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#mr. bees speaks
dont-offend-the-bees · 6 months
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Embracing the fixation this October -- come join me! Draw, write, whatever! Interpret the prompts however you like, for whatever characters/imagery, go nuts!
(Feel free to share this on twitter if you want I personally am going nowhere near there xD)
(Yes I did hand draw/write this list yes it did take forever but I will suffer in the name of having something pretty to stick in my sketchbook)
Text only ⬇️
[Image reads: SAWTOBER Prompt List 2023.
1: Lurk,
2: Scars,
3: Apprentice,
4: Gun,
5: Surgery,
6: Key,
7: Coffin,
8: Hands,
9: Mask,
10: Tape,
11: Needle,
12: Haunt,
13: Blood,
14: Faith,
15: Kiss,
16: Water,
17: Photograph,
18: Glass,
19: Trap,
20: Family,
21: Blade,
22: Chain,
23: Puppet,
24: Burn,
25: Lungs,
26: Safe,
27: Betray,
28: Bones,
29: Poison,
30: Together,
31: Game Over
Create whatever you want, interpret however you like, have a bloody good time!
List by dont-offend-the-bees]
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bumblingbabooshka · 5 months
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Someone on the "is it not enough to see Tuvok" post commented "Unfortunately, seeing Tuvok frequently requires also seeing a Neelix, which is unacceptable." and Bea, I am being sooo brave about it, I've not even murdered them (yet)
I am pinning this to your lapel like a purple heart:
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They are worsties, they're divorced despite never being married, they have pigtail crushes on each other, they are mutually annoying co-workers, they are middle aged men and also high school girls with the most insane beef ever, family men without families, orchid breeders (one for sustenance and the other for beauty), they're everything.
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girldewar · 5 months
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as a final note on this today. this too is brandon in this fic
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xtoomanytimelinesx · 5 months
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16) If you have multiple muses, which one has the most disturbed past?
Dark Munday Questions | Accepting
Hmm to be honest it's a hard call on this one, my cast is full of characters with backstories that are disturbing. It's kind of a toss up between No.t 16, Soma, and Mr. X.
No.t doesn't remember a majority of what they have gone through but it is all still there, the torture and abuse they endured easily bumps them up as a good pick for this.
Soma is in a similar boat as No.t 16 except she is very aware of everything she had been through. That as well as the fact that she had to survive everything in childhood makes me think that she's probably the best option here.
Mr. X is here because it is still living through torture in the name of science, this is all it has ever known and all it probably ever will know. T-00 is treated as a tool and used like one with little to no room for failure or it risks termination.
Honestly just pick your poison with these three
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casualldehyde · 2 years
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Have a very short intro to my Jekyll’s backstory:
Born in 1838, Jekyll, first name Abram, comes from a relatively suburb area of russia, specifically a Jewish shtetl (a mostly closed Jewish town). He experienced a Pogrom (massacre based on antisemitism) which left him traumatized at a young age.
His family moved to England shortly before the Crimean war, anticipating pogroms from the coming war out of the stress that will come on the country, as well as being tired of Russia being back on technological advancements relative to the rest of the world at the time. So Jekyll experienced most of his teenage years in England.
Jekyll isn’t his original family name, he changed it shortly after becoming an adult legally together with his first name as a mean to avoid being associated with his family and hopefully avoid antisemitism (which half worked).
There wasn’t anything too special about his teenage years as well as university (besides some very mild gay confusion within himself, and of course antisemitism from time to time).
He did have a very secret gay affair with both Utterson and Lanyon at different times while in university, but both didn’t last long and eventually for the better of both sides it was left as a remnant of the past. Jekyll regrets them, and his homosexuality is a part of himself he is FAR from accepting and is a demon he feels haunts him from time to time.
Now Jekyll works as a doctor with a speciality in pharmaceuticals, with two assistants. Griffin, and an OC named Feigling.
This is all before Hyde happened and all I’ll tell for now ok bye.
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wabblebees · 1 year
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BEE the people demand to know. how was ur audition
DUDE i just got notified im called back!!! for tomorrow morning!!!!! im SO fucking excited omfg,,, and like. Even More Nervous ghdjsk
i dont think i did *terrible* or anything but i def walked out of the room afterwards just... Not Feeling It lmao, but it was still so so much fun -- gOddddd i fucking missed musicals+singing WITH PEOPLE. i even got to use my low range and sing with the tenors😌💕 ((whiiiiich. turned out to be the part with the most fuckery lmao, so i hope i didnt embarrass myself too badly as the... perpetually loudest mf in the room lmao))
the movement call was the part i was most nervous abt for tonight ((since i am patently Not a dancer)) and ngl it was. Rough. bc we'd been standing around for hours doing music and my knees were NOT pleased with me even wearing my braces
but!! callbacks tomorrow are doing solo singing, which i feel much more confident about, and!!!!! i got called back for the part im hoping for AND two parts i was *totally* not expecting!!!!! so im definitely okay with how it went:)<3
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closeted-goth · 8 months
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going back to Bundaberg so I can kill defence barrister MR [REDACTED] for many crimes, but principally for taking 30-odd minutes to figure out the sequence of events experienced by a deaf, 70 yr old witness, between driving from the CBD Maccas to the gym that's literally a two minute walk away.
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mythvoiced · 8 months
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-. between work and leisure i've had so many british (mostly english) voices in my ears today that my inner voice distinctly sounds like some sort of cross between J.ame.s A.ca.ster and R.ich.ard A.yoa.de now please free me
#;ooc#;tbd#genuinely hope mr a.yo.a.de didn't do anything wrong ever he's so fking delightful#i'm so!!!!!!!!!!! TIRED i didn't do anything i haven't done before but i haven't guarded my eyes so to speak#so now THEY'RE exhausted#i am violently privileged compared to other people absolutely#if i go to bed at midnight knowing that my inner clock keeps waking me at 6 or 6:10 or 5:30 it's my fault#and i can't go complaining BUT truth of the matter is still that i would very much LOVE#to not wake up at that time anymore thank you#it's only an hour or so before i'd wake up anyway so can't i be left SLEEPING MR BRAIN#this girl i'm befriending - who is an absolute disaster - weed girl if you're reading this ami - is dropping hints#she might be interested and/or open to romantic endeavours with women#and i am female shaped so now all my self-teaching of not catching stupid thoughts is going out the window#a pretty girl sends you three of those smiley emojis with hearts all over 'em and suddenly you're FULL STUPID#NOT MY FAULT i'm very easy once you appeal to my boyfriend genes#she wanted to take a video of bees buzzing around my mother's lavender bush near our house#but she's a little scared TRIED ANYWAY and a bumblebee came straight charging for her#so i just turned around and just gestured to hand me her phone like some stupid suave self-confident bozo that i am NOT#and she DID and let me take the video for her and LISTEN I AM EASY OKAY acts of service is a MAJOR love language for me#if you enable me performing it i WILL consider it a major achievement in my character#when i'm simply really pleased that i got to serve and provide#if i come up to you and say 'hey let me handle this for you' and you LET ME i will think about it forever
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drefear · 4 months
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i saw u needed some idea and lemme just say: ex's dad!miguel o'hara
…oh fuck yes.
Tw: cheating, p in v, age gap,
He cheated. He fucking cheated with your roommate. And now here you were, standing in a long dress at his cousin’s wedding two months later. His cousin invited you because you two became close friends, but seeing him bring your old roommate, laughing with her in front of everyone while you didn’t even bring a plus one sucked.
You look up in the mirror as you tap some cold water on the back of your neck, nervous again after seeing him kiss her cheek and then make eye contact with you.
Most of the ceremony is a blur as you can barely focus on anything but keeping your breathing even. Once it’s over, you bee-line for the open bar and quickly down a shot of vodka before hissing at the burn and reaching for a lemon or lime, anything to help with the taste.
Your arm hits something hard and you feel the front of your dress become soaked as you glance to the side to see your ex boyfriend’s father looking down at where his Old Fashioned spilled on your torso. The syrup-sticky-feeling starts to sink in as you feel gross, groaning and imagining how you must look.
“Dios, I’m so sorry.” He apologized and sighs, “this is not the way I wanted to say hello.”
“It’s ok.” You nod and sigh. “I think the bridal suite has a shower in the bathroom.”
“Let me try to clean the dress while you rinse off, yeah?” He asks and you agree, walking together in silence to the bridal suite. As he opens the door for you, he speaks. “I’m sorry about what happened with my son. He’s young, can’t hold onto the good things in his life right now.”
“Sounds like you want to get us back together.” You chuckle, though it feels dry in your throat. “Mr. O’Hara, it’s ok. It wasn’t meant to be.” You deadpan and he gives you an apologetic look, almost pity.
You head into the bathroom and as you begin to shut the door, a hand catches the knob and pushes it open once more. “Do you need help with the zipper?” His voice gets lower as he asks and you turn to see him coming closer, not even fully answering before he forces you around to look in the mirror and starts unzipping the dress. His breath is hot in your ear as he whispers, “my son doesn’t know how to keep a sexy, smart woman.” His words make you shiver as his fingers trance symbols on your back and down to your thong. “Tell me when to stop.”
“Don’t stop.” You reply and he smirks in the mirror at you, watching your eyes flutter closed as he dips his hands into the front of your underwear and rub small circles around your clit.
“Let me taste this pussy, cariño. Wanted to since the first day he brought you home.” He mumbles into your hair and lifts you effortlessly to sit on the edge of the sink, spreading your legs and putting your knees on his shoulders as he groans at the sight of your already wet pussy. “God damn, you even smell good.”
With that, his tongue licks a stripe over your pussy, pushing your thong to the side and flicking his tongue between your folds. Your moan and lean backwards against the mirror as he grinds his nose into your clit, your legs jolting from the sudden feeling. “Good girl, let out those sounds… let me hear you moan, so sweet for me…” his comments make you thrust into his face and make him laugh deeply, then beginning to push his tongue in and out of you at a faster pace.
“Cum on my face.” He instructs you and you oblige, shaking and almost screaming from pleasure. “Good girl.”
It wasn’t your wedding night, but you still celebrated.
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angrythingstarlight · 7 months
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George Barnes is the ✨worst ✨
Would he ever go even further and suggest that since Bucky + Malyshka had a daughter he should be allowed to set up an arranged marriage for her when she’s older? I could just see Bucky explode from rage
Bucky is very protective of his little family.
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Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee
CW: Canon level violence. George Barnes.
AN: 'What if' scenario for the Bumblebee series.
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One night George brings Andre, one of his decrepit cronies over to Bucky's office under the pretense of needing advice.
It's only when both men have settled in the chairs across from him that George tells Bucky that he's arranged for little Bee's marriage to his friend. "Once she's eighteen, the girl will finally be of some use to this family."
Bucky stares down his father, rage and disbelief simmering in the depths of his eyes. For a few minutes, he's silent, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths as he attempts to quell his growing ire. He's well aware of the deal George made with Andre, essentially trying to sell his only grandchild for a stake in his business.
If his father only knew that Bucky was biding his time, waiting until he had the remainder of his alliances in place before dealing with arrogant bastard, George would have never crossed his threshold.
When Bucky speaks, his voice is quiet, lethal.
"The only reason you're still around is because of a promise I made to my mother. But don't underestimate what I will do for my daughter. If you ever pull some shit like this again, it will be the last thing you do. That is my promise to you as your pakhan."
His hand tightens around the carved handle of his knife as he taps it against the side of his glass. The sharp sound causes Andre to flinch. "If you don't want to leave my office in pieces, I suggest you get out of my sight in the next five seconds."
The implication slices through the tension thick air.
George is unable to hold Bucky's gaze. An unfamiliar sensation compresses his chest. Fear. His smug grin slips off his face. The normally boisterous man is astute enough to recognize that he's made a grave error.
Self-preservation has him pushing his chair back and scrambling to his feet. Both men head to the door.
"I didn't say you could leave."
George doesn't break his stride, leaving Andre behind. He reluctantly turns towards Bucky, his hands raising. "Bucky. Pakhan. I didn't mean to offend you. I...wasn't going to touch her. I was–I mean," he stammers. "You don't have to–"
Bucky's eyes shift to the framed pictures on his desk. A smiling Bee clutches Mr. Tato to her chest, mid-pirouette with her desert rose dress flowing around her. Another of her, barely a month old, sleeping on his chest. To his left is one of her chubby, sweet face covered in paint as she sits in front of her easel.
His gaze flicks up and a blur of silver and black flashes across his office, the blade impaling the center of Andre's right palm.
"You're right about one thing. You're never going to touch her."
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leclsrc · 1 year
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see it through ✴︎ cl16
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genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning
word count: 9k
“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.
notes... internet translated italian ahaha
auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!
You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.
Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.
“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”
You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”
“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.
Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.
Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways. 
You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety. 
The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.
Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.
You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.
“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.
“New PR thing?”
Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”
Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”
He shrugs. “Both clueless.”
“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”
“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.
“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”
You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”
“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”
“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.” 
“Wow,” you say, nodding.
“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.
Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.
“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water. 
His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”
You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.
“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”
“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you. 
“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”
“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”
Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”
“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”
“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”
“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening. 
“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”
“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.
She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”
“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.” 
“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”
Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”
You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”
“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”
You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.
“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”
You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”
“Right. We are not dating.”
“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.
“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.
You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.
Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.
It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.
There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.
Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.
“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.
You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”
Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”
We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family? 
“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh. 
“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.
“Thirsty?” He asks casually.
“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.
“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.
“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”
Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.
“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”
You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”
“It’s only for a week—”
“No!”
“A week!” 
You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family. 
“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”
“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.
You might have to grin and bear it.
“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?
Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.
His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!
You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)
His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it. 
They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.
A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills. 
“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”
“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.
Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”
He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”
“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.
“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”
Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”
“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”
You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone. 
In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.
“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”
“I’ll take the floor.”
“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”
“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.
You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.
You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”
Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”
“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.
You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place. 
You slide him five euros over breakfast. 
Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.
But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.
It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.
“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.
“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.
“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards. 
“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.
“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.
“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”
You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you. 
“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”
“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.
Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.
Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.
Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”
“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.
“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”
Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.
Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.
“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.
“Mmm?” You ask.
“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”
“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”
“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.
“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.
“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”
You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”
“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”
“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.
“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”
You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”
“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”
“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.
“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.
The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”
“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses. 
“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”
“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”
That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”
“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.
In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.
There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes. 
The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.
Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.
“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.
“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.
The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”
Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.
“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.
You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”
Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.
It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.
“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.
“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.
“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.
“Later. You should wait.”
“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.
“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.
“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.
“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”
Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”
“Favorite song?”
“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”
“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”
Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”
You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”
Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.
His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”
“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”
It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.
Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.
Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.
You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room. 
He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.” 
You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.
He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”
“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”
“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.
You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.
You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.
You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”
He looks at you, curious. You continue.
“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”
You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.
“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.
“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.
Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.
“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”
“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”
“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.
“Challenge accepted!”
Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face. 
You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.
Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.
It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.
Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.
Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.
He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”
You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.
It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.
The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”
He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.
“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.
“For sharing.”
“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”
“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”
A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”
“Alright.” He smiles. 
“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”
“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.
You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.
Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.
Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.
“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.
You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.
“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.
You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.
“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”
Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”
“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.
You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”
Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.
“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.
“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”
Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.
You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.
He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.
You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.
Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.
Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating. 
Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings. 
I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.
The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.
The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”
Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.
You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.
Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.
That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh. 
The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.
You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes. 
The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.
The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.
“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.
“Rain,” he replies blankly.
“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”
He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”
“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”
“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”
“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”
“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”
You stare at him. 
You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.
The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.
“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.
“A bit,” you reply. 
“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”
You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.
Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off. 
They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.
Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”
“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”
“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”
You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”
Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”
It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts. 
“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”
You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”
You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”
Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.
“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”
Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.
For the better. “For real.”
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someone had to do it
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bumblingbabooshka · 8 months
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HAPPY BIRTHDAYYY may this day bring u a great deal of joy (and tuvoks!)
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Thank you!!! Here's a Neelix for ya. This was drawn while I thought repeatedly about that scene where Neelix said he researched Vulcan holidays and specifically brought up the one where people got all oiled up and chased each other around only for Tuvok to go "That's a pagan holiday" and Neelix replied "It'd be good for morale."
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girldewar · 9 months
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HATER MOMENT
thank god
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slutforsilverfoxes · 5 months
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Imagine…
Starting to make dinner in Aaron’s apartment on a Thursday night. He’s just gone for a shower, washing away his last case and the worst parts of the world that he falls privy to day in and day out as Unit Chief of the BAU.
You’re humming along to your oldies but goodies playlist while sipping a glass of white wine that’s too sweet for Aaron’s liking. As the current song fades out and the familiar notes of a Bee Gees tune start, you realize with a smile just how many of these songs you've compiled make you think of your love.
And, speak of the furthest thing from the devil, suddenly he’s there, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind as his body perfectly molds to the dips and curves of your own. He guides you back and forth in a gentle sway, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as he releases a deep sigh.
You allow your eyes to drift shut and your head to fall back against Aaron so you can bury your nose in the crook of his neck. "Sauce'll burn," you mumble, letting his familiar smell wash over you and sending warm tingles throughout your body.
"Let it," he responds just as softly. "We'll order something. Need to hold you."
You release a sound of contentment that's half-sigh, half-hum, nuzzling even deeper into him as if you can become one person if you try hard enough. In this moment, there's no yesterday or tomorrow. There's no anticipation of the next phone call that will take your love across the country again. There's no darkness, no fear, no evil lurking around the corner. There's just you and the man you love more than anything else in the world.
You dot gentle kisses along the expanse of his skin that you can reach without moving, and he squeezes you tighter in response. "Marry me," Aaron breathes out on a sigh. "I'll make it more romantic later, I promise. Just tell me you'll be mine forever."
"Oh, my baby," you murmur. "I already am."
—————
AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner @iyv-ray24 @mrs-ssa-hotch @criminalskies @callm3c0nfus3d
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munson-blurbs · 3 days
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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)
♫ Summary: What started as a quest to prove Eddie's 'manhood' ended with a gesture that had you hurtling towards your future--ready or not. (5.4k words)
♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, parental conflict, poverty, lots of bees, mention of parental illness, brief mention of sex work, finally some actual physical contact between them, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)
♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult
chapter five: float like a butterfly
For the first time since you’d started working nights, you didn’t dread the sound of your alarm ringing. You’d always appreciated its stillness, with only city noises and the occasional guest puncturing the perfect silence. There were some nights where you didn’t speak a word for the full eight hours of your shift; you just read or wrote or daydreamed until the clock struck six.
Except for last night, of course, when you’d passed the time by talking with Eddie and minimally contributed to wallpaper removal. Your mind flickered back to the way he’d placed his hand on yours. The sensation of his palm, calloused but warm, lingering a beat longer than necessary. 
The whole moment could have been deemed unnecessary, in theory. Surely he could have modeled the action on his own and then handed you the tool so you could imitate him. Was it truly to show you how to scrape off glue, or did he have a more gratuitous intention?
Shaking your head, you eschewed the idea almost as quickly as you’d considered it. He was just being polite, a rarity among most of your male guests. Maybe that's why you were so hyper-focused on it; years of clipped conversations and crude comments had you mistaking kindness for something more flirtatious.
Speak of the Devil…
Eddie stood in the lobby, his guitar case slung across his back. He kept one elbow perched on the desk as he spoke to your mom. Whatever he said was making her laugh, a genuine one that brought a light to her eyes. She noticed you first, and when she waved you over, Eddie turned around to see what caught her attention. His smile shifted from open-mouth to close-lipped, more thoughtful and discreet without losing any of its charm.
Slinging your bag off of your shoulder next to the desk, you feigned a casual demeanor and asked, “What did I miss? Serenading my mom?” You nodded towards the guitar case, biting back a smile.
Eddie shook his head, his curls falling in his face. “Tried to make a couple bucks down at the subway station.” He shrugged, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Not enough for a ticket home, but it’s a start.”
Home. Obviously he was going home. New York had nothing for him, had chewed him up and spit him out like he left a bitter taste in its mouth. He had no reason to stay.
Oblivious to your disappointment, Mom laughed again. “Mr. Munson–”
“Eddie. Mr. Munson is my uncle.”
“Eddie,” Mom quickly amended, “was just telling me about the time he ripped his pants while he was on stage.” 
Rosy red seeped into Eddie’s cheeks, evidently not expecting your mom to share that information with you. “And that was the last time I wore leather pants,” he said. “Lesson learned.”
Deeming this conclusion insufficient, you inquired further. “How exactly does one rip leather pants?” You stifled a giggle, just imagining him feeling a sudden breeze mid-concert.
“Well, ya see,” he started, crossing his arms over his faded Metallica t-shirt and smirking, “I’m what’s known as an enthusiastic performer. And as such, one might find that leather can be quite restricting.”
“So…you got really sweaty and they ripped.”
Eddie hid his face behind a curtain of curls, all but confirming your suspicions. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Heiress,” he warned with a smile, cocking his pointer finger in your direction.
Mom took that as her cue to leave, quickly clasping your hand and excusing herself. Thick tension set in without her there as a buffer. Her presence prevented any conversation from dipping too deep into flirtation; now, there was nothing stopping it. 
Except, of course, the looming fact that he was a guest. And like all guests, he was a temporary fixture in your life. 
“The new wallpaper didn’t come in yet,” you blurted out. Dad had insisted on ordering it from a family friend, saving money but forgoing the promises of timely delivery afforded by bigger suppliers. 
Eddie shrugged, unbothered by the information. “I know.” He placed a cigarette between his lips and held out the pack in offering, but you shook your head. Without missing a beat, he put his own cigarette back and returned the box to his pocket. “Your mom was saying how excited she is for you to finish your classes and take over the motel.”
Panic flooded your lungs and constricted your breathing at the potential crisis he might have inadvertently caused. Did Mom seem upset? Her usual signs were noticeably absent: narrowed eyes, set jaw, lips painfully taut in a silent roar: we’ll discuss this later. 
There was none of that. She was laughing. Happy. Not a hint of disappointment. Yet anxiety still hooked its claws into your skin, a stinging reminder of the anvil dangling over your head. 
“You didn’t say—”
“Not a word.” Eddie waved away the thought. “Just smiled and nodded.”
Your chest went concave with relief, and you had to stop yourself from reaching out and pulling him into a hug. His arms held a surprising strength, as evidenced by his wallpaper removal abilities, and you wondered how they would feel wrapped around your waist. Did he hug tightly, not letting go until all of the air had been squeezed from your lungs? Or did he prefer a softer, lazier embrace, one with a hand free to stroke up and down your back?
Why did it matter?
“Is there a reason you haven’t told them?” he asked. The sound of his voice invaded your senses, pulling you back to reality in an instant. “I mean, they seem nice enough.”
Stooping down to grab your notebook, you nodded in agreement. “That’s part of the problem, I guess.” Your teeth scraped along your tongue as you considered your words. “If they were shitty, I wouldn’t feel so bad about letting them down.”
“Letting them down?”
You nodded, feeling that familiar pit that formed in your stomach whenever this subject arose. “Yeah. I can’t be a social worker and run the motel. And if I don’t stick around, they’ll have to close this place for good.”
Eddie breathes out with a low whistle. “Pretty high stakes.”
“You can say that again.” Resting your elbows on the desk, you buried your head in your hands. “How did your parents react when you told them you wanted to be a rockstar?” you asked, your voice slightly muffled. 
He took so long to respond that you looked up, wondering if he’d up and left while you weren’t watching. 
“My dad’s, um, not in the picture, and my mom died when I was a kid,” he finally said, using his left thumbnail to pick at the right. 
“I’m sorry.” And you were: for his loss and for prying into his history. Mortification bloomed and prickled sweat under your arms, and you clenched them to your sides in a feeble attempt to hide any forming stains.
“S’okay. I mean, you didn’t know, so…” his shoulders moved up and down, his mouth drawn into a forgiving half-smile, “now you know.”
Now you know. A little slice of him, presented to you like one of the cakes the local bakery kept locked behind a pane of refrigerated glass. The ones you admired as a kid, reveling in their perfectly smooth icing and intricately piped pastel flowers. They’d always seemed too delicate to touch, so you’d skipped over them in favor of sprinkle-laden cookies.
Logically, you know that the cakes were made for consumption. All you needed to do was ask for a taste. But you could never bring yourself to ruin their beauty. Not then, and not now.
And so, as always, you stepped away and chose the easier path instead.   
“Did you really rip your pants on stage?”
Eddie’s nose wrinkled at the sudden subject change, but he recovered quickly. “Sure did. Split right down the seam.” He puffed out a short laugh through his nose. “Poor Gareth got an eyeful that night.”
“Are you sure that isn’t the real reason you left the band?” Picking up the nearest pen, you poked the capped end into his forearm. 
He play-winced, rubbing the spot the cap touched, and shook his head. “Nah, this was my high school band. Corroded Coffin.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Oh, yeah. We were terrifying.” Eddie widened his eyes in mock-horror. “The backbone of Indiana’s satanic panic, actually.”
You raised your brows. “Impressive.”
“Mhm. We only broke up because our bassist went to college out of state. Princeton.” He lowered his voice at the name as though relaying confidential information. 
“Not the Ivy Leagues!” You pressed your hand to your heart, clutching metaphorical pearls. 
Eddie grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”
“I’ve heard Princeton is known for their demonic studies program, so that tracks.”
This is nice. This is easy. No mention of schoolwork, or the motel, or parents—or lack thereof. You could do this all night. 
A throat clearing followed by a hacking cough took you both by surprise. Peering over Eddie’s shoulder, you found Phyllis standing in the lobby doorway. 
“There’s a wasp nest outside my window,” she said, tugging up one drooping shirt sleeve. The odor of stale cigarettes grew stronger as she walked closer to you and Eddie; even if she quit smoking today, the pungency would always cling to her. 
Uncapping your pen, you reached into the desk drawer and grabbed the stack of Post-Its. “I’ll make a note to get some insecticide spray tomorrow,” you promised, poorly curbing your exasperation. 
If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. 
The older woman didn’t put up any argument, but Eddie was obviously displeased. “Like hell you will.” He glanced around, pent-up energy overflowing as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “You got a baseball bat around here?”
Your “Uh, no,” overlapped with Phyllis’s nonchalant, “Yeah, of course,” and she left to fetch it.
A sigh escaped you, hinting at your mounting irritation. “Eddie, absolutely not,” you insisted. “Just wait till I get the spray and you can do it then.”
He clicked his tongue with a note of condescension that you didn’t particularly appreciate. “Don’t worry about it, Heiress. I’m from the Midwest; our wasps are like your rats. This’ll be nothing.” When you remained unconvinced, he adopted a teasing grin. “I don’t tell you how to do your nerd stuff, do I? So leave me to my man stuff in peace.”
You nearly choked on your own saliva. “Your man stuff?”
“Yes. Very strong and burly.” He flexed a bicep for emphasis and you threw your hands up in defeat, trying to ignore the soft fluttering in your stomach at the vein bulging through his skin.
Phyllis returned with the bat, the wooden neck clenched between arthritic fingers. “It’s right around the side,” she told Eddie. “Just look for the giant nest. And don’t forget to give this back when you’re done; I’m working tonight.” She thrust the bat into Eddie’s hand and padded back to her room, slippers thwacking against the linoleum. 
Eddie twirled the bat, threading it through his fingers and catching it smoothly. He smiled, unable to camouflage his pride. “See? I got this.” His grasp was determined without a hint of tenderness, a stark contrast to the way he’d held your hand the night prior. Tucking it underneath a denim-clad arm, he took a deep breath and pushed through the front door like he was preparing for battle.
You watched him leave, shaking your head. Evidently, he had a point to prove, but you doubted the chances of his success. Part of you wished you could leave the desk to watch him in action. Another part was relieved that you had the excuse to avoid witnessing this disaster as it unfolded.
As you predicted, not even half a minute had passed before you heard Eddie yelping, his footsteps thudding towards the motel’s entrance. He flung the door open with enough force that it smacked against the wall, scrambling to slam it shut behind him. His chest heaved under his jacket as he tried to catch his breath. 
“Shit, shit, shit.” He swatted around his head at some lingering wasps. “Son of a bitch!”  
Sucking your tongue to your front teeth, you bit back an I-told-you-so. “How’s your ‘manhood’ or whatever?” 
Maybe that wasn’t much better than outright gloating, but you couldn’t help yourself. 
Eddie made a closed fist with only his middle finger sticking up, and he winced almost immediately. “I think one of those little fuckers got me.” He cradled one hand in the other as you walked towards him for a closer inspection. 
Sure enough, a stinger was poking out from the side of his forefinger.
Phyllis came shuffling back from her room, pink lipsticked mouth pursed in concern. “Jesus, kid. Were you trying to piss them off?” The loose skin under her neck wobbled when she chortled. “You swung at that nest like you were Babe Ruth!”
Through a tense smile, you asked her to get a soapy washcloth so you could clean out the wound before it could spark an allergic reaction. “Unless, of course, that interferes with your man stuff,” you said to Eddie, all-too happy to throw his words back in his face.
“Fuck off.” A traitorous chuckle broke through his stoic exterior despite his very real pain. His eyes followed your movements as you grabbed the first aid kit.
You took his warm palm in yours, gently turning it to assess the afflicted finger. The stinger was lodged under his skin, already turning the surrounding area an angry red. 
“Oof, he really stung you good, huh?” Your tone was all sympathy; you figured he’d gotten enough jabs from the wasps. 
Eddie gritted his teeth as you gingerly scraped at the stinger with the edge of your notebook, taking care not to squeeze out any of the venom. You tightened your grip to keep his hand in place, feeling the soft but steady thrum of his heartbeat between his wrist and his thumb’s tendon. It had a melody of its own. 
Slowly, meticulously, you eased the stinger out from where it was wedged.
“Sorry,” you said softly, noting the way his eyes clamped shut as you drew out the stinger and brushed it onto the desk. 
“S’okay.” He managed a small smile, one you returned without hesitation.
The night was still for a moment before he spoke again, his voice soft but eager. 
“Tell me more about Izzy.”
Apparently, you weren’t the only one with a penchant for rapid subject changes. 
At once, your head was filled with memories of her: the pigtails held in place with thick rubber bands, the popsicle juice-stained pink t-shirt, the giggles that melted away your stress from a succession of ungrateful customers. He said something else, but you were too engrossed in your own thoughts for the words to register. 
“Hmm?”
“The little girl you helped.” Eddie cocked a quizzical brow, suddenly worried that he’d remembered incorrectly. “That was her name, right?”
You nodded. “She was only there that one day. I didn’t see her again.”
Her mother was probably too embarrassed to stay any longer and found another motel. If you could go back in time, you would have reassured her, maybe even offered to watch after Izzy while she worked. You might have informed her of programs where she could find a job that didn’t put her or Izzy in harm’s way. 
Eddie continued talking, for some reason persistent in his quest for answers. “But you said she talked to you while she was drawing. About her favorite stuff?”
Phyllis returned with cloth before you could answer him, and she rested it on the desk with a sigh. “I’m gonna head out,” she said, pointing at Eddie, “but my bat better be in my room before I get back, Yogi Berra.”
He nodded, absently massaging the nape of his neck. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” One burgundy-painted fingertip pointed at Eddie, then at you. “I like this kid.”
How do you even respond to that? An honest, ‘me, too’? An overly sarcastic, ‘he’s alright’? 
You opted for a small, unassuming smile and the reminder to be safe, which was absurd when you really thought about it. Phyllis had been doing this, as she put it, “since my tits were above my belly button,” yet you were telling her about safety. 
Bringing your attention back to the sting, you clutched the sopping wet washcloth. Phyllis apparently hadn’t wrung it out; water dripped down the side of your fingers and splashed onto the floor in an uneven plop-plop-plop. 
With an abundance of care, you swiped the cloth over the sting site. It was already starting to swell, the skin raised and angry. 
Eddie reflexively pulled away, the tension evident from the way his front teeth formed grooves in his lower lip. 
“Fuck, that hurts.” His free fist pounded into the desktop with so much force that, for a split second, you worried that he might leave a dent. 
“I know, but we have to clean it out,” you said. 
He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath; you weren't sure you even wanted to know what he said. “Yeah, yeah.” He winced as the frayed fibers grazed him again. “So…Izzy?”
“There isn’t much to say,” you answer honestly. “I mean, she just told me she loved McDonalds french fries and Muppet Babies. Especially baby Fozzie Bear.”
“Anything else?”
You thought back for a moment. “Her favorite animal was dogs, but only the little ones. She said the big ones scared her because they barked too loud. Oh, and her favorite color was light purple.”
The memory is bittersweet, bathing you in both comfort and a dull ache. It was almost six years ago but the little girl had made herself at home in your mind. You thought about her on a daily basis, wondering if she and her mom were still bouncing from motel to motel, or if they’d found a permanent place to settle. Every ounce of optimism you possessed worked to help you believe that they were safe and that she didn’t remember when safety wasn’t guaranteed.
“I knew it.”
You looked up from applying calamine lotion, dabbing the pink-stained cotton ball over any excess dripping off of his finger. “Knew what?” 
“I knew you’d remember everything she told you.” His thumb relaxed and fluttered down until it rested on yours, the pad of his finger on your knuckle.
You reached for a Band-Aid before realizing that opening it required two hands. With more hesitation that you anticipated, you let go of him. “And what makes you say that?” You wrapped the bandage around his finger, careful not to press too tightly around the sting. “There. Good as new.”
Eddie smiled his appreciation. “I, um, had a similar experience when I was a kid.” He swallowed, picking at the Band-Aid until the adhesive side began to bunch up. When he allowed himself to glance at you, he saw you looking back at him, silently encouraging him to tell his story. 
“My mom got sick when I was in kindergarten. The treatment made her tired and nauseous, like, all the time; when she wasn’t sleeping, she was throwing up.” His eyes clouded over and his voice cracked slightly; he cleared his throat and continued. “I was at school one day, and the social worker asked me if I had anyone at home who washed my clothes for me. And when I told her no, she asked me to bring any clothes I needed cleaned with me the next day. So I did, and after school let out, she took me to the Laundromat.” 
If you told him that he didn’t have to keep talking, he'd stop. He’d wipe away any residual tears and excuse himself, and you’d once again spend your shift alone. And so you didn’t say anything, just stood there as his gears turned in recollection.
“She had this game: she’d hold up a piece of clothing and ask if it goes in the ‘lights’ or ‘darks’ pile, and she would get faster and faster until I was laughing too hard to answer.” Eddie exhaled a short laugh and swiped his tongue over his top teeth. “The whole time, I’m thinking that it’s all fun, that this is a normal thing that every kid did. I didn’t realize until years later that it was because my clothes smelled, y’know?” 
Sheepishness colored Eddie’s face in pink splotches as he shifted from man to boy and then back again. 
“Anyway, your story about Izzy kinda reminded me of that. And she might not remember your name or even what you talked about, but she’ll remember someone being there for her. Someone who didn’t act like she was a bother or a charity case. Just a kid who wanted to play.”
His words left you without any of your own. There was so much to digest; chiefly, your newfound glimpse into Eddie’s past. And though you’d only ever known him as an adult, you were still picturing him as a child. He sat atop a counter where others folded their clothes, his brown eyes–looking even bigger than they did presently, given his small stature–gazing up at the woman in wonderment as he giddily sorted his laundry. 
And then, of course, there was the delicately embedded compliment. The reassurance that you had been a positive force in Izzy’s life, even through one brief encounter. 
It was the only part that you could elaborate on without intruding on his privacy. He’d shared something so personal, and while you were desperate to learn more about him, you didn’t want to barge past the boundaries he had so carefully constructed.  
“Yeah, I…just wanted her to feel safe, I guess.” You’d devised a plan while you drew flowers and Care Bears in case no one showed up to find her. Everything had to be done so that she remained in the dark about the situation’s severity; you’d have Mom or Dad check the room, only calling the authorities if Izzy’s mom was unresponsive—or worse. 
In the end, there was no need for you to worry. Her mother was alert and Izzy herself was none the wiser that anything was wrong. You hadn’t even told your parents about the situation despite their potential involvement. Eddie, of all people, was the only other person who knew. 
He nodded and reached over, giving your hand a subtle, tender squeeze. 
“You did.”
Reassurance drifted through the air and clung to you like the sharp scent of tobacco on his jacket. Receiving compliments wasn’t your strongest suit, so you pivoted topics to avoid stretching the ensuing awkward silence any further. 
“The calamine lotion should help with the itching, but you can take some Benadryl if it’s still bad.” Rummaging through the first aid kit, you searched for the medication but only managed to scrounge up a bottle of expired ibuprofen. “There’s a pharmacy a few blocks down. They’ll have some there.” A little mom and pop shop that sold candy and cheap wine in addition to different over-the-counter medicines, it had been a community staple since before you were born.
The corners of Eddie’s eyes crinkled, lips turning upwards in amusement. “An heiress, a social worker, and a nurse? What can’t you do?”
That was a loaded question, and you were relieved that it was rhetorical so you wouldn’t have to list all of your shortcomings. You settled for flipping him off with an accompanying smile of your own.
“I should probably get that bat before she gets back,” he said, glancing towards the older woman’s room. He lowered his voice and continued. “She kinda scares me.”
“Oh, I definitely would not get on her bad side,” you agreed. “Phyllis’s wrath will make that wasp sting feel like a walk in the park.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” His laugh was music that stirred up a desire to dance, to be carried by the melody like a strong gust of wind, and then he was out the door.
Immediately, you were inclined to find something new to talk about when he walked back in. You’d had two days of companionship and had been spoiled by it; the thought of another night in solitude suddenly seemed lonely.
You couldn’t ask about his parents or the social worker who’d taken him to the Laundromat; that was too personal, too soon. Same with his old band. But music–his favorite songs, musicians, albums–that might be safe enough to explore.
The door opened and brought with it a cool evening breeze. Eddie returned much more confidently than he had the last time, Phyllis’s bat slung over his shoulder. 
“Apparently, I actually managed to knock the nest down,” he reported, sounding as surprised as you felt. 
He stifled a yawn, denim creasing at the elbow when he lifted his hand to cover his mouth. It was then that you noticed the way sleep tugged at his eyelids, dashing any remaining hope of having a conversational partner this evening. Asking him to stay awake for you was just selfish. 
“I’ll see you around, Heiress. Let me know if there’s any more man stuff you need from me.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk twice in quick succession and started towards his room. 
“Night, Eddie.”
Opportunity slipped through your fingers as he walked away, the sound of his footsteps eventually too muted to hear. You shoved your disappointment beneath the surface. Eddie wasn’t your friend; he was a guest who happened to be friendly. Asking him to stick around and chat would be unprofessional. 
If he happened to stop by the desk while you worked, you could make small talk. Otherwise, it would be business as usual. 
Minutes were hours and hours were days. Another trucker needed a room for the night, and you checked him in around four o’clock. 
You thought about the certainty in Eddie’s assurance that Izzy had felt safe with you. He didn’t know her; he barely knew you, and he wasn’t even there when it all happened. Yet his approval illuminated from the inside out and you replay it over and over. 
You did. You did. You did. 
Izzy was safe with you and she knew it. If you swallowed your fears and forged your own path, you could help other kids just like her. But it would come at a steep cost unless your parents could somehow miraculously afford to hire a new employee.
Your stomach turns just imagining the motel’s windows shuttered, a For Sale sign propped up in the door, ready to be snapped up by a major hotel chain for a mediocre sum that would barely pay off the overdue bills. It haunted you.
How long could you do this? How long could you push off your own dreams in favor of your parents’? At what point did you cross that fine line between selflessness and martyrdom?
Exhaustion crushed your body, strong enough to overpower the churning anxiety. Still, your sleep was fitful, and you woke up before your alarm feeling wholly unrested. Achiness radiated through your bones as you dragged yourself out of bed.
You knew what you had to do.
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Dad noticed your earlier departure, so used to you leaving at 1:45 every day like clockwork. His brows pinched with perplexity as he determined whether he’d forgotten about a change in your schedule.
“Just running an errand before class.”
His confusion faded, replaced with a grin. “Thought I was losing my mind.” The way he stood under the lighting accentuated the gray flecks in his hair and mustache and solidified that he was, in fact, aging. His eventual retirement loomed closer, more of a when than an if with each passing day.
“Can’t lose what you never had,” you teased weakly. Dad met your joke with a wink; if he had picked up on the falter in your voice, he was gracious enough to ignore it.
You took a slight deviation from your usual route, walking past the bus stop and turning the corner until you reached the mailbox. It beckoned you, taunted you, sneered at your cowardice. The stamped envelope mocked you tenfold; innocuous on the surface but held the weight of betrayal.
It contained your admissions letter to NYU with the “accept” box marked and a deposit check that nearly drained your savings, ready to go.
The mailbox hinge creaked open so loudly that it seemed to echo. All you had to do was drop the envelope down the chute and pray that you made the right choice.
Regret surged through your veins the moment the envelope left your fingertips. You acted on instinct, shoving your hand back down the box to reclaim your letter, but you knew it was a fruitless effort before you’d even failed. It was already lost in a sea of bills and birthday cards. 
“Shit!” Yanking your arm out before someone accused you of mail theft, you tilted your head back in an attempt to stop the impending tears.
With one stupid decision, you’d heaved a shovel into the dirt and begun digging a grave for the family business.
What the hell were you thinking? 
As though it had a mind of its own, your foot swung out and smacked against the tin drum with all of your might. It took a beat for the pain to hit, the throbbing in your toes matching the reverberating metal.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You didn’t care who saw, who heard. Anger and self-loathing bubbled over like boiling water and scalded you in shame. Everything was so far out of your control, and you couldn’t rein it in. The world kept spinning fast, faster, too fast—
“Kicking it won’t make the mailman show up, y’know. ‘S not like rubbing a genie’s lamp.” 
Eddie stood on the other side of the mailbox. A plastic bag dangled from his hand, the box of drugstore brand antihistamine peeking through its translucence. His playfulness morphed into concern when he noted your dewy lashes. “Heiress? You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” You swiped at your cheeks and sniffed back the mucus that collected in your nostrils. You probably should have been embarrassed that he’d caught you in such a state of distress; maybe you would be once the dust settled. 
He wrinkled his nose dubiously. You couldn’t blame him; why would he be convinced when you were assaulting mailboxes and swearing at the air?
“Seriously. Just having a bad day.” And it was going to get even worse if you missed your bus—again. “Thanks for asking, though.” You managed a grateful smile to prove your sincerity.
Grabbing your backpack from its spot on the ground, you zipped it back up and hoisted it over your shoulder before starting back towards the stop. 
“Hey, wait a sec.” Eddie called out to you, shuffling over until he was by your side. “You, uh, your makeup…” He trailed off bashfully, raising his thumb but stopping before it touched your skin. “May I?”
You nodded, breath hitching as the pad of his finger grazed just below your eye. He gently rubbed, tongue poking between his lips while he focused on removing the smudge without hurting you. 
He was close, almost too close for comfort. There was a small cut on his chin where he must have nicked himself shaving, and you forced yourself to stare at that instead of his wide eyes. 
“There…we…go.” He held up a mascara-stained thumb as evidence. Without thinking, you pressed your own thumb to it. The knuckles of your remaining four fingers slotted between his until you pulled away. 
Eddie laughed, apparently amused by the odd gesture. “I’ll take that as a thank you.” He wiped the residue on his shirt, not caring if it left a mark. “Don’t miss the bus; wouldn’t want you to be late for your nerd stuff again.”
“Mhm.”
You harnessed all of your strength to unglue your feet from the sidewalk. Your body operated on autopilot to its destination while your mind only thought of the heat that leapt from his thumb to yours, or maybe yours to his. 
It was cyclical, you surmised as the bus approached, with no clear beginning or end.
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