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I Still Haven't Learned to Not Take Prompts

Chapter Text

He was staring at this duck that was nestling up to the crotch of his pants and he really, really didn’t know what to do. Fairytale town he could handle. Emotionally unstable prince with a shattered heart, sure. But there was a tiny yellow duck getting feathers on his pants and sort of headbutting at his zipper and what the hell.

He said as such and she looked up at him in that play-innocent way only Duck could manage.

“What are you doing,” he said at her, picking her up and setting her a bit away from him. She quacked — like that explained anything — and tried to waddle back across the grass to between his legs. He just held up a hand and let her walk into it. “Seriously.”

She finally gave up and plopped down into the grass with a puff of feathers, humphing best she could.

The problem with Duck was that sometimes, well, she was a duck. And it didn’t make for the greatest conversation, even if she was making all these sounds and gestures that kind of connected into feelings and sentences. But she kept glancing up at him with her eyes wide, crossing her wings over her soft chest in an echo of pantomime, and he guess he got it.

“Idiot,” he said, and she squeaked and went all ruffled. He dropped his palm on her head and messed her feathers up even more. “I don’t want any of that, Duck. Not from you, not from anyone.”

She cocked her little head, and he scooped her up and held her close. Duck nuzzled into his chest but still made a quack that turned up at the end, a question.

“Now shush,” Fakir told her, “I have writing to do.”

Chapter Text

Neither of them knew how it happened, how Sissel came to their door with a crooked grin and energy like a kitten all through him. How he was able to wiggle fingers in Yomiel’s face and pull him into a sloppy hug. How he was tripping over his words to finally talk to his namesake, to say I’m so glad to finally meet you, to take her hands in his and look between her and Yomiel with this buzz of excitement. But he did, he was there, and it took a little bit of explaining for her before she really understood. It clicked after a bit in a way that made Yomiel nervous, but she kept shaking her head with no no it’s okays.

They let him stay, but Yomiel made him record the call he made to Jowd so he could laugh at it later.

With time they adjusted. Yomiel would catch Sissel and Sissel just sort of sitting with each other, smiling, both with that shining stare at him whenever he came in the room, fingers touching at the ends. Or she would come in to Yomiel teaching Sissel some new thing, leaning over him and helping with a crossword puzzle, and Sissel would just have such an earnest look that she would have to sneak out again so she didn’t disturb them.

And things kind of shifted. It was strange having to clarify Sissels (she was still Sissel, but he got shortened to Siss), but there was a comfort to holding them both close, one nuzzled under his chin and the other resting her head on his shoulder and stroking his hair. “We love you,” Sissel had to explain to Siss one night, and his eyes went wide for a split second and then soft and smiling.

It was strange because Yomiel knew him for ten years, but this was knowing him all over again, not entirely the same but not entirely different. Siss, he was just so human, maybe more than Yomiel felt sometimes. And he was so full of this complete adoration for them that there was no room for other things, maybe. Some nights he would curl into a chair with his legs tucked up and watch Yomiel and Sissel move together, and he would tell them how beautiful they were. Sissel would just laugh and pull him close to them and cradle him till he fell asleep with them both.

It wasn’t exactly normal, they guessed. It was a little strange. But it worked.

Chapter Text

Funny thing about choking, Cabanela thinks as the edges of his scarf dig dark lines into his throat: you can breathe, you can still breathe. The air is there, even if it’s strained like you’re breathing through a mesh of tiny holes. No, what really happens is there’s a pin-and-needle flood of warmth, of lightness that generates from nowhere and it turns his skin to golden light and sets him flying, no wings flapping with a hush of air that’s the strangled wheeze of his breath. All things smear in his eyes, they grow halos and dark auras; there is a beast of red and black and sharp and soft overtop him with these great long limbs that are driving straight into his throat in needleribbons filled with his oversaturated blood and he can only give more and more. His hands go loose around solid columns that stretch out from the pit of his stomach - he tries to hold on, to grip and twist and dig his fingers into the flesh of it and reach under that quiet heat and scream for life but his arms are too light, too liquid sun to do more than hang. Existence is condensed into blurred bright color and pounding in his ears and tingling tranquil warmth and all of it spirals into the short puffs of his helpless breath in something that feels like more and something that feels like stop.

He feels like he should be scrabbling for release, pushing away, tearing at the fabric wrapped round his neck like the worst of an embrace but he can’t and he won’t. He tips his head back and lets his eyelids drop halfway and just focused on the snarl that shows the points of Yomiel’s teeth. And there’s something sliding out of those teeth, words that drop like weights right off Yomiel’s curled lips, but Cabanela can’t hear for the rush of dying in his ears.

There’s finally a moment where Yomiel drops the ends of the scarf and Cabanela digs his hands under the fabric to pull it loose, takes a breath like he’d been underwater for a hundred years. Yomiel leans back on Cabanela’s stomach and sneers. He says something like he doesn’t want to kill him, not yet, there’s more he wants to do with him.

And Cabanela, he rubs his palm over the stretch of his throat and feels for the warm red of the marks that are showing there. He lets himself rediscover the motions of breathing. Then shamelessly, characteristically, he says, “do it again, baby.”

Yomiel barely gives himself time to blink in surprise before he has the ends of the scarf twisted tight around his fists again.

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Which, he thinks, is entirely peculiar, as he places no faith in dreams whatsoever. But it is the spitting image of the figure he’d seen the night before: crisp creases on the suit, hands folded behind his back, body language saying superior smiles and a raised eyebrow even if his face isn’t visible. Shelly hides his shock and reaches for his gun.

“There will be no need for that,” the man says, voice the kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. “My name is Scratch, and I have a job for you.”

Chapter Text

And when the door opens, Lynne is like a fire, fierce smiles and flaming hair, but even she goes dark when she glances from Cabanela’s face to the sheet in his hand. She shows him in; the place is a mess, but a comfortable mess, with Kamila and Missile nestled in the middle of it, two baby birds in a nest. Kamila lights up when she sees him, jumps off the couch to greet him with arms wrapped around his stomach.

“Heeeey, baby,” he says, kneeling to her level and stroking her hair (soft, light, the same as her mother’s). “Look, I got something I have to tell you …”

Chapter Text

He pounded out a drumbeat for the song the little girl on his shoulder sang, a high and breathy melody with garbled words and shaking syllables. And he wondered, past the creaking metal and the muted sounds of the ocean, who had been in every other suit, who had wrecked their throats and locked themselves in rusted metal to protect little girls and their addictions. His reflection followed him along the glass wall, the same hulking creature he had murdered time and time again.

When he slams the tiny body of the little sister against the wall, sending spiderweb cracks all through the glass and snapping her ribs under his hand, he feels no pity for any of them. No one in Rapture is human anymore.

Chapter Text

“Have I really,” Yomiel said under his breath, looming over the Inspector. “How about I try again, then.”

“Sure thiiing,” Cabanela replied, hopping to his feet again and tapping his arm with a hand before doing some ridiculous movement.

“You’re a chicken.”

“No, come ooon!”

Chapter Text

Sissel, though, bless her heart, she just kind of … blinked. And said ‘hmm.’ She looked sideways at his binder like it was a puzzle she could solve, some interesting new painting in the museum.

“So,” she said finally, still in just her bra and panties and looking completely dressed despite it, “where can’t I touch?”

Yep, Yomiel’s brain says as the rest of him shorts out, she’s a keeper.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t entirely sure what was worse: the seemingly endless maze of puppets, the various shitty swords that sprang up from the floor and walls, or the mysterious messages that read things like ‘you’re totes screwed, lmao.’ It didn’t sound like Bro, but Bro was always skilled in not sounding like himself.

The message of ‘yo, you’re almost there - wanna meet your mom?’ that was held up by a group of smuppets made him forget his everpresent concern of how the fuck did you even rig this up, bro. Dave ran for the exit.

“Oh, heyyyy!” said the girl at the end, stumbling over her own feet and clutching a martini glass. “What’s up, lil’ man?”

“That’s my mom?” Dave asked the air, because he knew Bro was there somewhere.

“Nah,” Bro said over his shoulder, “the martini is.”

Chapter Text

And of course, of course he had pulled this stunt today of all days, when it’s disgusting outside and they for once in their lives have a day off. So Spy had taken the logical course of action, which was grabbing Scout by the ear and demanding he clean it up right the hell now, what were you even thinking you stupid little rabbit.

Awright, all right, Jesus,” Scout spouted, “calm the hell down. I’ll clean up, old man, don’t gotta remind me how jealous you are that you can’t do cool shit like I can.”

Spy calmly informed the rest of his team that Scout would be joining them at the next fight, because, as they all knew, respawn did not function between matches.

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He stared down at this guy’s extended hand until Sissel nudged his ribs, whispering, “Shake it.”

“So you’re the lucky guy, eh?” the man asked, grinning wide. “You better be doing a gooood job of protecting our little Sissel!”

“This is Cabanela,” Sissel explained to her husband, “a guy I used to date before I met you.”

Yomiel couldn’t even muster up the strength to say ‘is that so.’

Chapter Text

She hadn’t meant it.

He was in her space, always, in everyone’s space, this massive object that was prone to everyone else’s gravity instead of the other way round. Like a mountain had decided to follow the creature that climbed it. Except he was loud, too, not silent like the earth, and demanding and invasive and ugh.

Generally, he was many things that Lana did not like.

“Lana!” he would say every time he saw her, lighting up like it’d been weeks. “Lana, Lana, how wonderful it is to see you!”

And she’d say back, “Chief Gant,” and allow him just that single indulgence before dedicating effort to ignoring him.

But Gant, he was just … he was everywhere, and even Lana had her limits. And, well, all right — she had a hard time hating him quite as violently as she would have liked. He was charming, was the thing, and attractive, and she cursed herself for falling victim to what was clearly a very structured plot of his to woo her, but. He was quite persistent, and she was … oh, enough rationalizing.

It didn’t change how rude it was when he worked his way to within an inch of her face. (Even if he had been the same distance in different circumstances and it had been entirely fine — nevermind that.) And today, today she was at the end of her rope, and when he dropped his hand onto her shoulder she jerked away and said “You will not touch me without my express permission,” and he went still.

Gant was that much more tolerable when he was colored pink from a blush instead of the light streaming through his ridiculous glasses. He took a shaky breath (Lana found herself hanging onto the shivering edges, pulling it in too for the rush).

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and although the playful smugness was working back into his voice, Lana straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin and watched him pull back his hand immediately.

Ah, she thought, yes, this will do.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” he said, nudging this dainty blonde girl. She hardly looked up from her book. “You wanna go see ‘em?”

At that, she did look up, blinking tired and owlishly. It was a late night, after all, but of all the things to get from him it had to be his stubbornness. “See who?”

Yomiel snorted and ruffled her hair in its precise ponytail, pulling out flyaway strands and a pouty little frown. “For such a smart kid you can be a pretty big doofus sometimes, Tami. Your mom and your brother, c’mon.” He moved to scoop her up — she was young, only just starting to really read even if she refused to take her nose out of books and talked about her picture books like they’re Tolstoy and Austen — and she squirmed out of his arms with a hand shoved in her book.

“Bookmark,” she said indignantly, and refused to uncross her arms or unfurrow her brow until he dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. She flattened it out and laid it carefully in the crease of the pages. “All right,” she said, then reached up for him and happily let him pick her up. Tami adjusted herself in her father’s arms and dropped her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t have a brother,” she muttered while Yomiel carried her to the room the other two were resting in. “You’re a liar.”

“Nah, I’m not.” He couldn’t help but laugh, ruffle her hair again so she made a furious little squeak. “You didn’t have a brother, but you have one now.”

She crowed an “ohhhh” when he set her down next to the hospital bed and she saw Sissel and the baby wrapped up in the white sheets. Sissel smiled, more tired than either of them, and shifted so as to make room.

“Tamiel, come on up,” she said, patting the empty space until Tami crawled onto the bed next to her. “And be very quiet, because I just got him to sleep, and he needs his rest.”

While Sissel fielded all the inevitable questions (“Who is he?” “His name is Ekitel,” “Why is he so small?” “Well, sweetheart, he’s new”), Yomiel sat in the guest chair and just watched. And all he could think, even if there was no way he could hear, now, was ‘thank you, Sissel.’ Thank you for everything.

 

Chapter Text

“A snack,” the kid said in this barely-restrained sneer, and gods did he ever have teeth. Jagged and broken, edges that looked like they’d catch on his own tongue more often than not. He set down a rough metal tray and the thing bent like clay to the shape of his fingers.

“You’re feeding donuts to a dead guy,” Yomiel said, but he leaned over the table and grabbed one indelicately all the same. It got powdered sugar all over his fingers and the table and the kid frowned, sort of, the frown that your dad gives you when you’re making a mess in front of company but he can’t really yell at you when they’re watching. Or maybe that’s just as far down his mouth can go with that bag of knives in his gums. Hard to tell when they’re both wearing sunglasses.

“It is proper etiquette,” what’s-his-name muttered, sitting gingerly down at the other chair. He folded his hands in his lap like he didn’t know what else there was to even do with them. Had this face like a dog without his master.

Yomiel leaned back and went through the motions of eating, even if it was an empty action, even if he could only imagine the melting heat and soft sugar. What he’d give to be able to taste these things. “So, Eckless.”

“Equius.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.” He swallowed, leaned himself just so in the chair. Ten years of practice let you fix your body as cool as you wanted at the drop of a hat. “Figure since we’re stuck here for a while” (he gestured, widely, at nothing at all, at the space they occupied, supposedly a dream bubble or something but that made no sense anyway) “we may as well keep ourselves entertained by sharing our death stories.”

Equius split into this wide, sickly shivering grin, and it pushed this navy blue blood into his cheeks and under his eyes and into a sharp ring around his neck. “It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

She was not entirely certain about this. No, scratch that, she was perfectly certain, and she was perfectly certain that this was a terrible idea.

“Now, are you sure you know how to drive, darling?” Rarity asked from her spot curled up on the passenger’s seat. (Human cars were, to be fair, not much better than pony cars, but at least they had ample space for a petite pony such as herself.) The — human, she supposed she could call it, if she were desperate and suffering from vision problems — gave her a quick thumbs up and grabbed the steering wheel. She frowned. “It’s just that you don’t seem entirely prepared - not to suggest that I doubt your skills! But don’t you usually need to check around the vehicle first?”

All she got in response was a ‘hmph’ and a hand waved in her face, a nonverbal dismissal. She watched in a slow-motion horror as the human jammed a foot onto the gas pedal.

They rammed immediately into the car behind them, nearly sending Rarity pitching over the dashboard and into the windshield. She screamed (gracefully) over the driver’s muted giggles.

“Are you quite mad,” she seethed when she had collected herself back on the seat, combing her hair through with magic to put it back in its place. “I don’t know why I agreed to this, you likely don’t even have a driver’s license!”

The car squealed into action again, this time forward, only scratching along the side of the car in front of them as it pulled out to the road. While they tore down the highway, the driver grabbed his (her? eir??) purse from below the seat and pulled a card from it.

It was a driver’s license with much of the information forcefully scratched out, and featuring a picture echoing exactly the gas mask and rubber suit and flowered hat that sat in the driver’s seat.

“This is from 1965,” Rarity deadpanned.

“Yuh, huddah,” the Pyro agreed, and cackled with delight as they reached 80 miles per hour.

Chapter Text

They took to smoking out under the bleachers of the field, because Silver had seen it on tv a thousand times and Worth said he’d never been caught there before. And both of them did it because the other kids called them Assholes, capital A, like it was their names or their jobs and before Silver had even had the chance to shove them into the concrete walls of the hallway Worth had gone, “Shit yeah we are,” and dragged Silver down to the field by the uniform collar. Then shoved a cigarette in his mouth, and said, “They’re hell for yer lungs, but you’ll sure as hell want them by the end of the year.”

Silver didn’t care much for friends, but he figured this one, he could keep.

So they took to smoking under the bleachers, cutting the classes they deemed Unworthy just to huddle under spiderwebbed aluminum benches and choke on the smoke. Worth didn’t, anyway, but Silver did, and every time Worth would laugh in these horrible, scratchy barks and make fun of Silver’s pretty skin and his little baby lungs.

“Fuck you” wasn’t a great retort, Silver found out fast, so he taught himself to think faster on his feet. Do more than just call people names and talk about their moms. He made as much of an art out of that as he did out of watching Worth when Worth didn’t know.

He only realized he didn’t know if Worth even had a first name when they were blowing smoke rings and foggy breath during Silver’s gym class and Worth went, “Guess I should think about college or somethin, huh.”

“Wait, what?”

“Shocker, I know,” Worth said, more to the cherry of his cigarette than anything. “But guess I actually made it to enough classes to graduate. Pretty high ranking, like, too.”

“No, I —” Silver ground out the cigarette on the rocks underfoot, sat up straighter to match Worth’s height, even if the guy was slouched so much he didn’t have a straight line in him. “The hell do you mean, graduating?”

Worth looked at him like he’d grown another head. Well, bad simile; looked at him like something repulsive, repulsive to Worth anyway, because if Silver’d grown another head Worth would have that smile on him like it was Christmas come early. He looked at Silver like Silver was stupid. “That thing you do at the end of school? Walk across a stage, get a sheet of paper, wear a dumb lookin hat?”

“Yeah, no shit, that’s not what I mean.”

Then the smile slid on, Worth’s ‘I know somethin you don’t’ smile, the one that came just before the laugh that sounded like he swallowed gravel for kicks. It showed too many teeth and all the rings around his eyes and none of what he meant. “What ya mean, then, kiddo?”

What Silver meant was what the fuck do you mean you’re leaving. What Silver meant was I still have two years in this hellhole, and you expect me to do it on my own. What Silver meant was you don’t get to ditch me too, asshole, not you too, not you too.

“Nothing,” he grumbled instead, and drew the collar of the uniform jacket up higher around his neck. He stuck his hand out for another cigarette. “Nothing, asshole.”

Worth’s laugh was a little quiet. Silver heard rather than saw him stand, felt the bony hand ruffle his hair.

“Time fer you to quit, kiddo,” Worth said around a drag of his own. “Don’t want you dyin’ ‘fore I do.”

Silver made a point of avoiding him from then on. Time for him to quit, yeah.

Chapter Text

“Really? Never?”

“Not once, pal.”

“How have you even lived this long, my friend! We must amend this mortal sin!”

He’d never for the life of him figure out how he got tangled up with this guy, this beaming accented charming guy who hopped into life with his sleeves rolled up like he’d never ever die. Maybe it was the same kind of messed-up fate that got Mr. Edgeworth saddled with that Harry Butz guy so often.

“But how … we could find you a nice young lady, but ah, this is in need of immediate attention, Richard, I am sure you agree.”

He was sort of like Mr. Edgeworth, in an entirely opposite way. Everywhere that Mr. Edgeworth would frown and maybe even stutter, this guy would turn on like a lightbulb and make these grand gestures with all of his upper body and shout funny lilting words that Gumshoe could never hope to understand. They both made him feel nervous and kind of little, in the end, like all the years of living had gotten him only a pinch of experience and they knew everything in all the universe.

“Well, I suppose there is really only one solution, yes? Just as a favor between men such as ourselves.”

Naveen was smiling so bright it was starting to hurt Gumshoe’s eyes, and he was looking so eager that there was a definite pit of regret growing in Gumshoe’s gut. Okay, he told himself for the dozenth time, don’t even tell Naveen anything regarding your romantic life, or lack thereof.

“I just cannot believe you have never kissed anyone!” Naveen said one more time, flinging his hands up like he couldn’t express the emotion right in just his voice. And then he went wholly serious. “Richard,” he said, and it brought out how he skimmed his r’s funny especially because he was probably the only one who actually called Gumshoe by that name. “I am going to ask you something very important. Between friends, yes? Do you trust me?”

He had eyes like gold, Naveen did. Fitting. Didn’t he say he was royalty or something? Gumshoe was never sure whether to believe him.

“Uh, sure, pal. Yeah, I trust you.”

Naveen smoothed back into a wide smile and spouted a quiet “achidanza” before actually honestly scooching up real close to Gumshoe’s face and kissing him.

It was not exactly how Gumshoe had wanted his first kiss to go. It was nice, yeah, Naveen knew … things, he guessed, and he had very soft lips? or something, but Gumshoe was stock-still with shock and it was double weird because all he could think was this guy’s got a wife and this guy.

Naveen still pulled back smiling, though.

“So!” he said. “Now you know.”

“Uh, yeah,” Gumshoe said. He elegantly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“So we can agree never to do that again.”

“Definitely.”

Chapter Text

Rarity blinked in a very calculated motion, making it so that her eyelashes made a full dramatic sweep. “You’ll have to explain it to me again, darling, it’s simply that I’m not quite sure that I understand the purpose.”

“Okay, but listen close this time, all right?” Gumshoe had his sleeves rolled to his elbows and all sorts of kindergarten craft gear scattered around his knees. He talked around his stuck-out tongue while he drew shapes onto the cardboard with a marker. “This here is gonna be a spaceship.”

“And a spaceship is…?”

“Takes you to space, that’s what it is! It’s a big metal thing with rockets on it and you go to the moon in it.”

“Funny, that’s what we have a princess for.”

“Anywho,” Gumshoe went on, finally capping the black marker with a satisfying click. He twisted himself around until he found an orange marker, then grabbed it up and tore the cap off. “It won’t work unless it’s properly decorated. So we gotta draw on all the, uh, the screws and signs and flames and stuff. Flames make them go faster, see.”

“I was under the impression that stood true for lightning bolts,” Rarity said. It was a good thing she was a pony, and thus didn’t have human eyebrows, or hers would be through the roof at this point.

“Both! But you don’t wanna draw lightning on your rocket ship cause what if it gets struck.” Gumshoe sketched the finishing touches on a big burst of flame on one side of the cardboard box, then flipped it all the way over to smear orange on the opposite side. “Point is, if it doesn’t look realistic, we can’t imagine it real. And it only works if you believe it does. You got that, pal?”

“I’ve told you, dear, it’s Rarity. Rarity. Pal is my business associate from Melbarn, though I haven’t the slightest how someone like you has met Pal Joey — no offense meant, darling.” Gumshoe just blinked at her as she tossed her mane back.

“Sure thing, p— Rarity.” He shrugged to himself and put the marker back, picked up the silver permanent marker he’d bought for this kind of occasion. “You know, this’d get done a lot faster if you helped me decorate.”

“Decorate?” Rarity’s eyes went wide. “Well, if you put it that way.”

—

(Later: Gumshoe and Rarity climbed into the newly christened spaceship, the SS Celestia, being mindful of the ribbons Rarity had carefully tied to its hull.

“You ready?” Gumshoe asked in a hush, settling his helmet (a colander he managed to find in the kitchen) over his head.

“Ready!” Rarity affirmed. Her helmet was just her fancy hat, but it was ‘multipurpose, darling.’

“All right! Blast-off in 3, 2, 2…”

He didn’t make the vroom sounds he’d meant to because he was too busy being surprised and completely delighted at Rarity using magic to levitate the whole thing with a cry of “zero!”)

Chapter Text

As a coach, prestigious and talented though you are, you’ve seen plenty of teenage boys. You just tend not to word it that way because it gives off the wrong message, bad press and all that. The point is, the point is, this kid has a serious case of Unhappy Highschooler, something you’ve got plenty of experience with. (Again. Not that you’d word it that way. Damn.) Usually those are one of a few general type: you got the scrawny, nervous kids, who know that if the footballers get out of hand (not that you’d let them, of course) they wouldn’t stand a chance; the heavier teens who can’t get a break despite what talents, academic or athletic or otherwise, they might have; the drama students. This one looks like a Dark Past, if you had to judge. Mostly because of the long hair and the high collar. Probably gets ridiculous tanlines. You’ve taken to calling him 34 or Boy With The Hair because he won’t give you his name.

Now he’s shuffled up in front of you with his shoulders drawn high and his face already crumpled into a defensive anger and it almost makes you want to ruffle his hair. (You decided he wasn’t quite suspicious as much as he was just a teenage kid. They’re all kind of suspicious in the end.)

“Finally decided to work with a group, eh, young man?” you say in your most impressive and hopefully friendly voice. You lean a hand on your hip. “Well, you’ve come to just the right man —”

“Can it,” Boy With The Hair snaps. You do, more out of surprise than actual obedience, because who thinks they can tell you to shut up? You make great first impressions! Come on! “I just need your help for now, okay, you were just the first guy I saw. Just my luck.”

“No need to be so polite,” you mutter, and he gives you what is most certainly a patented glare.

“Can you just —” Boy With The Hair rolls his eyes, sighs in a way that you as a coach are uniquely qualified to recognize as preparation to ask an important question. Maybe even Important enough for emphatic capitalization. “Rick, right?” He says it like it’s an insult. Rude. “I just need you to help me with something, all right?”

“Of course!” you spout immediately. “Anything you - NOT THAT.” Because Boy With The Hair just yanked his pants down to his knees and you are perhaps a little freaking out. This is a bad situation. A Bad one.

Until Boy scoffs at you and says “calm the fuck down, I’m not trying to get into your pants” and gestures roughly at his thigh.

You squint.

Huh.

“Well, uh,” you say, your eyebrows drawing close enough together that you think they might just knit into one caterpillar and crawl off your face. “Gonna be honest, this is not my division.”

That sure is a tooth.

“How about you and me go find a crazy woman, huh, kiddo?”

Chapter Text

“Well!” Problem Sleuth says, because his pulchritude stat is high enough to allow him to make shitty puns like that. “Well well well well well. Well. Ah, shit.”

He is literally at the bottom of a dried-up well.

To be honest, it’s downright goddamn embarrassing. He doesn’t really know exactly how he got down here (parameters of the story don’t extend to the hows, here, which works against him to a point, but saves him from further embarrassment in the case that he was pushed down it by Ace Dick or something. But he’d probably know if it was Ace Dick cause he’d be covered in piss, too), but he’s down here, and it’s one of those wells without a way out and you’d think they’d learn by now that someone’s gonna fall down a goddamn well and they gotta build handholds or a ladder or something into these things.

This means someone’s gotta rescue him. He’s not too keen on that idea. He’s the rescuer, not the rescue-ee. He’d say damsel in distress except HD might just materialize to smack him upside the head for the sexist implications or whatsit.

Hey, maybe he oughta try it, she could unmaterialize him with her and…

There’s a bark at the top of the well. Hell yeah! At least this way it can be a sweet Lassie rescue and not something wimpy.

“Down here, boy!” he cries up to the mystery dog. It barks a couple times more, and Sleuth can hear a couple of scuffling steps. Bark bark, yeah, bark your way to help, boy.

A fluffy weight rains down on Sleuth’s head and “ow jesus christ what the hell even was that.” He picks it up off the ground where it bounced to and it’s.

It’s a pomeranian.

His rescue was a pomeranian?

He stares at it up to the point where it licks his face and barks happily before he groans and sets it down.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sleuth says to it, sitting next to it while it does circles. “Welcome to the shithole.”

…Actually, that was a pretty good one.

Well-come.

Ha.

He’s a genius.

Except for how he’s stuck in a goddamn well.

Chapter Text

It was how he couldn't feel the snow that piled up around his shins that got him the most. The hills were frozen and he didn't even notice except for how the snow slowed his movements. Usually it was just him in the silent not-cold, far from Hanna's house, staring at the horizon. Today there was someone else. "I just can't even feel it," the man said, suit bright red even in the dark, "I barely know who I am, you know?" The zombie stared at the glow his eyes cast and thought, yeah. I know.

Chapter Text

He did /not/ want to see Cabanela when he opened the door, but that's who it was - flanked by Miss Dies-A-Lot and Detective Jowd, who was the only one without a ridiculous grin on his face. "Heeeey, Yomiel," the inspector said. "We're trying to start a band, but the precinct says we can only do it if we have four people, see-"

 

Yomiel slammed the door and hoped it hit Cabanela's stupid beak.

Chapter Text

"I'm writing a story," she announces to her roommate one night. Roommate pulls a face. "Not like your mom writes stories," she clarifies quickly, "ugh, I'm not writing sordid details about anyone's cock, here."

"Wow, Kim, didn't want to think about that," Emilia says back, face only going more grotesque. "What /are/ you writing about, then?"

"Death. Life. Love," Kim explains vaguely over her laptop. "It's about a man who's hit by a meteor but doesn't quite die. I think we'll be in it."

Chapter Text

"Oh," she says, all of her is that Oh, her mouth, her wide eyes, her slouched shoulders.

"You're still my best friend," he says through the glass, "it's just, it's been a long time, and-"

"No, no, I mean, I understand," she says, smiles. "It's been a long time and you just don't love me anymore. It's fine, Yomi- Yomiel." She's one of those people who's always smiling. "But, um, I have to - it's late, I have to go." When she leaves, he watches her ring roll off the edge of the counter.