I’m positively abysmal at meeting the deadline on these, but here’s something for day 3 of OC Romance Week.
First meeting between the dragonborn, Stenvar, and mercenary, Bughug.
Stenvar had no idea Windhelm would be so dadblame cold. Sure, Skyrim had its tendency to be chilly, but as a nord he could usually handle a little wind and frost.
This though, this seemed to be something else entirely.
He’s chilled to the bone by the time he makes his way through the city gate. His clothes are soaked from the fat flakes of snow that fell hard against him, and small icicles were forming in his mustache and beard. His fingers are numb as he reaches for the handle on the door of the first large inn he comes to.
He’s greeted with a rush of warm air we he yanks the door open. He shoves it closed behind him and slums against it briefly with relief. When he rights himself and looks around to take in his new surroundings, he notices the barmaid waving him over.
When Stenvar sidles up to the bar, he understands why she had waived. He can barely hear her over the noise of people making merry upstairs. “This here's Candlehearth Hall. Name’s Elda. Great room's upstairs, an' there's a bed for rent on the ground floor?”
“I’d like to rent that room.”
“Sure thing.”
After money and a set of keys changes hands, Elda gestures to a hallway adjoining the small reception area. “Your room is the first down the hall to the left. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
Stenvar thanks her and makes his way upstairs.
The noise of the crowd was quite loud previously but turned into quite the din when his feet hit the top step. On the other side of the great hearth in the center of the room, people were doing a lively, spinning dance to the near shouting of the bard, who had climbed atop a table to be heard properly.
The first half of the room wasn’t much better. All the chairs and tables seemed to be completely occupied, while the few waitresses that the inn had looked to be running over themselves to keep up with orders.
Well, all the chairs that he could see were occupied except one. Which happened to be open across a table from… an orc?
Stenvar got the attention of a waitress long enough to place a quick drink order, then weaved his way between tables and chairs and sprawled out legs until he was able to slide into the empty seat.
The orc nods to him, at which he asks, “What is an orc doing in a place like Windhelm?”
One corner of the orc’s mouth tics up slightly behind a large white tusk. “My name is Bughug. And I just happen to be the best sellsword in the city. I’m guessing you not knowing that means you’re new around here, Mr. …?” The orc trails off, plying him for his name.
“Stenvar,” Stenvar supplies shortly before sipping from the tankard of mead that a waitress placed in front of him.
The orc… Bughug snorts. “In any case, Stenvar, if you’re interested in an extra eye to watch your back, then 500 septims and I’m yours.”
Stenvar hesitates a moment, weighing his options. 500 septims was no amount to sneeze at. Traveling with someone else also meant just one more person to have to try to look out for. But he supposed that went the other direction, as well. And he could use an extra blade at his back against the hoard of dragons that was cropping up. If he didn’t get himself killed, in time, the mercenary would probably pay for himself…
“Alright. You’ve got a deal.” Stenvar rummages around in his pack and pulls out a sack of coins, sliding them across the table. Bughug reaches out for the sack at the same time. Their fingers brush briefly, and a warm spark rushes up Stenvar’s arm. He pulls his hand back to wrap around his mug of ale, suppressing a shiver.
“Thank you very much,” Bughug says warmly.
Stenvar only nods in response.
The rest of their evening is spent in relative silence between the two. The noise around them wains as more and more people being to stumble to their rooms downstairs, or out the front door to their homes.
Stenvar is about to follow suit and head to bed when Bughug cocks his head to the side and squints at him.
“What?”
“Y’know, I feel as though I’ve heard of you before. You wouldn’t happen to be…” Realization seems to dawn on him, and he straightens up. “You wouldn’t happen to be that dragonborn that everyone is in an uproar about, would you?”
Stenvar does his best not to fidget under the orc’s crimson-eyed gaze. But instead of shying away, he squares his shoulders and meets it. “If I was, what of it?”
Bughug’s spikey eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, nothing! I just wanted to be sure of what I was going to be working with.”
Stenvar rolls his eyes. “Just as long as you don’t start fawning over me, as well.”
Bughug laughs deeply and Stenvar can’t help the shiver that shoots through him this time. “I suppose that remains to be seen.”
Stenvar holds his gaze a moment longer before rising from his seat. He makes his way downstairs to his room and quickly gets ready for bed.
When he falls asleep, his dreams are punctuated by warm laughter and green skin.
It’s OC Romance Week! Today’s trope was “Only One Bed”, so here’s my little drabble for the theme.
Includes my orc Dragonborn, Bughug, and Stenvar, the merc from Windhelm. :)
Bughug and Stenvar were both exhausted.
They had started out this morning on a trek to Broken Oar Grotto to retrieve some void salts for one Captain Wayfinder. As per the usual, nothing ever wound up being as simple as it first sounded. When they arrived, they were greeted with a surprisingly organized group of bandits, who, of course, could not be simply talked into turning over the salts without fuss. This meant that the pair had to fight each and every one of them before being able to loot the salts, and whatever else the bandits had that intrigued them, and head back to Dawnstar.
Thankfully, the walk back was rather uneventful, and they just managed to make it back before the night grew too dark to see very far in front of them. Now all they wanted to do was find dinner and a place to sleep.
A dusting of snow follows the pair inside as they close the door of the Windpeak Inn behind them.
“Hail, gentlemen! What can I do for you this evening?”
As usual, the small inn is quiet, and Thoring’s voice carries easily through the hall. Bughug dumps his pack at the foot of the chair Stenvar slumps into, then makes his way to the counter.
“Hello, Thoring. Could we get something to eat, and a couple of rooms for the night?”
Thoring shuffles behind the counter, crossing his arms on the surface and leaning forward on them. “Ah, well, I’m afraid we only have one room left…”
Bughug glances over his shoulder at Stenvar. He shakes his head slightly, before meeting Thoring’s eyes again and replying, “That’s alright. We’ll take it.”
“Ten Septims, as usual, for the room, and five more for dinner.”
Bughug takes a handful of coins from a pouch attached to his belt and slides them across the counter. Thoring bends down a moment, then rights himself as he places two empty bowls on the counter between them.
“Thanks.”
Bughug scoops up the bowls, then moves over to the large pot hanging above the fire pit in the center of the room. Lifting the ladle, he pauses to inspect the stew. It looked like it should have been beef stew, but it smelled horrible, far worse than anything he had ever smelled coming from the kitchen of the stronghold he grew up in. Had Thoring ever considered he might get more patronage if he spared a few Septims to hire a cook instead of doing it himself? Bughug grimaces but fills the bowls regardless. He supposes beggars can’t be choosers.
Stenvar looks half asleep in his seat when Bughug returns to him and presents the bowl of stew, but rights himself at the prospect of food. He spares a glance up at the orc before him, before taking the offered, warm bowl.
“I’d ask you what this is, but then maybe not knowing will make it easier to eat,” Stenvar grumbles before sipping his stew.
Bughug gives a short bark of a laugh.
They eat in relative silence listening to the crackling of the fire and Karita quietly strumming her lute in the corner. A few minutes after the mystery stew is gone from their bowls, Bughug stands. He holds his bowl out to Stenvar, who places his own inside it. Bughug shoulders his pack from its place on the floor, then steps back. Stenvar pushes himself up out of his chair, pausing to stretch his back with a pop. He stoops to grab his own bag.
Bughug begins making his way to their room, Stenvar following close behind, stopping briefly to place the bowls back on the counter as they pass. Thoring nods to them.
When he gets there, Bughug pushes the door to the room open. They shuffle in, unceremoniously dumping their packs on the floor. Bughug moves to light the candles on a nearby table.
With the candles lit and illuminating the room, he straightens and turns around to find Stenvar standing in the middle of the floor, looking at the bed.
“When he said he only had one room, did he tell you he also only had one bed?”
“That, he did not.”
Bughug scratches the back of his neck. Why hadn’t Thoring said anything about this?
Through his fretting, he misses Stenvar unfastening his bedroll from his pack and unfurling it on the floor next to the bed.
Bughug blinks. “Wait. Stenvar, you don’t have- “
“It’s alright. Take the bed. Gotta have the Dragonborn in top shape, ‘case we encounter anymore overgrown lizards tomorrow.”
Bughug sighs. He knows he’s poking at him in jest, but that didn’t help his conscience any.
The two quiet again as they set about removing their armor. Stenvar sighs as he finishes unbuckling his cuirass. He had caught a Warhammer to the side earlier in the day, which left a big dent in the side of his breastplate. He’d have to see if he could get it hammered out before they left town the next day. He presses his hand to his side, and hisses through his teeth with the sharp pain that follows.
Bughug starts at the noise and glances around in time to catch Stenvar yanking his shirt over his head.
Bughug winces at the nasty looking bruise that’s already blossomed over Stenvar’s side. But, he can’t but be distracted by everything else. The muscle of his raised arm, the scars that crisscross his chest, and the smattering of dark brown hair across his pecs and stomach.
Bughug hears himself make a noise in the back of this throat. Stenvar looks up at him, leaving Bughug to turn and cough into his fist. He then clears his throat, and sniffs.
Why did feelings have to be so complicated?
Stenvar must not have paid any attention to his blunder, because he goes back to getting ready for bed. He kicks the covers of his bedroll back and sits down on it.
Bughug redresses in a pair of loose pants and a sleeveless shirt. He moves to put out the candles, taking only one with him to his bedside, mostly to ensure that he doesn’t step on anything getting there. He then sets the candle down on the side table, before crawling into bed and extinguishing it, too.
Darkness quickly envelops them. Bughug lays staring at the shadowy expanse of the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come easily. Never did, if his beastblood had any say about it.
Stenvar shifts around in his bedroll a few moments before deciding on a semi comfortable position. The comfort only lasted a few moments, at which point he moved around again.
It stays that way for a while. Bughug staring at the ceiling, Stenvar being still for a minute before shifting around again.
“Stenvar?” Bughug winces at his own voice, too loud in the darkness.
Stenvar grunts in response.
“Come up here with me.”
There’s silence a moment, as if Stenvar is weighing something, before Bughug sees the shadowy figure that is his traveling companion sit up, then grab the bedframe to push himself up from the floor.
Bughug scoots back and holds the covers up. Stenvar slides in slowly, with his back to Bughug, being careful of his injured side. Bughug drops the blankets atop him then shifts back a little more.
“’Night,” Stenvar mumbles.
“Goodnight,” Bughug replies quietly.
Bughug’s eyes travel the dark slope of Stenvar’s shoulder momentarily, before he rolls over to face the opposite direction. Despite the beastblood, he falls asleep quickly, grinning.
Hey, so I just scratched this thing out a few minutes ago, and I’d love it if you gave it a read! Forgive any typos, or punctuation errors you may find.
Also, what do you call a dragon’s front legs? Their front feet? Are they arms and hands??
Poppy // Tulip // Arrow
Poppy came rushing into the den. In her claws was a weathered staff, and atop her head was a very ill fitting hat.
“Tulip! Tulip, Tulip, Tulip!” She nearly knocked over an entire shelf full of trinkets in her excitement.
Tulip turned from her reading. Oh goodness, what trouble could Poppy have gotten herself into now?
“What is it, child?”
“I wanna be a Mage!” Poppy pushed the staff further in the air. The hat slid down over her eyes, and she giggled as she pushed it back up to gauge her mentor’s reaction.
Tulip hesitated. She wanted to train Poppy in the art of battle, but becoming a Mage?
“Surely you’d be happier learning a more physical fighting style…” she began.
“But! But, magic is so cool! You can whoosh around, and blow things to bits with JUST your MIND!” She swung the staff around, perfectly mimicking the sound of rushing wind, making Tulip dodge under it, and taking out a different shelf holding gemstones and a potted plant. Tulip retch out and grabbed the staff, stilling it.
She sighed. “Are you positive that this is what you’d like to do?”
Poppy looked back up, and nodded, her eyes shining.
“Then we’ll go tomorrow afternoon and speak to Arrow about starting you on a training regiment.”
Poppy gasped, dropped the staff, and hopped over it, rushing to hug Tulip tightly around the middle. “Oh, thank you!”
Tulip’s expression softened. She couldn’t stay frustrated with the smaller dragon for long. She reached down to return the embrace.
As promised, the next afternoon Tulip led Poppy over to the Accountant’s den. She tapped lightly on the entrance, waiting for a welcome.
There was a bit of shuffling, and then a voice spoke from within.
“Come in!”
When they entered, the tomato Spiral had his back turned, flipping through a large volume. Objects swirled overhead, chalk scraped against the chalkboard, and books flipped pages on their own, moved by Lightning energies.
“If you’re here about the discrepancy in the numbers in the hoard and the numbers written down, I’ve already noticed, and- Oh, hello.” Arrow bit off his rant about the finances upon noticing his visitors. “What can I do for you two lovely ladies this morning?”
Poppy hopped over to the large desk occupying most of Arrow’s lair and separating the Spiral from the two Nocturnes. “I wanna be a Mage!”
Arrow looked to Tulip for a better explanation.
Tulip bowed her head, gesturing to Poppy. “This one here came to me yesterday proclaiming that she wanted to be a Mage. We had planned to start her physical training very soon, and then this came up. She’s very set in her decision, so I assumed that you might be able to train her in my place.”
Arrow was still for a moment. A Spellbound Tome flapping overhead was the only sound, and the pieces of chalk and books that he had been manipulating previously were held aloft.
Then, in a rush, books were snapped shut, chalk flung at the chalkboard and across the room. The poor Tome, startled, dodged behind a shelf. In a blink, the Spiral was up in Tulip’s face, close enough for her to feel his breath.
“Is this true?”
Wide-eyed, Tulip nodded.
They stood there, eyes locked for another moment before Arrow spun quickly on his toes, making the other two dragons flinch.
“Splendid!” he shouted, tossing his arms into the air, and jostling his necklaces in the process. “It’s wonderful to see young minds with such a thirst for expanding knowledge. We should begin soon. Tomorrow, perhaps?” He clasped his front feet together, and looked to Tulip expectantly.
Poppy rushed to her side, grabbing a hold of her arm, and tugging lightly. “Please, oh please, Tulip? Please?” She made sure that she made the face that she knew Tulip wouldn’t be able to refuse.
Tulip glanced first to Poppy, then Arrow, and back again. “Fine.”
“Yes!” Poppy lept into the air, flapping her wings, and pumping her arms. The Tome moved back out from behind the shelf to see what all the hubbub was about.
Poppy turned and shot out of Arrow’s lair, whooping and hollering like a songbird.
Arrow laughed. “I do look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Tulip.”
Tulip shook her head. “You shouldn’t have encouraged her.”
Arrow grinned. “It’s all to mess with you, dear.”
“You do that very well.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Tulip shook her head again, and turned. She moved through the entrance of the lair as Arrow called “Don’t be late!” from inside.
It’s 4 am, and I just spent the last two hours finishing this thing. The first line is from Train’s “If It’s Love”. And, yeah, if you recognize the first part of this, it’s because you’ve read it before. I posted it with my “Third Time’s the Charm” drabbles.
I don’t even know if this is romantic or platonic, so interpret it as you will.
If you find any typos, please let me know. It’s under a ReadMore because that’s how I roll, and also it’s super long.
Anyway, goodnight.
“When everybody else is gettin out of bed, I’m usually gettin in it. I’m not in it to win. I’m in for you.”
Your phone is trying its very best to vibrate off of the side table.
You slide the welding mask up, and fresh sunlight immediately attacks your tired eyes.
You sigh. Who is it now?
You're shocked when, not a fuschia cat or emerald skull, but a cyan slime monster engulfs the screen. It's the first time she's made an effort to contact you recently, so why not humor her?
You swipe a oil stained thumb across the pristine glass, and raise the phone to your ear.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Di-Stri!"
"Mornin', Crockpot."
She doesn't respond right away.
"Something tells me that that good morning never even made it to bed last night."
You laugh, partly because it's true, and partly because you're too deranged not to.
"Something would be correct."
She sighs on the other end of the line. "Dirk."
You know she's serious because she used your real name.
"Jane, save your worry for someone that matters. Like our less sober friend, or the one that'll end up with a foot in a bear trap if he doesn't get his head out of the clouds."
She sighs again, and you can tell you're paining her.
"I don't want to hear that out of your mouth again, mister. Because you do matter. Despite what you may think."
You laugh again, because she is just too kind.
Silence envelops the line.
"That aside," you finally speak, "To what do I owe the pleasure this fine morning?"
She perks up at that, and the smile returns to her voice. "Oh, right! They're wanting to get together Saturday, and they said that neither of them could get ahold of you. And, since we haven't chatted in awhile, I figured I may as well take a crack at it!"
"Hmm. Saturday, Saturday." You rustle a couple papers around a little ways away from the phone to act like you're checking a calendar.
But, the truth is, you don't even keep a calendar. And it's barely Tuesday, and you don't even know what you're doing tomorrow, let alone Saturday. Because, honestly, you don't want to go anywhere, or socialize, or eat, or drink, or anything with anyone. You want to stay right here with your robots, and mixes, and not get in anyones way, or hurt anyone.
But you don't say all that. You manage an "I'll see what I can do."
She's quiet when she says okay.
"Thanks," is all you reply with. Because you think, especially in your unrested state, she sees right through you. And somehow actually understands. And you're grateful.
"Dirk," she says, right as you’re about to hang up. "Get some rest."
"Yes, ma'am," you reply.
You’re left with a dropped call signal ringing in your ear.
By the time Friday rolls around, all calls to your phone have stopped. They must have realized that, recently, you just haven’t felt like talking.
So, it surprises you when, late Friday night, the cyan monster appears on your screen once again.
You don’t rush to your phone, but you don’t dismiss it’s sharp buzzing either.
You answer on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dirk!”
“Hey.”
There’s a slight pause. “I was just checking to see if you were joining us for dinner tomorrow night…”
A sigh crawls up into your throat, but you swallow it back down.
“I don’t know.”
She exhales on the other end of the line. “It sure would be nice to see you there…”
“Jane…”
“Mr. Strider, just… Would you please come with us?”
You open your mouth to reply, but she cuts you off.
“If not for them, for me…”
You hesitate now. There’s no sense in trying to speak. She’ll start up again in a second.
“Look. If nothing else, just show up. You don’t have touch anyone, or be sentimental, or even talk if you don’t wish to. But, it would mean a lot to have you there. We haven’t been all together in so long.”
Another sigh rattles your teeth. You choose to ignore it.
“If it means that much… I guess I’ll be there.”
You imagine she’s smiling on the other end. “Good. Would you like me to pick you up? We’re meeting around 7 at that nice little Italian restaurant across town.”
“Sure.”
There’s silence. You’re not sure if it’s of the awkward sort or not.
Her drawing in breath, and the fact that the line isn’t beeping, is the only thing to alert you that she’s still there.
About the time you go to hang up, she speaks.
“Dirk?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
Without warning there’s a soft click, and the loud, obnoxious dronning of a dropped call.
She has a bad habit of not saying goodbye at the end of phone calls.
You haven’t slept at all this week, until tonight. Can’t look too much like death warmed over tomorrow, or you’ll worry them all.
You strip down and crawl between the sheets, hoping for some, though you’re hesitant to admit it, needed, restful sleep.
Of course, the day before you're actually trying, sleep is a grand tease. You’re only allowed an hour, at best, before darkness gnaws at the edge of your subconscious, spinning horrid dreams of impalement and your own decapitation.
You sit bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. Your hands fly to your neck, nails digging in painfully.
Something suddenly smatters your thoughts.
Blue. Bright, sky blue.
You pull air in through your teeth. 5 seconds.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs.
Hold, 10 seconds.
You can hear it. It’s loud. It’s, in a way reassuring.
Air whistles it’s way from your lungs. 8 seconds.
The moonlight filtering in through the blinds is blue. Bright, bright blue.
You breathe slowly again.
And again.
And again.
You loosen your grip around your neck.
And again.
Your hands fall into your lap.
And again.
She’s blue. Bright, calming, reassuring blue.
And again.
You flop back against the mattress.
Sleep evades you the rest of the night.
You’d prefer it that way.
And, when the alarm clock on the nightstand rings clear in the stale air, you’re still thinking about blue.
After your second shower for the week, you tried your best to find some decent clothes. Most things were still dirty, neglected in small piles on the floor of your bedroom. Most dresser drawers were empty.
A moment's riffle through your closet rewarded you, though. You pulled on some black jeans and a white dress shirt. Both were a tad wrinkled, but crap if you were going to iron them.
You flopped down on the dingy couch in the living room and mindlessly flipped through tv channels for a long while. You didn’t really have the energy for much else, and besides Jane would be here soon. She had the habit of always showing up to places ridiculously early.
Your presumption was right. No more than twenty minutes later there was a sharp tapping against your front door.
You pulled yourself together, retucking the back end of your shirt, and pulled the door open.
You were greeted with bright blue eyes, and an even brighter smile.
Despite that, it wasn’t exactly contagious.
“Hello, Mr. Strider!” she said. You could tell she was excited about seeing you again. Excited about the fact that you agreed to go. Excited that’d you’d all be together again.
“Hey.” You almost felt bad, about the way you were reacting to all of this. Pooping on everyone’s party, it seemed.
She shuffled a bit in her place.
“Can I get a hug?” she asked at last. She didn’t even move her arms, didn’t make the usual “hugging” gesture. She didn’t because she didn’t want to push you.
You figured you had been a sad enough sack. You squatted a bit, hooked your arms under hers and around her shoulders, and lifted her straight off the ground.
She was giggling in no time. She slung her own arms around your neck and gave a slight squeeze. You sat her back down after a moment, untangling yourself.
Her giggles soon quieted. “Now that’s the Dirk that I know.”
And, even though she didn’t mean it to, that statement hurt.
“I’m sorry.”
She reached up the best she could and smoothed your hair down in acknowledgement.
She dropped her hand back to her side with a slight exhale. “Why don’t we go ahead and get out of here? We’ll be late if we’re not careful.”
You still had 45 minutes.
The drive was silent, save for the usual car sounds, and the slight hum from the radio Jane had a habit of never turning completely off.
You started getting kinda queezy a couple blocks from the restaurant. What were you thinking? Why did you agree to this? You didn’t want to have to face them all. You didn’t want to touch them, and you didn’t wanna answer questions about how you’ve been.
You wanted to go back home.
But suddenly there was a small hand resting atop your larger one on the console. She moved to intertwine her fingers with yours.
Your thoughts flashed back to the bright, sky blue you had envisioned last night. You pulled in a deep breath, letting it back out slowly.
“It’s okay,” was all she said.
You tried your best to believe her.
You pulled up at the restaurant with 20 minutes to spare.
The two of you sat in silence, and she only pulled her hand away when she saw Roxy, and then Jake, arrive in the parking lot.
“It’s okay,” she said one more time before getting out.
You hung back a bit away from the three of them the entire night. Thankfully, they didn’t engage you much, only asking a few questions, and getting permission before touching you.
(You think Jane had a hand in this with her whispers to them both at the beginning of the night.)
But, honestly, you hated it. Hated the fact that you weren’t wired like them. Weren’t excitable and outgoing and chatty. You hated that it was almost too much just sitting here with them, let alone being out and about and interacting.
You hated it.
But, if it meant making them happy, making Jane happy, you’d grit your teeth and sit there and bear it.
Luckily, the night went relatively quickly, and you let them both give you big, warm bear hugs before the four of you parted ways again for who knew how long.
The ride back was just as quiet as the ride there had been. And this time there was no hand holding, no words of encouragement. Just Katy Perry wanting to live her Teenage Dream.
She walked you up to your apartment, slowly, quietly. You let yourself in, and stood there in the doorway as Jane stood in the hall.
You looked each other over for a long minute before she finally broke the silence.
“Thank you.”
You grunted in reply.
She gave you a quick smile and turned to leave. You were halfway to shutting your door when another wave of queeziness and guilt washed over you.
You couldn’t let her leave.
“Jane!” you stepped out in the hall and called after her.
She stopped, turning to look at you.
“Uhm, did you wanna... would you possibly... could you stay?”
She gives you another smile. But, this one is different. Not tense and rushed, as the other had been. This one was soft and sweet and understanding.
“Yeah,” she said quietly.
You stepped back when she reached the door, allowing her in.
No, not allowing.
Welcoming.
Two hours, and a box of Little Debbie brownies, that you had bought on a whim a couple of weeks ago, later both of you agreed that it was time for some, definitely much needed, shut-eye.
You don’t know how you convinced her to actually sleep with you, but you did.
You snuggled your face up her against her chest, arm lazily tossed up over her side, and drifted off to her petting your hair and telling you that everything was okay.
Thank you, borderline-noire, for the wonderful idea.
You never saw the zombie.
The two of you were checking out an old barn, looking for a place to spend the night.
You threw your stuff down amidst the broken down tractors and mechanical junk piled there. You were about to sit down to enjoy the bread loaves you had found a few hours earlier.
You were sure you had checked everywhere. You were positive there was nothing else in the barn.
You didn’t have time to react. Something growled over your shoulder, and you were being shoved to the ground. Jane lept at the demon, and they went down in a flurry of scrap metal and hay.
Something screamed, and you couldn’t control yourself. You scrambled for a gun and shot blindly into the tussle, praying you hit the thing. Praying you hadn’t hit Jane.
The fighting stopped. You held your breath.
Jane stood shakily from her place on the floor.
You started to laugh. Because she was okay. She was okay! Everything was okay! Jane was okay!
You went in for a hug, which was a huge mistake. Jane turned, and her eyes were already pitch black, and the sound she made was one you had only heard in nightmares.
You raised the gun.
You pulled the trigger.
You sank with her to the floor.
It wasn’t until hours later, when it really hit you what you had done, that you cried. You curled up among the scrap metal and hay, next to the thing and the only family you had had left, and cried.
Woohoo, another one. This was inspired by itsthehoarsehorse's post awhile back. artsycrocker's already written it, I know, and her's is way better than mine, but I like writing sad Dirk, so...
And, a big thanks to eveningenigma for telling me to post this.
The wood paneling of the hallway is cold against your bare feet. The bathroom tile offers no comfort.
You don’t bother to flip the light on, turning on the tap to brush your teeth idly. You splash some water on your face and dry it off.
You stand back up and get a good look at yourself in the mirror.
Your hair’s a mess and dark circles are plastered underneath your eyes. You think you’re still a little out of it from last night’s bachelor party, and wish you hadn’t gotten out of bed. That you hadn’t agreed to join in on their happy little occasion. That you were miles away from here, pulling on a wetsuit and running into the early surf instead of about to attend a wedding for two people, well, one person, that you’re highly jealous of.
A twisted feeling rises into the pit of your stomach and you momentarily think that you’re about to throw up.
Feelings of hatred for yourself, or anything, really, aren’t unusual, but they rarely reach this level. You sigh for the third time in as many minutes and consider cancelling on the occasion, going back to bed and sleeping with a pillow over your face.
You shake that thought off and smear the mirror with the water that was still left on your hand.
---
The procession at the wedding takes too long. Bridesmaid after bridesmaid march down the aisle, the music drones, the sunlight coming in through the stained-glass is shining right into your eyes. You close your eyes for a moment and really regret the decision to leave your shades at home.
When you open them again, you finally get what you came for.
She’s absolutely gorgeous.
Her dark, perfect curls are pinned neatly to the side . Ruby lips pulled up into a gentle smile. The same light that was bothering you a minute ago dances across her face and dress and you make it a point to count all the triangles, take in as much detail as you can, as fast as you can.
She makes eye contact with everyone briefly, and when she finally catches yours it feels like you’ve been punched in the chest. You can’t really breathe, and have her eyes always been that blue?
You must have had a strange look on your face or something because she laughs, quietly, before glancing over at Roxy, who’s way too excited.
Her gaze finally lands on Jake, who’s sporting a face-splittin’ grin. You can tell he’s nervous though, by the way that his hands keep twitching behind his back.
She finally makes it to the altar. Her dad kisses her on the head before finally letting her go, and taking a seat with a big box of tissues. The priest starts talking and you stop listening.
Because you can’t take your eyes off of her. Her slow blinking, the way she giggles when Jake whispers something to her.
You tune back in just as the priest asks if anyone objects to the marriage. They both tense up and Roxy shoots you a look over their heads.
Keep your mouth shut.
You quirk an eyebrow back. You think I’m that stupid?
She mimics your gesture. I wouldn’t doubt it.
You roll your eyes.
But, honestly, you had thought about it. Thought about pushing Jake out of the way and confessing your love to her, to which she would reply that she had always loved you, and then you’d literally sweep her off her feet and run out of the church and elope and get married in Vegas and then live happily ever after.
But, you know how stupid that would be, because she’d never reciprocate and then you’d have not only your three best friends in the world hating you, but a whole church congregation as well.
You’d never be able to face any of them ever again.
So, you don’t say anything and the priest proceeds and you get lost in thought again. Your focus isn’t really that great today, hopping from one thing to the other very quickly. You go back to thinking about surfing and then contemplate leaving tonight to see your Hollywood brother, which leads to thinking about getting wasted with said brother, and then back to surfing, to flailing and drowning, to the events that are to take place tonight, to wishing it was you and not him, and then-
Your thoughts are dashed by someone saying your name.
“What?” You ask, rather loudly, your voice cracking. Wow, way to go, Dirk.
They asked for the rings.
You dig around in your pocket a moment before finding them and dropping them into the priest’s hand.
You mentally berate yourself for making yourself a fool, before Jake does something better and drops the ring. There’s an uproar from the crowd, and Jane’s eyes light up light laughter. Oh no.
Well, at least they’ll forget your blunder.
The couple in front of you exchange their vows.
“I do,” Jake says.
Wait.
“I do,” Jane replies.
I need you.
And then they’re pronounced husband and wife, and they kiss, and something breaks within you, because this solidifies it. She’s not yours. She never was, and she never will be.
Don’t go.
They start back down the aisle to the beat of uproarious applause and piano music.
When it’s your turn, you walk out of the chapel slowly, and try not deviate from your course to one of the extra rooms for the pictures you promised you’d be in.
You try not grimace when the first flash goes off.
---
You start feeling sick again at the reception.
You’d as soon as eat the tablecloth as the food, and whenever they get near you, you kinda wanna crawl under the table to hide, and you kinda wanna stab the cutlery into the aforementioned table cloth, and it kills you that they look so good together on the dance floor, and you're tempted to snag two or three of the champagne bottles and down them all just to have a chance to excuse yourself to the bathroom and puke.
But you don’t do any of those things, and smile and laugh while you give a toast to the happy couple. You don’t protest when Roxy drags you onto the floor and grinds against you shamelessly. You let her drag you back to a table to talk to people you should recognize, but don’t.
You do manage to snag a couple more glasses of alcohol off one of the trays and try to content yourself with that.
The rest of the night is slow as you try to feign enthusiasm.
Until your worst nightmare arrives in the form of Jane asking you to dance.
“I’ve already danced with Jake and Roxy’s dragged me out onto the floor, now it’s your turn.” She holds out her hand expectantly, and you can't turn her down.
The music seems to morph into slow and dreamy, and you pull her into a slow dance.
“Quite the gentleman,” she remarks.
“I try,” you reply.
She laughs when you twirl her outward and you can almost imagine this being your wedding. It’s slow and easy and she laughs again when you pull her back in, and you can’t help but join in.
I love you.
The moment ends way too soon when the music changes and Jake comes back out to reclaim his wife.
You smile and laugh and pat him on the back and slowly go back to plop down in your seat.
---
You drive Roxy home that night.
The ride is quiet until she speaks. “Are you alright?”
Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Yeah, Rox. Perfect.”
“Don’t be stupid, Dirk,” she says, right before you pull up into her drive and unlock the door.
“Yeah.”
“Call me if you need me.”
“Yeah.”
You wait for her door to close before you pull off.
Three one-shots. Constructive criticism is always encouraged welcome.
You’re name is Dirk Strider, and you've always hated making the bed.
When you were younger, your mother you have to tell you several times before you even thought about doing it. When they’d been washed and needed to be put back on completely, you always found a way to con your older brother into doing it for you.
And, now is no exception.
After a long night of restless legs and shifting around, all but one of the corners of the sheet covering the mattress have come undone. The regular sheet and comforter are in no better shape.
Jane has gone to take a shower, leaving you to tackle the bed situation.
You remove the top two layers, dumping them into the floor. The last stares you down, mocking you.
You will not lose this round.
You check to make sure the one still holding on will stay, and then move to put the others back into place. You get the first, and then the second, and are going for the third, when another corner decides to pop back up.
You walk around the bed and push it back down, only to have another come loose.
You sigh and quickly yank that one back into place. Miraculously, it stays.
You fiddle with the remaining corner and step back to view your handiwork. It’s fixed. Perfect.
Perfection doesn’t last long though, because as soon as you move to pick up the pile of blankets on the floor, you hear it. A corner slips over the top of the mattress.
At this point, you are extremely frustrated and resort to just plopping down on the cover pile and sulking.
It’s not long before Jane enters the room again, with a puzzled expression.
“Um. Dirk?”
“The sheet won’t stay on.” You cross your arms.
She sighs and shakes her head before moving over to the bed and putting the cover back into place with ease.
“There.”
She comes back over and bends down next to you, placing a kiss to your cheek.
“You shouldn't be so upset.”
You don’t look at her.
“If it’s any consolation, I’ll make pancakes.”
“Pancakes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chocolate chip, and you've got yourself a deal.”
She laughs at that, and you can’t help but smile as well. “Fine.”
She exits the room again, with you trailing close behind.
Neither of you bother to finish making the bed.
----------------------------------------------
If this wasn’t Roxy’s wedding, you wouldn’t be doing this.
Currently, you are standing in the middle of the expansive dance floor among a crowd of pushy, mostly single, female guests waiting for the traditional tossing of the bouquet.
Frankly, you think it’s a load of bologna. But, Roxy said you should join in the fun, mingle, get out there, loosen up (you were the maid of honor, after all…), and then she promptly pushed you out onto the floor before taking her spot on stage.
But, the truth is, you were having fun. You were happily sitting over at a table on the side by yourself watching everyone else. That is until a certain someone approached you.
Okay.
He asked if the seat next to you was taken, and when you replied that, no, it wasn’t, he spun the chair around to the next table and sat down with the couple seated there. You didn’t mind of course, it was empty chair. But, soon, the couple said they were going to dance, leaving the chair-borrowing guy with a purse and two glasses of liquor to watch.
You never expected him to say anything else to you, until he turned the chair back around and thanked you again for it.
“It’s quite alright.”
He paused a moment before speaking again. “Some party, ain’t it?”
“Absolutely. Roxy’s always are.”
“You’re here for Roxy, huh?”
“Yes, Maid of Honor, in fact.”
“Ah, that’s right. I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”
You laughed.
“So, does the pretty maid of honor have a name?”
“Jane, Jane Crocker.” You extended your hand for a handshake.
“Dirk Strider.” He took you up on the offer.
“Thank you, by the way.”
He nods slowly.
There’s a lull now, a silence, but oddly enough, it’s not uncomfortable. You scan the crowd and see the couple from before, as well as Roxy and her new husband among the mix.
He seems to like starting conversation. “So, how do you know her?”
“Huh?”
“Roxy.”
“Oh, right. I’ve known her forever. Official “Bffsie” and all.”
“Odd. She’s never talked about you.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“I may just have to have a word with her about that.”
He’s the one laughing now, only cracking a grin long enough to do so. Peculiar. You kinda like it.
“And, what about you? Where are you from?” he asks.
“Should I really be telling that to a strange man I just met at a mutual friend’s wedding?”
“Touche. What do you do for a living?”
“If I told you that, you may very well come to my workplace and kidnap me.”
“Fine. What do you like to do?”
“Hmm… That could lead to me being put in harms way as well.”
He gives you a look, or what you assume is a look with his strange sunglasses.
“Very well. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.” You reply quickly.
He shakes his head. You speak again. “And your’s would be?”
“Red.”
“I would have guessed orange.”
“I get that a lot.”
You can’t help but smile.
The next hour or two has the both of you swapping stories and laughs, and making fun of the ridiculous clothing choices of some of the guests (you won’t name names.)
You even share a dance or two. Even though, it turned into a messy sort of giggling, more than anything.
When you were just getting settled again, Roxy finally approaches.
“Janey! There you are!”
“Yes. What do you need, Roxy?”
“I haven’t seen you since we, et, ate earlier! Have you danced yet? You should totally come dance with us!”
“But, I have danced Roxy.”
“Willy. Really?”
“Yes. And I thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.”
She stops for a moment, thinking. It startles you when she starts up again. “Gaps. Gasp. I know what we haven’t done yet. We haven’t tossed the bouquet! Come on!”
“What? I don’t think-”
“Come on, Janey. Join in the fun! You need to get out there, mingle, loosen up. You’re the maid of honor, for goodness’ seke. Sake.”
“Roxy…”
“Please, Jane.”
You glance at Dirk, and he’s as straight faced as ever. Just great.
You sigh and don’t have a chance to get anything else out before she drags you out of your chair and onto the floor.
Which brings you to the present. You’re stuck amongst these people, most of them way too aggressive for your liking. But, you know you have to play along anyway, for the sake of things.
You watch as Roxy spins around and covers her eyes. A hand is raised. The flowers go flying.
You hear them all scramble and reach for it at the same time, and you can only sigh and hold your hands out pathetically. You close your eyes and wait for a shout of “I got it!”
But, it never comes. You feel something connect with your hands.
Your eyes fly open. There is the bouquet. In your hands.
Everyone has their eyes on you. You hate it. You want to drop the thing and run.
But, you don’t, and do, instead, the first thing that comes to mind.
You look over at Dirk.
He stands and stretches up a bit to see over everyone, eyebrows raised.
He meets your gaze steadily. He raises his glass and nods ever so slightly. He downs the rest of it.
Your face burns.
You look back up at Roxy. She has her arms outstretched and says only one line.
“Look who’s gettin’ married!”
Your grip tightens around the bouquet. You swallow hard.
You are suddenly absolutely terrified.
-----------------------------
Your phone is trying its very best to vibrate off of the side table.
You slide the welding mask up, and fresh sunlight immediately attacks your tired eyes.
You sigh. Who is it now?
You're shocked when, not a fuschia cat or emerald skull, but a cyan slime monster engulfs the screen. It's the first time she's made an effort to contact you recently, so why not humor her?
You swipe a oil stained thumb across the pristine glass, and raise the phone to your ear.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Di-Stri!"
"Mornin', Crockpot."
She doesn't respond right away.
"Something tells me that that good morning never even made it to bed last night."
You laugh, partly because it's true, and partly because you're too deranged not to.
"Something would be correct."
She sighs on the other end of the line. "Dirk."
You know she's serious because she used your real name.
"Jane, save your worry for someone that matters. Like our less sober friend, or the one that'll end up with a foot in a bear trap if he doesn't get his head out of the clouds."
She sighs again, and you can tell you're paining her.
"I don't want to hear that out of your mouth again, mister. Because you do matter. Despite what you may think."
You laugh again, because she is just too kind.
Silence envelops the line.
"That aside," you finally speak, "To what do I owe the pleasure this fine morning?"
She perks up at that, and the smile returns to her voice. "Oh, right! They're wanting to get together Saturday, and they said that neither of them could get ahold of you. And, since we haven't chatted in awhile, I figured I may as well take a crack at it!"
"Hmm. Saturday, Saturday." You rustle a couple papers around a little ways away from the phone to act like you're checking a calendar.
But, the truth is, you don't even keep a calendar. And it's barely Tuesday, and you don't even know what you're doing tomorrow, let alone Saturday. Because, honestly, you don't want to go anywhere, or socialize, or eat, or drink, or anything with anyone. You want to stay right here with your robots, and mixes, and not get in anyone’s way, or hurt anyone.
But you don't say all that. You manage an "I'll see what I can do."
She's quiet when she says okay.
"Thanks," is all you reply with. Because you think, especially in your unrested state, she sees right through you. And somehow actually understands. And you're grateful.
"Dirk," she says, right as you’re about to hang up. "Get some rest."
"Yes, ma'am," you reply.
You’re left with a dropped call signal ringing in your ear.
---
By the time Friday rolls around, all calls to your phone have stopped. They must have realized that, recently, you just haven’t felt like talking.
So, it surprises you when, late Friday night, the cyan monster appears on your screen once again.
You don’t rush to your phone, but you don’t dismiss it’s sharp buzzing either.
You answer on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dirk!”
“Hey.”
There’s a slight pause. “I was just checking to see if you were joining us for dinner tomorrow night…”
A sigh crawls up into your throat, but you swallow it back down.
“I don’t know.”
She exhales on the other end of the line. “It sure would be nice to see you there…”
“Jane…”
“Mr. Strider, just… Would you please come with us?”
You open your mouth to reply, but she cuts you off.
“If not for them, for me…”
You hesitate now. There’s no sense in trying to speak. She’ll start up again in a second.
“Look. If nothing else, just show up. You don’t have touch anyone, or be sentimental, or even talk if you don’t wish to. But, it would mean a lot to have you there. We haven’t been all together in so long.”
Another sigh rattles your teeth. You choose to ignore it.
“If it means that much… I guess I’ll be there.”
You imagine she’s smiling on the other end. “Good. Would you like me to pick you up? We’re meeting around 7 at that nice little Italian restaurant across town.”
“Sure.”
There’s silence. You’re not sure if it’s of the awkward sort or not.
Her drawing in breath, and the fact that the line isn’t beeping, is the only thing to alert you that she’s still there.
About the time you go to hang up, she speaks.
“Dirk?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
Without warning there’s a soft click, and the loud, obnoxious droning of a dropped call.
She has a bad habit of not saying goodbye at the end of phone calls.
