#lizzy adjacent

[badgerette]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Izzy's not fantastic at feelings.

Small content warnings for blood and a light stabbing, but still in milder forms than canon. Also warnings for angst.

[badgerette]

I feel so sleepy all the time

which really doesn’t help with productivity. Maybe I should try method-writing and start drinking potfuls of coffee like Izzy, see if that would help.

Before I turn into a shaking ball of caffeine-fueled wrath, have some chat between two bosom buddies at a rage room.

”D’you have any drinks?”

Izzy’s been so absorbed watching the screen he hasn’t noticed Lucius sidle up to the counter, is a little taken aback to see the man lounging against it now. ”What?”

”Drinks, like breezers or–”

”This isn’t a bar,” Izzy hisses.

Lucius snorts. ”As if Jackie’s fussy about licenses. C’mon, you must have something.”

Izzy icily points at the rules on the wall. ”What part of ’no alcohol allowed on the premises’ don’t you get, you little shit? Unless you think giving baseball bats to people off their fucking tits is a good idea?”

At least Lucius has the decency to look a little chastised as he shrugs his shoulders. ”Well, what about soda? You must have something for customers.”

”Are you perilously dehydrated?” Izzy asks in a monotone.

”No, but I have been known get a little thirsty from time to time,” Lucius drawls, grinning.

[badgerette]

Okay, so

re: Izzy’s return: many things are still in flux, but I may have decided that Izzy works at a rage room (which may or may not be owned by Jackie). And that Revenge might go there to celebrate Wee John’s birthday because a lad deserves to smash things. 

Also I may have written a bit about it to try and find an in to Izzy’s POV. So, here’s some of that.

When the gaggle of idiots disperses into the individual rooms, Izzy’s ready to let out an exhausted sigh of relief – and then sees one of the fuckers still littering reception with his presence. It’s that manager boy, whatever his name is. He’s now sitting in one of the knocked-around armchairs, knees primly together and palms between his thighs, all folded in on himself. For someone so tall, the cunt manages to make himself look deceptively small.

”The fuck you’re still here for?”

The boy looks at him, offers up a smirk. ”Oh, I’m very much a lover, not a fighter. Just here for moral support.” He turns to follow the screen outside the room where Fang went in with the bald guy.

Izzy grunts, turns to his laptop and starts up the playlist inside all the rooms. Rammstein’s Du hast thrums through every wall, and the sound of tentative whacks begin a disjointed staccato around them, along with a chorus of encouraging yells.

For a while there’s something like calm in the reception area, in the din of obsolete things breaking. Izzy takes a sip of his long since gone-cold coffee, glances at the split screen view of all the room cameras. He’s just about to forget the manager’s presence altogether–

”It’s Izzy, right?”

–when the twat has to open his goddamn mouth.

Izzy responds with a glare. For some hellish reason, this does not deter the boy in the slightest.

”I’m Lucius, in case you forgot,” the little fuck says, uncoiling himself a little.

”What are you doing?” Izzy growls.

An exaggerated look of confusion takes over Lucius’ face. ”Um, talking? To you?”

”Well, fucking don’t.”

”Wow, rude. That’ll go straight into my Yelp review.”

”I don’t care,” Izzy says, putting weight on every syllable. ”Make a fucking Tik-Tok about it if you want.” It wouldn’t be the first time he gets cancelled.