up. Sweat and blood tickle their way down his back. This has been an exhausting night. Every inch of his body has stopped cooperating. It’s hard enough to remember to inhale and exhale with his head spinning like this.

His car’s stuck in Otherworld. He’ll just stay here and rest for a little bit to get his strength back because he’s got to walk home.

Gerard shivers. He wants his sweater.

Part Five