An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Urban Fantasy Heartbreaker (6522 words) by gen_is_gone
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Gravity Falls
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Bill Cipher/Ford Pines
Characters: Ford Pines, Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket, Bill Cipher
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mystery Trio (Gravity Falls), Demonic Possession, Bill Cipher Possessing Ford Pines, yay it's the same basic premise as every other 80s no portal incident AU, I like to think it'll be a good take on it though, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Whump, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, I mean it's Bill guys, there are no characterization thesis statements going on here I promise
Summary:
Lemme know if you've heard this one before: Guy meets up with brother. Guy fights brother. Guy fails to successfully push brother through inter-dimensional portal. Absent any kind of Incidents, brothers might have to actually work through their shit like adults instead of leaving it on the backburner for thirty years. Yeah, yeah. You know how this song and dance goes by now. Careful though. Clock's still ticking. Somebody's gotta be at fault, right?
these roads are changing me (but they all lead back to you)
Meeting Percy, when they were both twelve years-old, had been a surprise. When he first walked up the hill of Camp Half-Blood, Percy was a frail twelve-years-old boy with damp blond curls and terror glistening in his sea-blue-eyes.
It was chaos.
But in those few weeks, it had felt a lot like home, completely, to be at camp again.
Meeting Percy when they were both twelve years-old had been a surprise, and one that Annabeth would replay in her head more times that she could count in the years to follow.
Loving Percy when they were twenty-five years old was nothing but the most ordinary thing in the world.
read on Ao3
chapter 1: to those who ask
to those who wait
Annabeth didn't really remember being a kid.
Of course, she remembered being young and growing up and going through phases — loving unicorns, not being like the other girls, wanting to bleach her hair with chlorine because it was safer than asking her stepmother to buy human-made products —, but she didn't remember being a kid.
It would get to her, sometimes, the realization. It would hit her square in the chest like a derailed train, leaving behind broken bones, broken dreams and more corpses than she would ever like to have seen in her entire lifetime.
Truth be told, she had never had the time to be a kid. No; her mother would forever tell her she needed to mature, that she wasn't supposed to do simple things such as being angry because she didn't get the toy she wanted for her birthday — 'books are going to turn you into a person; an owl plushie is a waste of space and my money' —, or getting sad because her favorite hair clip broke while she tried to brush her curls to make them straighter. Her father would constantly tell her that he didn't know what to do when someone cried, and emphasize that he hated not knowing things — so, she'd keep quiet about her swollen knee after falling on the staircase, and never utter a word about the scrapes on her knees because a car didn't respect the red traffic light.
She didn't have the time to be a kid, always busy trying to figure the world out by herself. Her mother would work the whole day, and she wasn't the type of person who would spend their gracious time cooking things that a child would eat. So, Annabeth didn't have time to be a kid as she tried her so very best to pile some things up and reach the cooktop, or even the microwave. She needed to be careful, because breaking bowls or cups or dirtying the floor would also annoy her mother, and she learned pretty soon that shards could make a small hand bleed a lot.
And, of course; blood could stain the bathroom carpet and would destroy the living room white couch — the one she couldn't sit on because she wasn't an important person that came to talk to her mother —, so there was no other option but to climb back her piled stuff and use the kitchen sink.
Her father was a little quieter on the matter, but her stepmother would pretend politeness and make her feel back about disliking mushrooms and heart of palm; if she wouldn't eat what they served, then her seven years old self was more than welcome to cook for herself. Not on her pans, though, because they were a wedding gift, and not with her cutlery because those came from whatever part of Italy Annabeth wasn't paying attention to know.
She'd make do with whatever she could fit in her backpack when she needed to go to her father's house. She didn't need that many clothes, after all, and she could take the smaller pans since she would only be cooking for herself, Helen out to work and her father locked in his office until his wife came back and they could deal with Annabeth's presence together.
She didn't have time to be a kid because she was busy learning how to wash her clothes and make her hair less difficult to deal with for Helen. She didn't have time to be a kid because she was busy asking neighbors what to do when there's a bubble on your arm after accidentally touching the cooktop and learning how to cry silently not to disturb her mother's business meetings. She didn't have the time to be a kid because she was trying to fix the holes in her clothes or adapt them for when she was too grown up and her limbs didn't fit quite right.
She didn't have time to be a kid, but her half-brothers did.
When they were born, Annabeth didn't see them for months. Helen was too worried about their safety and didn't want an outsider to come visit before she deemed safe — so, when she met them, Matt and Bobby, she had thought they'd be smaller. She didn't understand how those kids had lived inside Helen at all, because they were big and because they were two. But she loved them when she first saw them. Because they were cute, and because they were her brothers.
Half-brothers, Helen had corrected her once, when Annabeth was talking to one of Frederick's sisters.
Half-brothers are still brothers, she had thought happily at the correction. Something stung deep in her chest, that moment, but she chose not to give it much thought. She loved them, and she wasn't a single child anymore.
Annabeth had loved the idea of having younger brothers, at first. She was thrilled, and happy, because she could be useful around the house — she could help take care of them, and teach them all she knew. How to cook, clean, sew, and read. She could be a great older sister, and they would know as many things as she knew.
It didn't happen like that. Bobby and Matthew never had the time to learn anything from Annabeth, because they were busy being kids. Babies, at first. Then, they were too busy being children.
Helen cooked for them, and Annabeth would wait until the kitchen door closed before going inside and having her stomach complaining from hunger at the smell in the air.
Frederick read for them, and Annabeth would wait for a goodnight kiss on her forehead as she heard through the walls that the boys got before their parents left the room; but her door never opened.
Helen bought them brand new clothes, some too big for them to wear. But it was alright, because they would grow into it — and Annabeth would wait until the monthly box of donations was right outside the boys' door so she could sneak something from there and sew to the clothes that were now bothering her growing limbs.
Frederick would take them out to the park near the house, and Annabeth would wait for the front door to close before she could walk around the house freely, without the sound of her footsteps bothering anyone.
Helen would pack their bags for a weekend trip, and ask the neighbor to watch Annabeth because the kids' seat and their necessities' bags would take up the whole back seat, and the seven year old already knew how to watch over herself.
So, Annabeth was never a kid, and she would always remain in the same place, waiting for things so out of reach that were just on the other side of the wall.
She remained when their weekend trip stretched three more days and the neighbor brought her some lunch when their pantry ran out of things she could reach with her short arms.
She remained while her father would read book after book for the boys, making voices and interpreting some characters she never knew the endings to, because her half-brothers would sleep before the story finished.
She remained when her stepmother noticed that a few clothes were missing and chose to now put them in closed cardboard boxes inside of the garage, and she prepared herself mentally to ask her mother for a new pair of pants.
She remained when Helen suggested she'd cut her hair because it was easier to deal with it while short, and remained as she cried while her locks fell to the bathroom floor.
She remained as she waited for the clocks to tick by and the time come that she would go back to her mother's house.
She remained when her mother sighed, tired and bothered, and waited for Annabeth to climb to the backseat of the car.
She remained.
She remained.
She remains.
✉
"To those who wait.
Hey. Make yourself at home. Sit down, have some tea. I won't offer you coffee because I think your heart is aching too much for us to dare rush it even more than the pain does. I hope you understand and don't take this the wrong way. Sit; there are armchairs, and the paintings on the walls tell stories that time has lost between brushstrokes that some feeling dared to eternalize. There are sofas and coffee tables — although I can't really offer you coffee.
Oh, no, forgive me — there are no clocks on any of the walls. I removed them all a few months ago, some time before. I don't know how long, to be honest. I gave up counting the seconds when the minute clock hand was thrown out of the window.
Make yourself at home, by all means. Wander around if you wish. There's not much to understand here, although there is plenty to explore. The third door on the left, from back to front, is the kitchen. And while I'm at it, it took me God knows how long to get the sugar out of my dream-dessert pastry. So I'll ask you not to add your bitterness to the pan of icing, if you may.
If you'd like, there's a jug in the third cupboard down from the cooker — the dark-wooden one. Don't be disturbed by the smile that disappears every now and then. There's a cat that lives here, I think it came from somewhere in the northern hemisphere, and it likes pointless things — the lack of clocks was just the right choice for him to feel welcome. Perhaps, if you're as lucky as you deem yourself to be lost, he'll like you just as much.
Take the jug, if you'd like. Do you know how to use a cooktop? If not, you can just take out the tallest pan, the one where I put my expectations on others, and put it under the running water on the sink. It's been so long. Maybe I've overdone it and got used to the stench and smoke. Put the jug over the fire and come, wait here with me. It might take a while; I have the impression that tears take a little longer to boil.
The fourth door on the right might be useful if you want to pour out the unspoken. There's a window facing a cliff, and what you say will echo through the time that has passed while you haven't opened your mouth. There's a shelf with bottles of water next to it, too, so that your throat doesn't bleed like your heart has been doing for ages. As for the tissues... I think I left them in the cupboard under the sink.
Sit down, make yourself at home. There are books if you want some distraction to hold you over, and puzzles if you want something that sounds as challenging as the waiting is. I'm bringing the tea you made with the water you left on the fire and some sweets I've made with what's left of the dreams I never finished baking. Don't worry about how long it took for your tears to boil; you just lost track of time near the cliff, even if we don't have much sense of it around here.
I think the cat has taken a liking to you. He suggested we celebrate, and I thought it was a great idea. Have you ever celebrated mismatches? No? Well, that's a shame! So when do you celebrate this life? The meetings? And who do we meet that doesn't leave at some point? And what do you do with your bitterness when that happens? Is this the first time you've made them into tea? Oh, well... Well then, give it a try.
No, dear; I haven't added any sugar. Perhaps the heat has brought up memories that you've left decanted in the midst of the bitterness with which you've flavored them, and this has sweetened your palate a little. But hey, don't let this information sour your soul. Stay calm, enjoy the silence, look around. Make yourself comfortable and as at home as you can. There's plenty to do between one clock hand and the next, especially when you're no longer aware of them.
Oh, but... Please don't go through the first door on the right. It's locked, and will remain so until time takes its toll and your moment actually knocks on the door and opens it for you. Don't wait in front of it, that's my advice — I have the slight impression that the clocks we don't own tick more slowly when we try to listen to them or rush their time away. Take a deep breath, then; there are plenty of doors for you to explore.
The back door I also suggest you don't open. It's tempting, I know, because it's where you came from, but... If you go through it, even if you leave a gap open to the present, you might not see the first door on the right finally open. Don't rush, I said, but don't slow yourself down either.
Make yourself at home. Have some tea. I won't offer you coffee because I think your heart's too sore to hurry. I hope you understand. I have some magazines, armchairs, sofas, cats... I just don't have any watches. Or rabbits. The latter ran off with one last pocket watch when he despaired at the prospect of being late. Until he returns with the time that belongs to you, we can play cards or watch flamingos. Or time, if we don't try to count it.
For those of us who wait, I suppose it's better that silence becomes the ticking of the days and, at night, that we count by hearts attached to a time that no longer passes through ticking.
Patiently,
Minerva."
✉
Meeting Percy, when they were both twelve years-old, had been a surprise. Annabeth had woken up early for another normal day at Camp Half-Blood — a name no one ever considered weird for a summer camp until it was someone who had never been there hearing it for the first time —, ready to help the campers with the activities each cabin had planned for the morning. She had her Yankees cap on, the orange t-shirt all campers wore and the same relaxed expression that always took over her face whenever she woke up to the sounds of life, nature and the ocean in the distance.
When she was there, just another camper and head of Cabin Six, the Owl's Cabin, there wasn't much she could expect to devoid from just another day. Things were ruled and calm and sure, and that was something she loved most about Camp Half-Blood — there weren't expectations, and there wasn't the need to prove herself worthy of being there. Annabeth was welcomed, and cherished, and cared for, even if only for her cabin mates in the light of her resting angry face and sometimes temperamental behaviour.
There was a blueprint to be followed, and it soothed her young soul to its very core. The campers had routines and plans and rules to follow, and it would hardly ever slip through their agenda whatever it was everyone had to fulfil in a day. It was logical and set in stone and built up brick by brick — until the very early evening Percy Jackson came and seemed to make a mess out of everything he touched, talked to or looked at.
When he first walked up the hill of Camp Half-Blood, Percy was a frail twelve-years-old boy with damp blond curls and terror glistening in his sea-blue-eyes. He'd walked up screaming for help and in complete despair, with a friend not-quite conscious in his arms — Grover, the unconscious body; a regular camper that was a dear friend of Annabeth's that hadn't showed up in the beginning of the summer.
It was chaos.
There wasn't a better word in the English dictionary other than that.
Percy was crying, and bleeding, and someone had spotted something on fire right down the hill — the rain had stopped a few minutes before, and still the boy's face seemed to get wetter by the minute. Chiron, the camp's counsellor, and Mr. D, the camp's director, had come running to see whatever the hell was happening, and Annabeth, who had been doing the last rounds around with two of her cabin mates, was just too curious not to run towards the screaming, as well.
She didn't understand a single thing that was happening until the next morning, for the boy had joined Grover in his unconsciousness not long after Chiron and Annabeth were trying to make sense of what happened and some other campers had joined them to see the chaos unfold. Someone had called the police, at some point, and someone else had gone downhill to talk to the firemen that had arrived somewhen in the mess, and the blue-eyed boy couldn't do much but fall to his knees and faint.
When the next morning came, Annabeth had discovered a few more things.
The first one was that Chiron knew whoever the boy was, and that Percy Jackson was Grover's best friend. Grover, who had woken up with a headache and tears in his eyes, and had told her — Chiron and Mr. D and the police officer, really, but Annabeth was close enough to the door — that they had been in an accident. Obviously, Mr. D had said, and Grover could only sob.
It took the boy a while to get the whole story out. Percy was still unconscious in the infirmary, and the campers were sent to do any other thing along the shores, far enough from the main house. Annabeth had stayed, chosen to watch over the sleeping newcomer, and she couldn't complain when her curiosity was screaming inside her head.
They had been running from a monster, Grover had told them. His voice had been weak and terrified, and Annabeth didn't really know what to expect. Something deep in her soul wished that it had been a literal monster, like the ones in the Greek myths that would come and then be killed by a hero coming out of nowhere, and something afloat in her heart broke when Grover gave the monster a perfectly human name — Gabe Ugliano, he had said. He wanted to kill them. Us. And he took her.
Annabeth wouldn't know who it was that Grover had been talking about until very later that same day, all of which Percy Jackson had spent unconscious. She knew he had woken up a few times, and waited quietly until he fell asleep over and over again, unwilling to face the world without whoever she was.
When Chiron asked, Annabeth lied — still nothing. I'm not sure the concussion was as mild as Coran had said, Chiron.
It was. And the stab wound had been somewhat shallow. Not on Gabe, Grover had muttered when Chiron told him about the extent of his friend's injuries, and none of them had had the heart to ask whatever the hell he had meant.
Percy had only woken up when a man came barrelling through the infirmary doors, his deep blue eyes the very same tone and shade as Percy's, even if it'd be something Annabeth would only realize later. Then, she could only note just how similar they were — the same sand-coloured hair, the same trenches-deep frown, the same shell-sharp features. The man had called 'Percy' as an oath, and Percy cried 'Dad' like a prayer.
Annabeth hid in the shadows, for some reason despising the idea of letting the sand-haired boy out of her sight. Perhaps it was her curiosity, maybe it was something to deal with the pride of having information no one else had — mayhaps it was something else entirely, and she wouldn't know until the moment the fates and the winds wanted her to. That evening, she stood there as if the cap she wore made her invisible, and watched as Percy cried and sobbed when his father hugged him as if the oceans would part with his wallowing, would he not.
'Dad,' the boy cried helplessly. 'He took her. She's gone—' he had sobbed, and his father tried to shush him down, carefully and as soft as the ocean breeze that came through the windows.
'We'll find her,' the man spoke. 'We'll find her, Percy. Okay? Your uncle will help—'
'He hates us,' Percy interrupted him, shaking his head violently and with even more desperation to his voice.
'Hadi,' his dad told him. 'Not Zed. He's already looking for her, okay, son?' he asked, and Annabeth had the impression that the man, too, knew that it was helpless. Percy had seen something none of them had, and probably knew better than to have hope.
Annabeth's heart broke at the sight. There was something in those ocean-eyes that seemed criminal to drown in tears.
'Percy,' his father had called. The boy wouldn't meet his eyes. 'Percy, look at me. Please, son,' the man said again, using his fingers to touch the boy's chin and lift his gaze up. 'We'll find her, Percy.'
Percy didn't seem convinced. Annabeth wasn't sure she wanted to know why.
'He had a gun,' Percy said. 'He had a gun, dad, and she looked so— she was so scared, Dad, I—'
The man shushed him again.
'And he was wounded,' his father said. Annabeth couldn't know what it was that made him so sure that things would be alright. It didn't sound like an assurance, whenever he talked to Percy, but one more truth to be acknowledged.
Faith, she guessed. Perhaps not on God or anything else, but it sounded a lot like Percy's father had no reason not to have faith on whoever it was that was missing.
Percy's eyes were big, red, and watery. His father held him close again.
'I want my mom,' Percy cried against the man's shoulder. That seemed to physically hurt him, the man moving as if to shelter Percy from the world with his own body.
'And we'll bring her back,' he swore. Their hug was long and tight, and Annabeth felt a lot like she was an intruder — she was, indeed, but nuance — as the silence stretched. It was Percy's father to break it. 'And I'll need you to stay here, son.'
Percy seemed to be struck by lightning with his father's words, and he suddenly tried to push the man away. His father allowed him to put distance between them, but his hands held tightly to the boy, as if he feared he would bolt out of there as soon as he could. Annabeth wondered how much that was a real possibility.
'Wha— no. No, Dad, I have to—'
'To stay safe, Percy,' his father said, and his tone left no room for arguing. Still, Percy tried. 'Percy, please, listen. There is little to no chance that Gabe will come back here and look for you. Even if I bring you to stay with me, Amy and Tristan, there's still a chance he might get to you. One bigger than if you stay here,' the man reasoned, and Percy seemed torn apart, even more than he had been before. Annabeth could only suppose who those people were, and the extent to Percy's despair. Especially when he gave up putting up a fight, and nodded. 'When we find her, you'll be the first to hug her, okay?' his father promised, and Percy seemed to crumble even more.
He latched himself to his father again, his hands in a blind grip on the back of the man's shirt. The hug he received was equally fierce, as if the man was trying to reassure himself that his son was there, well and alive, and yet very conscious of the fact that he had been wounded. When Percy groaned a bit, probably the stab wound bothering him and the headache coming back, Annabeth saw the rage burn in the cool-blue eyes of the father.
A thunder roared in the distance, and Annabeth, within a second of complete delusion, wondered if the storm that approached the camp was a reflection of that man's anger. She wouldn't doubt it, had someone said so. She wouldn't dare to question it, believing completely that the ache in Percy's face and the anguish mirrored in his father's could tear the oceans apart and cause the sky to fall upon them all.
From the moment the man left — only when Percy fell asleep he had dared to leave his son — Annabeth was asked to arrange one of the empty cabins so Percy could feel more comfortable, more like a regular camper and less like the aim of everyone's curiosity. There were three that were regularly empty, hardly being chosen — the Eagle Cabin, too wide for the campers to find it in them to clean it; the Peacock Cabin, allegedly cursed and never quite chosen even before Annabeth came to stay in the camp; and the Hippocampus Cabin, the only one she couldn't quite understand why remained empty.
Out of the three, the third cabin was the simplest, and definitely not as big. Still, it gave her some sense of peace, and it was definitely as imponent as one would think of the other two. The walls were blue and tall, with all sorts of ocean-related things decorating the entrance and the interior. Chiron said, back when she first came, that the first director of the camp had inspired each cabin on one of the twelve Olympians, and used their symbol animal to name each. The third one, very obviously, belonged to Poseidon — and since he had three animals to represent, they had chosen the horse and the dolphin and gone with the Hippocampus at once.
And she didn't quite know why she had decided that it would be the best fit for Percy Jackson, the boy with stormy eyes and who came presenting as a hurricane into the camp. But Chiron hadn't opposed her decision, and Percy didn't seem to mind it when, the following morning, he had asked to get the hell out of the infirmary.
And it was all he had said that day, hiding behind the blue walls and not setting his foot outside. Grover, who had recovered and given every detail he could remember to the police, had been on the brink of tears from the moment he had woken up, and seemed to give into his desperation as soon as Annabeth, who went to check on her friend, had told him that Percy hadn't joined them for dinner and refused the food Will had brought him earlier that evening.
Grover had cried, and Annabeth had tried her very best to show him some support. She didn't know what he was crying about, if for Percy's lack of appetite, the missing woman or everything all at once, but she hated it with every fiber of her being. Seeing one of her best friends suffering like that made her heart ache, and some irrational part of her brain decided, for a few seconds, to be mad aT Percy Jackson for bringing so much chaos to a perfectly normal summer they were having, and so much pain for someone so good as Grover.
The rational and emotional part of her both got on a nearly physical fight with those thoughts and that feeling. He didn't deserve it, and she knew much better than to give input on things she didn't fully understand — right then, Percy Jackson was a mystery, a wreck, a complete mess; but not at fault.
On the following day, after she had convinced Grover to go and see Apollo, the camp's psychologist (and doctor and musician and a bunch of other things, really), she had gone to the kitchens and prepared a few sandwiches while the other campers were out doing their regular activities. Then, she had headed to Cabin Three, walking slowly and waiting patiently after knocking on the door.
When Percy opened it, it took him a few seconds to fully grasp what he was seeing. Protest was his first reaction.
'I'm not hungry,' he said, and Annabeth was already walking past him and inside the cabin.
'I'm sorry, but I have strict orders not to leave you alone while there's still food on this plate,' she said. Percy's brows furrowed, and he seemed annoyed. 'And before you get angry, I volunteered to be here because the other option was Apollo. And you really don't want to deal with Apollo in these circumstances.'
Percy arched an eyebrow, skeptical.
'And who is Apollo?' he asked.
'The camp's doctor,' Annabeth replied. 'And musician,' Percy frowned. 'Don't ask. He demands to be introduced as both.'
'And you comply?'
'At some point, he'll have needles and stitches very close to you. There's no room for arguing once you realize that,' she offered, and Percy's face seemed even more confused. 'They're a bit forgetful of our mortality here. It's some sort of safe-haven, and the campers are a bit too reckless.'
'They,' Percy repeated. 'And you're not?'
Annabeth smirked, a bit too convinced of herself.
'There's a reason why I'm the head camper of the Owl Cabin,' she said, pride in her voice and her eyes glistening.
Percy looked down for a second, as if trying to put some pieces together. He'd do that often, Annabeth would soon realize — amidst the apathy he'd feel all the while he'd stay at camp that first time, Percy would seem to get trapped inside his head until he could understand something, and then, only then, he'd try and see if there's any truth to his thoughts and logic. As if he was afraid of being wrong; sometimes, it'd look as if he was afraid of being right.
'Owl Cabin,' he repeated. 'Are all the cabins, like— related to, uh... Mythology?' he asked. 'The camp and everything?'
Annabeth arched her eyebrows, and pretended to be surprised. Then, her face melted into a know-it-all smile.
'What gave it away? The owl?' she asked. 'Or the giant fish-tailed horse in front of your cabin?'
After the events that had tipped their world upside down, Joyce moves away and relocates to a place where she spent her summers as a child. When Hopper and El come out for a visit, their lives change more than they ever expected.
“Don’t let the riptide wash away everything you’ve ever learned to love.”
Chapter 2: “Alright let’s go through it one more time.” Alek groaned and placed the magazine from the pocket in front of him over his face. “Alek, this is no time to buy personal exercise equipment. This is serious.” Alek raised a corner of the magazine to glare at her. He mumbled something she didn’t catch. “What?” He slipped the magazine back into the pouch and said, “I said I don’t need any of this stuff my abs are great.” Deryn snorted and he punched her arm. “I don’t know what you even want to go over.” “Well my family's going to ask so many barking questions about us so we need to have our story straight or they’ll know it’s a load of yackum.” “I don’t know what that issss.” Alek sighed. “Well, is there anything else I should know about so I don’t get thrown off?” Deryn thought about this for a moment, before turning a bit pink and saying slowly, “Well, we have to, well, act, like a couple too.” Alek nodded. “Like what?” Deryn shrugged and flopped back against her seat. “I don’t know holding hands and stuff.” “Wow Deryn I don’t think I’m ready to take that kind of step in our relationship yet.” Deryn laughed out loud, throwing her head back and disturbing the woman sleeping next to her who glared daggers into her before shifting slightly and closing her eyes again. Deryn turned to Alek and raised a finger to her lips. “Alek stop being so inconsiderate you almost woke up this nice lady.” This time Alek was the one to hold back laughter and they sat in a fit of giggles before the woman sat up, gripping the edges of her armrests angrily and hissed, “Hush!” at them. "Sorry." Deryn mouthed, tugging Alek's arm to get him to look away. The woman settled back into her seat, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re going to need to start getting comfortable holding my hand then because I’m pretty sure it’s necessary.” Deryn didn’t look at him, just picked at the fabric on the armrest between them. Alek watched her fingers pull at a thread and then said, “Are you suggesting we practice?” Deryn blew air out in a fast breath that would resemble a laugh if she’d tried a little harder. She sucked air back in and said shortly, “Sure.” Alek slipped his hand in hers and they entwined their fingers together. Deryn’s hands were warm and soft, with thick calluses from work. She shifted in her seat slightly, her knee brushing up against his. Alek’s thumb rubbed her knuckles idly, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. And it felt normal. It felt like something they should be doing all the time. “Feel better about taking this step now your princeliness?” Deryn asked. “Yes, this is quite easy to do.” “Then I’m going to move along.” Deryn pulled her hands away and shoved Alek out of the way as she put the armrest up. without the barrier between them she scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder, nestling in to get comfortable. Alek wrapped his arm around her waist and tangled his fingers with hers once more. Her hair tickled his neck and he rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, urging him to move as close to her as possible. “This is quite easy too.” He mumbled. He breathed deeply, tilting his head to rest his cheek against her. “Mmhmm.” “Shhhh!” the woman next to Deryn hushed them again, making them both jump up in surprise, but they quickly settled back into their positions in silent agreement.
Ian’s prediction about drunken family members isn’t too far off. By the time Kev closes up and clears everyone out, Carl is passed out under a table and Frank can barely stand. Lip and Ian take one of Frank’s arms each and half-drag him home, while Kev hoists Carl over his shoulder, threatening the unconscious teen with various acts of revenge should he make the mistake of throwing up on him.
It’s well after two when they pile into the Gallagher kitchen and Hannah, the teenager from down the street who’s babysitting for Liam and the twins, is fast asleep on the sofa with the TV playing some bizarre late night movie to itself. Veronica heads upstairs to check on the kids while Fiona wakes the sitter gently and pays her, and then Kev drops Carl onto the sofa in Hannah’s place and drives her home.
Lip and Ian deposit Frank unceremoniously onto the kitchen floor, roll him onto his side and then sit opposite each other at the table, Ian resting his head on his folded arms. His mind is racing. There’s a clatter from the other side of the kitchen, and he raises his head to see Debbie pouring everyone glasses of water.
“It’s to stop you getting dehydrated,” she says when he asks, giving him a withering look. “Dehydration is the primary cause of hangovers.”
“Well, good luck getting anything into those two Debs,” Lip says, pointing at Frank and then jabbing his thumb behind him towards the living room. “We’ll be lucky if Carl wakes up before tomorrow.”
“He shouldn’t have agreed to that stupid game,” Debbie says disapprovingly, setting Ian and Lip’s glasses down on the table and then handing one to Fiona as she comes back into the room.
“I can’t believe he won,” Ian says, and Debbie glares at him. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, Debs. The other guy was huge; his alcohol tolerance should’ve been sky high.”
“Two hundred bucks,” Lip says. “Can’t go wrong.” Debbie shifts her glare onto him instead, filling another glass and stomping through to the living room. They hear her talking to Carl, trying to rouse him, and then eventually his voice filters through too. Debbie’s nothing if not persistent.
“It was a good night though,” Fiona says from the doorway, a soft smile on her face. “It was nice to have some fun for a change.”
“Yeeeaaah we all know what kind of fun you’ll be having,” Veronica teases, coming down the stairs into the kitchen, and Fiona smirks a little.
“Maybe,” she says. “He’s nice. You thought he was nice, right?” She looks suddenly anxious, her eyes flashing from Veronica to her brothers and back again.
“Hell yeah,” Veronica says. “He was nice, and rich, and fucking hot. Everything you need, right there.”
There’s a snuffling sound from the floor and Frank suddenly speaks up, sounding half-asleep. “His friend…was rude.”
Fiona looks surprised. “Who, Mickey? I think maybe he’s just shy? Jimmy said they’ve been friends for years, and I’m sure they wouldn’t be if he was such a bad guy.”
“Yeah, shy,” Lip snorts. “You should’ve heard what he said about Ian.” Ian feels colour stain his cheeks as all the eyes in the room fall on him. He’s had another beer since he’d over-heard the conversation between Jimmy and his friend, and the sting of what Milkovich had said has mostly abated, but he still doesn’t want to bring it up. He kicks Lip under the table. Lip carries on, undeterred. “Called him a ‘pity-bang from the projects’.”
Fiona’s face twists in anger. “He said what?!” She turns to Ian, outraged. “Is that really what he said?”
“Yeah,” Ian says, forcing a laugh out. He figures laughing it off is the quickest way to change the subject. “‘He’s ok I guess,’” he says, mimicking Milkovich’s deeper voice and the dismissive tone he’d used. “‘But still not—’” He snorts out another laugh, a more genuine one this time. “‘—not worth my time.’”
Ian and Lip dissolve into laughter again but Fiona still looks enraged. “Not worth his time, huh?”
“It’s fine,” Ian says, and he almost means it. “I didn’t think much of him, either.” He definitely means that.
“Well,” she says. “When he realises his mistake, I hope you fucking turn him down. A pity-bang, my ass.”
“I wouldn’t worry Fiona,” Ian says, with a grin. “I think I can safely promise you that I will never go out with Mickey Milkovich.”
*
Mickey spends the journey back to the Lishmans’ house in sullen silence, tuning out Jimmy’s animated chat as best he can. He’s talking about Fiona, telling Chip various stories that he picked up from the bar, talking about Fiona some more and Mickey finds that he’s really not in the mood for it. He just wants to get back to the house, go to bed and forget about that red-headed kid. Especially forget about that red-headed kid’s arms. And his ass. And the image of him and his brother laughing over some apparently hilarious anecdote, which had left Mickey with the nagging feeling that he was the subject of their ridicule.
He’s suddenly aware of Chip talking to him. “I think you’ll agree with me, Mickey?”
“Huh?” He’s caught off guard, something he hates even with Jimmy and Chip.
Chip frowns at him. “I said, I think you’ll agree with me, that place is the biggest dump we’ve ever been to. Jim, I think you’ve found a whole new low.”
“I thought it was quaint,” Jimmy says defensively. “And the people were lovely.”
Mickey snorts. “Quaint? Listen, quaint is little cottages with thatched roofs, or villages with no electricity. Quaint is not some dive bar in the South Side of Chicago where you happened to meet the latest love of your life.”
“Didn’t meet her there,” Jimmy shoots back with a playful grin, and Mickey waves him off.
“Whatever. Still doesn’t make it fucking quaint.”
Jimmy sighs. “I don’t get it, Mick. Why are you so determined to hate everything?”
“Why are you so determined to see the best in everything, huh?” The counter flies back without a pause for thought; it’s an argument that’s been well-hashed out between them in the years that they’ve been friends.
“Well, I think Fiona is lovely, and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.” Jimmy’s tone is determined, and Mickey just rolls his eyes and watches the streets pass out of the window.
“She’s hot, I’ll give you that,” Chip concedes. “But the rest of them? Her father?! The guy probably has more alcohol in his body than blood.”
Mickey silently agrees. He’d mostly ignored the old drunk’s ramblings, but he’d heard enough to know that the Gallagher patriarch wasn’t someone that any of them would want to be further acquainted with.
*
Fiona starts her new job on the following Monday. She gets up an hour earlier than usual, shampoos her hair three times just to be sure, spends almost forty-five minutes blow-drying and straightening it, and then hates it and pulls it into a ponytail instead. It’s marginally better, she supposes. She stares at the smart office wear that she and Veronica had shopped for, and when she puts it on she feels oddly uncomfortable, like a child playing dress-up. She’s suddenly not at all convinced that she can pull this off.
She’s well aware that a large part of the reason Jimmy offered her the job is because he fancied her, she’s not stupid enough to try and convince herself otherwise, but at the time she’d felt that it had just been an added extra, that she’d interviewed well and shown initiative and made herself look employable. Now, staring at herself in the mirror with her scraped back hair and conservative make-up and sensible earrings, she wonders how she could possibly been so stupid. There is no way she can possibly do this job.
She grips the edge of the dresser so hard that her knuckles turn white, trying to take deep breaths as the panic rises. You can do this, she tells herself. You’ve done it plenty of times before.
By the time she gets downstairs, the breakfast routine is in full swing without her—Debbie’s got pancakes cooking on the stove-top and Carl’s pouring juice and digging through the clean laundry to find a shirt for Liam. She’s so grateful for them on days like this, so happy that she must have done something right somewhere along the line because the six of them stick together and they take care of each other and muck in without question. You can do this, she tells herself again, and this time she almost believes it.
Debbie looks up then, noticing Fiona standing on the bottom step, and she grins. “Figured you’d be distracted today,” she says, shaking the pan a little. “Pancakes?”
*
She settles into the job quicker than she could have imagined, finds this kind of thing second nature. She files and she organises and she figures out the computer system and it feels good.
She doesn’t see Jimmy until her fourth day, by which time she’s feeling fairly confident about her performance. It’s mid-morning, and she’s in the middle of a phone call with a particularly demanding patient who isn’t happy with any of the appointments she’s offering him, when he plants himself in front of her desk. She makes the mistake of looking up just as the guy on the phone finishes the long, meandering explanation of why next Monday just doesn’t work for him, and Fiona is so distracted by Jimmy’s face that she forgets she’s supposed to respond.
“Uh, Miss? Miss?”
“Right, sorry sir,” she says quickly, and she tucks the handset between her shoulder and ear, holds her finger up at Jimmy, and starts tapping through the appointment schedule again. “Well, I have one on Tuesday, at 4.30?”
“No, I can’t do Tuesday evening, that’s bowling night and I…” He goes off again, telling her long it takes to get to the alley on the L and she tunes him out, chancing another look up at Jimmy. He can obviously hear every word because he’s trying to suppress a laugh, his lips pressed together in amusement, and then he leans over and hits the disconnect button. She’s too shocked to speak for a moment, not quite believing that Jimmy Lishman, her boss, just hung up on a fucking patient.
“Guy sounded like an ass,” he says, and she bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, he kinda was,” she admits. “That was the fourth appointment I’ve offered him.”
“Well,” Jimmy says, thoughtfully, like this is some huge mystery they’re solving together. “Maybe he’s secretly terrified of doctors?”
She laughs again. “Maybe,” she says. “Either that or one of my brothers put him up to it as a joke. Wouldn’t put it past them.”
He chuckles. “Sounds like the brotherly thing to do,” he says. “The first day of my residency, Chip got one of his college buddies to turn up at the ER with the most ridiculous list of symptoms. I was freaking out, had no idea what was wrong with him and too embarrassed to go ask for help.” He starts reeling off the symptom list, mimicking exactly how his brother’s friend had acted as he’d added each one, and she’s having so much fun that before she know it it’s one-fifteen and her shift’s almost over.
“Have dinner with me tonight?” he asks, and she’s laughing so hard that she doesn’t even think about her answer before she agrees.
*
The restaurant they go to that evening is so far removed from her normal life that she has to pinch herself; the waiters are all in black tie and standing straight, shoulders back with elbows pointing out at sharp angles, half the items on the menu are unpronounceable and the wine Jimmy orders costs more than she gets paid in a week. She’s so nervous that she downs the first glass of wine in almost one mouthful and then chokes, her cheeks burning. She feels awkward and out of place, sits stiffly in the seat and tries to work out which fork to use when and where to put her napkin and which topics of conversation are suitable for somewhere like this. Everything she says sounds stilted and false, and suddenly all she wants is to go home and take this stupid dress off.
“Sorry,” Jimmy says in the car on the way home. “Too much, right?”
“Maybe a little,” she says apologetically, offering him a little half-smile.
“I guess I just wanted to impress you,” he says. “I’ll tone it down next time, I promise.”
“Next time, huh?” she teases, and the half-smile becomes a real one.
He looks across at her, frowning. “Well, I mean. If you wanted to…”
She shrugs, acts casual. “Well, I suppose I could try and fit you in,” she says, and he laughs.
“Good,” he says. “Good.”
*
It becomes a regular thing, although she doesn’t let herself think of it that way. He’s as good as his word, tones it down—it still feels toned-up to her, but it’s at a level she can cope with and actually starts to enjoy—and she starts to relax again and enjoy his company. He really is a nice guy, she realises, kind and funny and well aware of how lucky he is. He explains to her, one night in an upmarket bar, that the free clinics initiative had been his idea, how he’d been fourteen and watched a documentary about healthcare and it had been the first time he realised that so many people couldn’t afford any. “I went and asked my dad why,” he says. “And he said it was just the way things were. I don’t accept that.”
She likes him a lot and that scares her, because liking leads to caring and caring leads to love and she learned a long time ago that love is a word used to excuse people hurting you. Monica loved her and Frank loved her and so many men she can’t even count loved her but they all hurt her or left her or both and she’s stopped letting herself hope for anything more. So she smiles and she laughs and she enjoys the fancy restaurants and exclusive nightclubs that he takes her to, but she reminds herself that it’s temporary, that he will leave sooner or later, and she refuses to let herself feel.
They’re in the backseat of his car—some impressive, fancy kind that Carl had almost swooned over the first time he parked it outside their house—when she first realises that maybe she wasn’t being as clever as she thought she was. They’re parked beside the lake, ostensibly to enjoy the view although they both knew that the view probably wouldn’t get much of a look-in, and she’s on top of him, her skirt hitched up around her hips, her movements fast and frenzied. He keeps trying to slow her down, holding her tightly against him and thrusting up into her instead, and it’s like a battle of wills between them, her pulling back and speeding up and then him pulling her close again and kissing her, soft and gentle with his hand in her hair. There’s a flutter in her stomach that she’s trying to ignore, and then he pulls away just enough that she can see the look in his eyes. His pupils are dilated, although she’s seen his eyes darker, and there’s something else there besides lust.
“Fiona—” he starts to say, his voice hoarse, and panic rises in her throat.
“Shut up,” she says, and pushes him back against the seat, buries her head in the crook of his shoulder and then she’s moving again, hard and fast. He doesn’t stop her this time, gasping against her ear as he gets closer, and she’s glad. She doesn’t want to think about this right now. She bites down on his shoulder when she comes, swallows the noise that she almost made, and then he thrusts up once, twice, and he’s coming too and she sags against him.
They stay there for a few minutes, heavy breathing the only noise between them, and then she feels him inhale like he’s about to speak. She gets in first. “We should be getting back,” she says softly, with a hint of regret.
He doesn’t argue, just nods and pushes her hair back off her face and places a chaste kiss on her lips, and then she slides out of his lap, rakes around for her underwear and pulls her skirt back down while he pulls off the condom, tying it in a knot, and zips his trousers back up. He doesn’t try to talk again.
She lets his hand rest on her thigh as he drives her home, and for the next two days all she can think about is what he might have been about to say.
*
“He probably just wanted to tell you that his leg was cramping up,” Veronica jokes when Fiona finally tells her what’s been on her mind. They’re drinking coffee in Fiona’s kitchen, and Fiona is quieter than usual, quiet enough that her friend had badgered her until she’d finally given in. She barely cracks a smile at Veronica’s quip, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “What are you so afraid of,” Veronica asks, and her face is suddenly serious. “That he might actually like you?”
“No,” Fiona says, but she sounds unconvincing even to herself. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Would it really be such a bad thing if he did?”
Yes, Fiona thinks, but she doesn’t answer, just stares into her coffee instead.
“Fiona,” Veronica says. “He’s a nice guy. You deserve this. You gotta let someone in, sometime right? Why not him?”
“Because…” Fiona doesn’t even know how to explain it. Because he is a nice guy. Because she might actually like him. Because he doesn’t belong here and he’s going to realise that at some point, get bored of his little vacation in the South Side, go back to his penthouse in New York and his fancy office at his family’s firm and start planning another clinic somewhere else. Because ‘enjoying it while it lasts’ is kind of dependent on her not caring. “I’ve got the kids to worry about,” she says instead. It’s a handy excuse. “I’m not looking for anything serious or—”
Veronica cuts her off with a withering look. “Kids my ass,” she says. “Lip and Ian are at college more than they are here.”
“They’ll be back at the weekend for the summer,” Fiona says. “And Lip’s finished for good.” Veronica rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, and they can take care of their own asses. Same goes for Debbie and Carl.” Fiona opens her mouth and Veronica holds her hand up. “No. The only kid you got left is Liam, and soon enough he won’t need you either. He’s got five brothers and sisters to look out for him, not just you. It’s about damn time you started thinking about yourself, girl, and stop using those kids as a wall to keep people out.”
Fiona hates it when Veronica’s right.
*
Ian and Lip come home that weekend, with bags full of dirty laundry and summer plans that actually sound responsible, instead of reminiscent of their teenage years stealing lasers and selling weed out of an ice cream van. Fiona’s sort of proud and wistful all at once. Lip’s picking up some casual work while he looks for an internship, hopefully one that will lead to a proper job—“finally start pulling my weight,” he says to Fiona—and Ian’s got three summer jobs lined up. Between the three of them, and Debbie and Carl’s contributions, the squirrel fund is bulging by the second week of their stay. It’s a nice feeling, but Fiona can’t seem to drop the habit of cutting coupons and shopping for the cheapest food she can find. Next week, she thinks. Next week we’ll splash out. When we’ve saved another $500. Another $1000.
The third week after the boys come home, there’s a barbecue on an abandoned patch of land next to the L tracks. No-one’s really sure whose idea it is first but it spirals and by mid-morning on a hot, sweaty Saturday, the waste ground has been filled with trestle tables and foldable chairs. Kev's donated several large kegs of beer and there are numerous ice-filled bins with booze and soft drinks, along with multiple grills—everyone seems to have brought their own—and enough food to feed all of Canaryville for a week. This was the kind of shit the community all participated in, and they did it better than anyone else.
The Gallaghers are already there when the Lishman party arrives. Ian hasn’t seen any of them since that first night in the Alibi and he’s glad, if he’s honest. He feels like they’re from another world, one that doesn’t have any place trying to mesh with his own. He watches them pull up in their fancy car, step out in their fancy preppy clothes and designer sunglasses, looking like they’ve been ripped out of some stupid fashion magazine, and it only makes that thought firmer in his mind. They didn’t belong here. Jimmy pops the trunk open, chatting animatedly to his brother, and then they turn to the field and start to cross to where the tables are. Jimmy and Chip are each bearing a crateful of fancy shit that Ian is pretty sure no-one will touch, and Mickey has a cooler, filled with bottled beer by the looks of it. Once again, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here and Ian half-wonders if the alcohol he’s carrying is all for himself.
Kev’s over to welcome them in an instant, directing them to the table where Veronica is laying out the food. Once they’ve deposited the crates he shakes all of their hands enthusiastically, a huge, genuine smile on his face, and waves his arm out to the gathering, telling them to mingle. Jimmy’s just as jovial as Kev is, makes his rounds greeting all the people he met at the Alibi while Chip and Mickey load up plates from the food that they brought, take beers from Mickey’s cooler and stand awkwardly to eat rather than take a seat. It irrationally annoys Ian, feels like they’re placing themselves above everyone else, as if the food and drink and people here aren’t good enough for them. They probably aren’t, he thinks, and it annoys him even more.
*
He and Lip are sitting a short while later, loaded down paper plates and cheap plastic cups of beer in hand, watching Fiona and Jimmy as they swipe food off each others’ plates and laugh.
“Seems to be going well,” Lip comments.
“Yeah,” Ian agrees, picking at the food on his plate with not much intention of actually eating. “She seems to like him a lot.”
“Well, she could maybe try showing it a little,” Lip muses. “She’s hardly breaking out the big guns.”
Ian laughs, and then the laughter fades as he realises that Lip is deadly serious. “Really?” he says, his tone sceptical.
“What?” Lip is unapologetic. “Look, he’s a nice guy right? He’s kind to her and he takes her places and he’s—”
“Rich?” Ian says dryly.
“That’s not what I was gonna say,” Lip insists. “But yeah, he’s got money. He’d take care of her.”
“She can take care of herself,” Ian points out. “And she barely fucking knows him.”
“It’s been what, six weeks? And Debbie says they go out like two or three times a week. She’s gotta know him pretty well by now.”
“Six weeks is nothing,” Ian says. “She went out with that Dave guy for almost a year, and she never knew he’d been cheating on her the whole time.”
“It’s enough for her to stake a claim at least.” Lip sounds thoughtful now, his eyes still fixed on his older sister.
Ian stares at Lip. “You sound like Frank.” Lip glares at him, but Ian’s unapologetic. “I’m serious. You’re talking like him, all this talk of marrying the rich guy and staking claims on people. Maybe she doesn’t want to marry Jimmy? Maybe he doesn’t want to marry her? He’s a person, not a prize in a raffle.”
Lip shrugs. “It’s the best odds she’s ever gonna get.”
“Jesus,” Ian says. “It’s not the fucking 1800s. She doesn’t need to find some rich guy to bail her out. Give her a chance to figure it out for herself.”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Lip says. “She seems to like him is all. She could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Ian doesn’t answer, just looks back at Fiona. She could do a lot worse, he supposes, but maybe she could do better, or maybe she was fine with things as they were. He figures she’ll deal with it in her own time. He’s not sure where Lip’s coming from at all, why he seems suddenly so eager to marry Fiona off. It strikes him as thoroughly odd.
They sit in companionable silence for a while, and Ian people watches. Everyone seems to be having a great time, they’re all some degree of drunk or on their way there, and someone’s playing dance music from a souped-up sound system in one of the cars; he spots Debbie in the thick of the dancers, red hair flying as she commands the attention of a good half-a-dozen men, most of whom are, in Ian’s older-brother opinion, far too old for her. He wonders how she and Carl grew up so suddenly, feels like maybe he blinked and missed a couple of years. In some ways, he supposes that he did.
He looks away, keen to banish the path his thoughts are going on, and immediately his eyes pick out Frank instead. His father has taken up residence beside one of the kegs, of course, and is regaling anyone who’ll listen with tales of how his daughter has struck lucky; Ian can hear and lip-read enough to get the gist of the bragging and the self-congratulation, and he cringes.
“That Milkovich dude is staring at you,” Lip says, suddenly.
Ian looks up automatically, his eyes tracking across to where Mickey is standing. He’s alone now—Ian wonders where Chip’s gone—and Ian sees that Lip is right; although the other man averts his eyes quickly it’s clear that he was looking over at them. Ian frowns in a strange mixture of confusion and annoyance, and turns back to Lip. “No idea why,” he says. “Maybe he’s trying to intimidate us?” Lip shrugs. “I wish he hadn’t bothered coming,” Ian says. “He brings the mood down.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Lip says. “Looks more like he’s at a fucking funeral.”
Ian hums in response, eyes still tracking the field until he finds Carl who is…about to put on an impromptu fireworks show. Of course he is. Ian sighs, pulls himself up straight in his chair and gestures towards Carl. Lip rolls his eyes, and they stand in unison, ready to double-team their kid brother before he causes someone—probably himself—some serious damage.
*
Lip circles round to the left and Ian moves to the right in hopes that they can catch Carl from either side before he notices them approaching. They move almost in parallel to each other, until they’re almost halfway there and suddenly he hears Kev calling his name, just as he grabs his arm and pulls him off his path. Ian turns as Kev tugs at him, and finds himself face-to-face with Mickey Milkovich.
It’s the first time Ian’s seen him up close and he has to take a minute because, to Mickey's credit, he’s good-looking. Really good-looking. He looks him up and down, takes in well-defined arm muscles that he probably got from a gym instead of pull-ups in a doorway, notes the way that his clothes hug his body in all the right places, lingers over slim, muscular legs. He’s distracted by the movement as Mickey flexes his fingers, and Ian has that thought again about rough edges, because Mickey’s got that look about him that you might never be sure if he’s going to kiss you or punch you in the face. Right now, Ian almost wants to punch him in the face because all he can hear is pity-bang and he really wishes the guy wasn’t so attractive.
“Ian, did you meet Mickey yet?” Kev’s saying, but Ian’s too busy fixing the strongest glare he can muster on the shorter man. “I was just saying, he’s not gonna meet anyone if he doesn’t mingle, right? Mickey, this is Ian, Fiona’s brother.”
Mickey nods at him, and Ian sets his jaw and then offers the slightest incline of his head in response. He notices that Mickey looks about as uncomfortable as Ian feels, and he gets a sliver of satisfaction from that. Good, he thinks. Serves you right.
Kev’s still talking, trying to get them to strike up a conversation, and Ian tries to edge away only for Kev to reel him back in. “Hey, Ian just a couple of minutes, right? Can’t be letting our guests stand around alone.” Ian cringes at the word ‘guests’, is about to make his excuses and explain about Carl, when Mickey suddenly speaks.
“You, uh, you want a beer?” He’s chewing on his lip a little as he asks the question, gesturing to the cooler at his feet, flicking his eyes up to make contact with Ian’s just as he finishes the question. Ian’s struck by how bright they are, close-up like this and reflecting the sunlight.
He’s lost for words for a second, not quite sure how to respond. “No,” he says shortly. “No thanks, I need to go and deal with...” He gestures vaguely in the direction he’d been walking towards Carl, wondering if Lip’s gotten to him yet. Mickey shrugs, looking disinterested again, and Ian turns and walks swiftly away. He can feel Mickey’s eyes burning into his back as he goes.
Sun leaks just outside my eyelids as my body is jolted forward with small force. I realise that this is not a normal procedure to be going under. After about 30 seconds of processing this information I groggily open my eyes to see a black boot nudging me rhythmically.
"Ha! It's dead," cries a morbid girl.
Oh dear lord, it's her. It wasn't a dream. Great.
"I don't mean to disappoint, but..."I mumble, I must have blacked out during my very surreal fall.
I receive a sharp kick to my spine, sending me spluttering into a stand.
"Before we embark on this adventure-,"
"What adventure?" she cuts me off.
Startled by the question, I start to make out the sentence "The one where you rescue me from my-," she cuts my off again.
"fate? Nah, got bored with that idea."
I'm stunned into silence how could she get bored? That's the whole reason I'm here... Where exactly is here? It then occurs to me that I don't know anything about her. "Who are you?" I ask, "What is your name?"
"Alice?" the questioning tone in her voice puts me off slightly.
"Is that your real name?" I'm really confused now.
"Urrrrrr... Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, Alice. But I don't really believe you..." this has to be the strangest girl I have ever met.
"YES!"
I can't even respond to this, I don't know the social protocol.
"You said, Alice. Therefore, you names me," she says it as if it is the most normal thing in the world.
"I'm just going to lie down here..." I mumble into the ground. I've had it. I'd much rather die a horrible death than deal with this madness.
"You know, your strange," Alice says matter-of-factly.
This is when I lose my temper. Big time.
"I'm strange! Me! You think I'm the one that's weird," I practically scream. As I do her eyes grow sad and for once she's silent, but this doesn't stop me from yelling, "I've had it! I've known you less than a day and I have to trust you with my life! And... and... and then you decide it's not worth it!" I'm practically foaming at the mouth now.
I'm watching her intently again, but this time with a extreme dislike buzzing through my head. Her face turns from chastised to a slow but distinct frown, then a smirk that drains all my anger.
"I'm the only way you can get out of here," her smirk turns into a full on grin that reflects the light from the noon sun
"Where is here?" it's one of those questions you think would be obvious, considering ones surroundings, however, this place had something wrong in the air, the wind, even the buildings, which were all high skyscrapers, seemed as if they'd rather be someplace else. It was too quiet.
We were tucked safely away from the public eye inside a rather thin alley way.
"This," she said pausing, "is Thear."
Well that made a heap of sense. The look of confusion on my face gave her the need to elaborate,
"It's an anagram for Earth, Dofus."
"So this is a parallel universe?" I question, feeling quite confident that that would impress her, not that I need to. But that confidence is squashed with the look of utter condescending sarcasm, Alice gave me.
"No, this universe is completely different to yours, however similar. This universe is being orbited by your universe. The only way I can go back and forth is the hole we fell through earlier. Unfortunately, it's not supposed to be there. It's not safe here..." she drifts off, looking from left to right with nerves bunched up within her green eyes.
"Why did your eyes turn red?"
"What?"
I repeat myself, "Why. Did. Your. Eyes. Turn. Red?"
"The amount of energy surging through my body," she stops to think more about her deductions, "That must have caused the colour change. It's not easy accessing a hole in the universe."
She starts to walk cautiously out of the thin alley we're in. I proceed in following her, but I have to stop abruptly as she's turned around to face me.
"We have to get to the Library of the Tazulian Prince, " she whispers with fear in her eyes.
Alice seems a lot less... murderous since our first encounter. I'm thankful for it and all, but I can't stop wondering if was all an act and, if so, why? At least she no longer scares the pants off me.
