#my dad refuses to accept direction unless it is right and left at street names
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Stars Aligned Chapter 2
Here’s the thing. Danny knew this was a dumb decision. At least as dumb as stepping into the ghost portal (but at least he’d gotten some nifty powers out of that, hey?). Whatever reason his bio-dad had for chucking him out the door within days of his birth couldn’t be good. Putting himself within reach of the man… Yeah. Not his brightest thought.
(Not to mention the wizards. And witches. That was so weird, how they had two different names for essentially the same thing. Then again… actor, actress… Why were people so weird?)
On the other hand, twin brother. Twin brother who had to live with aforementioned baby-abandoning bio-dad. Twin brother who wasn’t allowed to visit America. Or, Danny suspected, a family of squibs.
Yeah.
Yeah.
So, here he was. Getting everything in order for a wizard passport and wizard international travel, because bio-family refused to even look at an airport.
Danny had a suspicion that, based on how they spelled the word and a few other comments in that particular letter, that they weren’t entirely clear on what an airport was.
Fun.
On the other hand, in comparison to the actual, normal, legal passport he’d gotten, just in case bio-family left him somewhere, wizard passports were much, much easier to get. The wait times were practically nonexistent. He could, in theory, get the passport on the same day he traveled. All that was needed was proof he was a wizard and his adoption papers.
Of course, ‘proof he was a wizard’ actually meant ‘wand.’ Wands being something they used as personal ID, despite the fact that they were a) sticks, and b) didn’t actually carry any personally identifiable information. Sure, Jack said that they were somehow connected to their owners, but unless there were, like, giant books of details about everyone’s wands at every place that would, conceivably, need ID, and had people trained to identify all those tiny little characteristics… Danny just couldn’t see how it would work.
Danny’s current theory was that all wizards were just insane, which meant that his twin would most likely fit right in with the rest of Danny’s family, right as soon as Danny figured out how to legally kidnap him.
(No, Danny didn’t have a ghostly Obsession, and it definitely wasn’t family related. He was only half-ghost, after all. Why do you ask?)
Anyway. Wizard passport. Wizard ID. Wizard sticks.
Wands.
Wands meant a nerve-wracking trip to the nearest wizarding town with Jack. Evidently, he’d lived there a couple of years after his parents sent him away from Britain when he was around fourteen because of ‘the war.’
Abruptly, many of Jack’s stories about his childhood made more sense.
(It had always been something of a joke between Jazz and Danny to try and figure out what ‘the war’ was supposed to be, and if Jack’s parents had just… Conned him into thinking he’d eaten horse meat. For some reason. Even if the Fentons hadn’t seemed like that kind of people, no matter how eccentric.)
(Also, evidently Jazz and Danny had never met Jack’s biological parents, who were not named Fenton, although his adopted mother was also a witch.)
(Why was everything so complicated?)
The “wizarding community” was a small town accessible only by a train line invisible to ‘no-majs.’ And also flying brooms. Which wizards used. Danny had seen the train before, not realizing that he wasn’t supposed to. Several times. Usually while flying to Wisconsin to deal with whatever Vlad had done that week.
If Danny was a wizard, was Vlad? Was being half-ghost somehow tied up in being magical? What did that mean for Dani?
(Hey, maybe this whole affair could be used to bring Dani into the family safely. Who was to say that he didn’t have a secret twin sister?)
Danny could admit that the town itself, which had almost a Ghost Zone vibe with how all the architecture seemed to be from fifty plus to a hundred years ago and also the physics breaking magic, was sort of cool. It was… cute, he guessed. He didn’t really like how everyone was staring at Jack, their clothes were just as weird, but it wasn’t a new thing. People always stared at Jack.
That’s what happened when you wore hazard-orange jumpsuits twenty-four seven.
The shops all had names out of a fantasy novel, and at one point they got turned around and wound up on a residential street where they had to ask for directions, but eventually they made it to ‘Willoughby’s Wand Emporium.’
The interior of Willoughby’s Wand Emporium reminded Danny strongly of a shoe store. The shelves were all lined with boxes of approximately that size, and the employees all carried measuring tape. It also smelled like a shoe store: musty and dry, with a hint of polish. Or maybe it was wood varnish? Or some kind of paint.
A young woman bounced up. “Hi, how can we help you today? Replacement wand?”
“First time, actually,” said Jack.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman. “You’re just so tall for your age.”
“I’m fourteen,” said Danny.
The woman began to turn red.
“He was missed,” said Jack. “It happens.” He smiled, but it looked far more strained than usual.
“Oh,” said the woman. “Ahem. Well, if you’ll come right this way, I can start taking measurements, and start trying out wands. The wand chooses the wizard, they say!”
“Okay,” said Danny, shrugging. That was… interesting. Were the wands sentient? Did that somehow make them acceptable IDs?
Seemed really weird to keep sentient things stored in boxes.
… Said the kid who stored sentient beings in a soup thermos.
A really high-tech soup thermos.
Didn’t make it better.
Except he didn’t keep them in the thermos indefinitely. Except for Dan.
Danny didn’t know if the wizards kept the wands in boxes indefinitely, either. Maybe he should stop assuming things. That had gotten him in trouble with ghosts more than once.
The woman took her measuring tape from where it hung around her shoulders, held it out in front of herself, and promptly dropped it. It did not fall.
As basic as levitation was for ghosts, it was really weird to see a human do it. (Especially when it always took so much concentration for him to levitate things other than himself—Hence why he never really used the ability in battle.)
The measuring tape flitted around Danny’s head, shoulders, arms, and body, taking measurements. He had to sit on his reflexes hard to prevent himself from trying to catch it or knock it out of the air.
He was so nervous. Was it normal to be nervous?
The measuring tape snaked back through the air to the woman, who smiled. “Alright,” she said, “we can start with that. Uh, to explain the process, we usually start out with wands in the appropriate size range and try and zero in on the ones that respond best to you from there.” She flicked her own wand, and several thin boxes slid themselves off the shelves. “We use a wide variety of wand woods from a variety of wandmakers. Just about any tree that grows in North America is probably represented here.” She paused. “Except for palm trees.”
“That makes sense,” said Danny. Palm trees were quite different from other trees.
“Alright. Let’s start with pine. The core of this one is dragon heartstring—Harvested humanely, of course!”
“Core?” said Danny, latching on to the familiar word even as he regarded the wand itself dubiously.
“Yes. As with our woods, we also stock a wide range of wand cores. Each wand has a core made of a small part of a magical creature. Dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, and phoenix feather are the standard ones… But that standardization is rather British. We have a few others available. Thunderbird tail feather—Only taken during molt. Wampus cat hair. Dittany. Rougarou hair. Jackalope antler… Those are the more common ones, though we do have others. Even some kneazle whisker, although most people don’t want those.”
“Why not?”
“Ah, they tend not to be very strong. But sheer power isn’t everything. Some prefer control, need lower power output… or are worried about accidents while they’re learning. We do see some adult learners every now and then.”
That actually sounded sort of appealing to Danny, but he supposed he’d better go about this normally. At least at first.
He picked up the pine wand and immediately dropped it.
“Ow,” he said.
“Ow?” repeated the woman. “Oh,” she said, catching sight of the burn on his hand. “That’s… not supposed to happen.”
“Y’know,” said Danny, conversationally, “I’ve only held, like, two magical things in my life, and both of them have damaged my hands. Is this, like, a common thing, or am I just ridiculously unlucky.”
“Second one, I think,” said the woman. “Cynthia’s good at minor healing charms. I’m going to go get her. Okay? Okay.”
Shortly thereafter, phoenix feather wands were also eliminated as a possibility, not because they burned Danny, but because they seemed intent on burning everything else around him. Pine wands were also a definite no-go (“Don’t worry about the lifespan thing,” said the woman, “that’s a myth.”). As was everything but elder, apple, pear, hornbeam, thorn, and yew (this list got another mention of myths from the shop assistant).
At this point, the shop owner, Mrs. Willoughby, was drawn out from the back room to observe the mess Danny was making.
“My,” she said, “I haven’t seen anyone have this much trouble in a while. Heather, why don’t you go get some of the specialty cores.”
“I thought the unicorn was working well,” protested the woman who’d been helping Danny so far. She winced as Danny picked up a new wand and exploded a light. “Comparatively.”
“Yes, we could probably eventually find a unicorn hair wand that would work for him, but all things considered… I feel like we should explore other avenues.” She sniffed. “Nothing associated with fire. Perhaps kelpie mane?”
“I’ll check,” said Heather.
.
Kelpie mane, it turned out, did the same sort of thing as phoenix tail feather when it came to Danny. Only with a lot more water involved.
“I didn’t think that would work, anyway,” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“Then why,” said Danny, wringing water out of his shirt, “did you have me try it?”
“Oh, cases like you greatly improve our understanding of wandlore,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “You’re not likely to have noticed this yet, but the population of wizards and witches is so small compared to the no-maj population that everyone who gets very far in a profession has to be a bit of an innovator. I’m recording this for future reference, and I’ll be looking forward to seeing what you do in life. If anything. It would be very helpful to me if you became famous.”
“Hard pass on that,” said Danny.
“Or at least come back at some point.”
“I’ll consider it,” said Danny. “But, like, we were really hoping to do other things today, so maybe…” He made a circular motion with his hand. “Or at least, ugh, I don’t know. I feel like everything you give me is trying to kill me.”
It was a very familiar feeling, and a very unwelcome one, nonetheless.
“We really aren’t,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “But perhaps… from now on, we’ll limit to the woods to the Rosaceaes. The others tend to be called unlucky. Well, except for the hornbeam. Is there anything you’re singularly passionate about?”
Singularly passionate? “Not really,” said Danny, who did not think about ghosts or helping people or space. He shifted, uncomfortable, and squelched.
Screw it. He was supposedly a wizard, now, right?
He phased the water off himself.
“Oh my god!” shouted Heather. “Did you do that on purpose?”
“Uh,” said Danny. “No?”
“Calm down, Heather. Don’t act like you’ve never seen accidental magic before.”
“Not with a teenager doing it!”
They were now attracting a crowd. Yay.
“He’s not trained, yet,” said Mrs. Willoughby, unconcerned. “Don’t be rude.”
“Yeah, can we get back on track, here?”
After a few more tries, Mrs. Willoughby had determined that the wood that reacted the least badly to Danny was hawthorn. Then she sent Heather into the storage room to fetch more.
“I don’t know why we even have these,” said Heather, under her breath, carrying several boxes marked with stamps that read ‘THESTRAL.’
“Because some people have trauma, Heather.”
“He’s a teenager. I seriously doubt he has deep personal experiences with death.”
“Wow, way to assume, Heather,” said another shop assistant, who was passing by with a far-too-curious customer.
“Here,” said Mrs. Willoughby, handing Danny a box. “Try this one. It’s hawthorn.”
With some suspicion, Danny slid the cover off the box and gingerly picked up the wand inside.
It didn’t do anything like what the other wands had. Instead, the slender length of wood gave him a faint echo of the feeling he got when he was on an emotional high and engaging in either extreme mischief or obsession-adjacent activities (because he did not have a real, ghostly, capital-O Obsession).
Danny declined to hold it with all five fingers, lest he be overcome with mania.
Yes, he was paranoid. But when touching things can go as badly for you as they did for Danny, paranoia was justified.
“Oh, it looks like you’ve found your match,” said Mrs. Willoughby, clapping.
With the ease of practice, Danny did not let any trace of horror or unease show on his face. He ignored the surge of glee from the wand, and carefully placed it back in the box.
Yeah. He needed a wand for passport purposes, but there was no way he was going to use that. He’d just fake magic with ghost powers. It had been working out okay so far.
What was the worst that could happen?
A rather relieved Jack paid for the wand, and they made their way, slowly, to the government building.
“So,” said Jack. “You want to save getting those beginner magic manuals for another day?”
“Absolutely,” said Danny. He wondered if his twin had gone through anything even remotely like this and if it was really worth all this trouble to meet a person he would have basically nothing in common with other than blood.
Blood that likely meant less than usual, considering that his was diluted with ectoplasm. A fact he would have to hide. With no allies or back up. In England.
(Again, this whole endeavor was not his greatest idea.)
.
Draco supervised the house-elves as they cleaned out the room next to his own, feeling rather blank. He had campaigned vigorously for his twin to come, but now that he was…
The boy, for all that he was as much a Malfoy as Draco, was an American for all intents and purposes. What did Americans even like? What did they call their bastardized version of Quidditch? Would Deneb even know about wizard games? According to the woman from the agency, he’d been raised as a muggle by those squibs he’d been placed with.
Slowly but surely, Draco’s heart sank. He had no idea what his twin would be like. Deneb, despite being his brother, would essentially be a stranger.
He was beginning to understand why his mother was so angry at his father.
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Hi! in this prompt, could we know about Mickey's ex boyfriend or something? I think his name was Matt?
thank you for participating + pre NTW - Mickey's POV 👀
Anon: tell us about Matt
Yevgeny: his name was Mark
Mickey, pinching the bridge of his nose: Martin, and no. I’m not gonna tell you about Martin.
Narrator: little did Mickey know that he had zero say on the matter, let’s goooo.
April 13, 2013.
Saturday.
Mickey is just off the L when his phone rings. For a moment, he considers ignoring the buzzing in his pocket as he lights up a cigarette and bounds down the metal steps. The list of people likely to call him is very limited, and most of that list is very welcome to fuck off to voicemail on a Saturday evening. Work can fuck off, telemarketers can doubly fuck off. On this particular Saturday, even his extended family can fuck off. It might be Martin, wondering where he is, but he can quite frankly also fuck off, seeing as Mickey is no more than five minutes away from their agreed rendezvous.
That only leaves one, and the thought alone is enough for Mickey to step out of the flow of people rushing to and from the platform, and check the damned call. Seeing the ID, he quickly picks up, pressing the phone to his ear.
”What the fuck?” he asks, unsure if he should be annoyed or alarmed and figuring this would best cover a bit of both.
”Hey dad,” his son says, unexpectedly.
”Yev?” Mickey says, inching towards annoyed. At least his son is unharmed enough to dial a phone, so it can’t be too bad. ”What’s wrong? Where’s Sonya?”
”She’s right here,” Yevgeny says, he sounds fine, normal, good, ”we can’t find the cake poking thing.”
Staring at the empty space in front of him, Mickey feels the rest of his mood swan dive head-first into annoyed. ”The what?”
”The thing we use to poke cakes, to check if they’re done? We can’t find it and we need it, the cake is almost done.”
Taking the forgotten cigarette from his lips, Mickey angles the burning end away from his face as he rubs at the deep line between his eyebrows.
”Kid,” he says, trying to sound calm, ”give the phone to Sonya.”
There are some muffled noises over the line, and then Mickey can hear his son’s distant voice. ”He wants to talk to you.”
”Hey Mickey,” Sonya comes on, breezy as anything. ”Is it supposed to be in the cutlery drawer? Been rifling through that thing for a good minute already.”
”Are you fucking kidding me?”
”What? It’s not such a weird guess, is it? I’d say it’s cutlery adjacent at least.”
”I’ve been outta the fucking house for less than forty minutes!” Mickey says, calmly. He is absolutely not screeching loud enough to have people on the street give him concerned looks. ”And you call me about some fucking–, I don’t have anything like that! Who has a thing specifically for poking cakes?!”
”Oh please,” Sonya scoffs. ”Plenty people do, you being one of them!”
He wants to point out that this is categorically not what he meant when he said ’call me if there’s an emergency’, but he’s got a feeling that this is only going to get him into an argument about the definition of ’emergency’ that he’s not going to win, and besides, he’s got bigger fish to fry right now.
”I absolutely do fucking not!” he splutters, glaring at a couple throwing him side-eye as they rush past him. ”Are you outta your mind?”
”I know you have one, because I gave it to you,” Sonya says, clanking sounds in the background from where she’s still presumably rifling through Mickey’s shit. ”Remember? When you moved in? I got it in Sweden when I was visiting for my cousin’s wedding. It was hand crafted, Mickey, you better not have thrown it out!”
”That thing?” Mickey balks, smoothly electing to not point out that they both know Sonya came home from her trip with like ten of those in her luggage and then spent the next two years giving them to all her friends and family whenever she’d forgot about getting gifts for an occasion. ”I stuck it in Merida.”
The silence on the other end of the line is palpable, and it takes a second for Mickey to hear what he just said.
”Who is Merida, and do I want to know why you stuck my hand-carved Swedish cake poker in her?”
Mickey sighs, and decides that he doesn’t have to answer that. He can try, at least. ”Tell Yev it’s in Merida.”
”I most certainly will not tell your sweet summer child that you’ve stuck the cake poker in–,” her increasingly high pitched voice abruptly falls to a hiss, ”–Merida, who is Merida?”
Luckily, Mickey can hear his son in the background, saving him from having to explain. ”It’s this thing?”
There’s another silence, Mickey takes the opportunity to smoke and accept the inevitable.
”Two questions,” Sonya says, her usual good humor back in her voice. ”One, you stuck my hand-carved Swedish souvenir in a potted plant? And two, you named the plant Merida?”
”It’s cartoon character–,” Mickey starts, before realizing what he’s saying and cutting himself off, ”I didn’t name it, obviously.”
”But you still call it by its name.”
”Whatever,” Mickey blows out a puff of smoke and can’t help smiling. Sometimes he just has to stop and take stock of how fucking ridiculous his life has turned out. And how much he fucking likes it, despite himself. ”Congratulations, you found it. Any other emergency you needed me for, or can I get back to my–”
He swallows, catching himself mid-sentence, suddenly unsure of how he intended to end it.
”–thing.”
”You’re there already?” Sonya asks, sounding genuinely remorseful now. ”Sorry, you left so late I thought for sure you’d missed the train and would still be en route, or I wouldn’t have told Yev to call. How’s the date going?”
Mickey swallows again, throat dry. He starts walking down the street in the direction of the bar.
”It’s fine, still on the way,” he says, ”and it’s not a date.”
”Like heck it isn’t,” Sonya tuts, ”you’re out on a Yev weekend for the first time since I’ve known you, and I saw that shirt you’re wearing.”
He runs a hand self-consciously along his belt, his button-down still tucked in and in place. He refuses to worry about it.
”You looked good, Mickey, I meant to tell you,” Sonya continues, and she doesn’t even sound like she’s teasing anymore which Mickey knows even less how to handle. ”And you’re undeniably on a date.”
”Shut up,” Mickey mutters and smiles to himself when Sonya laughs. Feeling a little more himself, he chucks his cigarette to the curb and stops to look across the road at his destination. ”Maybe.”
He hadn’t really considered the possibility, before Martin asked him. But the sex was always good, they got along really well, and when Martin looked up at him from his bed as Mickey was pulling on his jeans, his hair rumpled and lips still shiny, and asked if he wanted to go to some kind of hipster showcase gig together, Mickey had barely even hesitated.
”About time, too,” Sonya says. ”Was starting to think the guy wasn’t all there, taking his sweet time. Maybe he was waiting for you to ask.”
”Ey,” Mickey shakes his head, ”it’s only been a couple of months.”
”Try six! That’s half of a whole year.”
”Try minding your own fucking business,” Mickey says and frowns. Maybe it has been that long since the first time they hooked up, but it’s not like they’ve been fucking on the regular the whole time since then.
”Just happy for you, Mickey,” Sonya says, like it’s an easy thing for her to say. ”You like him, right?”
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t outright deny it either, which probably tells Sonya everything she needs to know.
”Gotta go,” he says instead, ”and don’t call me again unless it’s an actual fucking emergency. See you tomorrow.”
Not waiting to see if she’s got something to say to that, he hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket. Staring at the unassuming building across the street, he allows himself a moment to take it all in. He’s just casing the joint before he enters, it’s normal fucking behavior. He isn’t stalling.
It doesn’t look too busy from the outside, there’s no line, and no bouncer or guard by the propped open double doors. The walls of the building are littered with layers of posters, on both sides of the doors and across the covered windows. Not much can be seen through the doors from his vantage point, but he assumes that it’s a front room leading to whatever’s going on inside the building.
There’s a guy standing off to the side of the doors, smoking. He’s got a lanyard shoved down his back pocket, ID badge dangling in clear sight. Most likely someone working at the bar, out on a break. His shoulders are hunched and he’s got a phone clutched to his ear, head bent and lips pressed together in a thin line. He nods at whatever is being said to him over the phone. Mickey looks up at the worn sign above the door.
”Fuck it,” Mickey mutters and, pushing aside the last of his niggling doubt, makes his way across the street and through the doors. It’s dark enough inside that his eyes need a second to adjust, before he quickly orients himself and heads toward the noise and lights leaking out from behind a set of swing doors beyond the coat check.
”Excuse me!” someone pipes up behind him, and he turns back to raise his eyebrows at the girl standing behind a counter by the entrance. ”We’ve got a showcase tonight, you need to buy a ticket.”
She makes an apologetic face as Mickey gets closer and pulls out his wallet.
”25,” she says when he gives her a questioning look.
”Christ,” he mutters, but forks over the money. ”This better be good.”
”We’ve got a really exciting lineup tonight, all local acts,” she says, obviously relieved now that he’s payed and she can tuck away his hard earned cash in her little lock box. ”I’m hoping I can take a break soon so I can sneak a peak of the headliner.”
She winks at him as she hands over a ticket, and he has zero fucking clue what he’s supposed to do with any of that.
”Okay?” he says and accepts the ticket. ”What’s this for? I’m already here.”
”In case you want to go in and out,” she says, and then tacks on when she seems to remember something she’s supposed to say; ”there’s no smoking in the venue.”
Mickey shrugs and pockets the ticket, biting back the urge to tell her that there’s no fucking smoking anywhere these days, thank you very much. The girl is still smiling at him when he turns his back on her and heads for the bar.
”Have fun!”
Finally inside, the place seems to be a collection of smaller rooms with some walls knocked down to make a larger, oddly shaped space. The bar is crowded, three bartenders moving around each other and pouring drinks in the narrow space behind it, and all the tables tucked away in the dark half-room next to it seem occupied. In the main room, Mickey finds the small, raised stage with a bigger crowd gathered in front of it. There’s a guy on stage, talking about something and looking like he’s about to cry while getting thoroughly ignored by a majority of his audience.
Mickey included, when he spots Martin a bit to the left of the stage. He’s talking to a couple of people he must have met in the crowd, smiling in that carefree way of his, eyes squeezed together and head tossed back when he laughs. He seems to do that a lot, laugh and talk and make friends wherever he goes. Open about himself in casual throw-away lines as he lets Mickey into his apartment, takes his clothes off, catching his breath, seeing Mickey off again. It’s nice seeing him out here, in the real world.
Maybe this could work. Mickey really should have tried harder to be on time, leaving your date to make new friends while he waits for you to show up seems like a bad move, now that he thinks about it.
Shit. Here goes nothing.
”Hey!” Martin exclaims, face lighting up with a wide smile when Mickey walks into his line of sight. He doesn’t sound upset, really doesn’t look it either when he pulls Mickey in for a quick kiss. It’s over before Mickey’s had the chance to do much else than blink in surprise.
”I’m late,” he acknowledges and hopes Martin will take the attempt at an apology for what it is.
”It’s fine,” Martin gins at him, tilting his head in the direction of the stage, ”you haven’t missed anything good.”
”– have you ever noticed that?” the guy on stage mutters into the microphone, ”I mean–, uh, I’ve noticed, that–, sometimes–”
Tuning the guy out again, Mickey looks past his date at the two people still standing on his other side, regarding them curiously.
”We got a problem?” he asks them, raising his eyebrows further when the woman just smiles at him.
”Oh,” Martin says, angling himself so the four of them make a little semi-circle in the crowd. ”My friends, Nora, Ethan, this is Mickey.”
Mickey stares at the side of Martin’s face for a moment, before he notices Ethan’s outstretched hand. He feels confused enough to grab it in a quick handshake. The woman, Nora, just keeps smiling.
”Nice to meet you, Mickey,” she says, clearly hiding something. People generally aren’t this smiley without an agenda, in Mickey’s experience.
”Sure,” Mickey says, glancing at Martin for some clue as to what he’s supposed to do now.
”You wanna go get yourself a drink?” Martin asks, pointing in the direction of the bar. ”This comedy train wreck should be over soon, hopefully.”
”Sure,” Mickey says again, wrong-footed by the whole odd situation and frustrated with himself for not being able to shake the feeling that he’s made a huge mistake.
”Go with him!” Nora says, making Martin take a half-step closer to Mickey by shoving lightly at his shoulder. ”We’ll save the spot.”
She gives Martin a pointed look and some kind of silent communication seems to happen between them, ending with her looking victorious and Martin dropping his head back with an exaggerated sigh. Then he turns to Mickey and playfully gestures for him to lead the way.
”Sorry about her,” he says once they’ve reached the bar, leaning in closer to speak directly into Mickey’s ear. The warmth of his breath makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. ”I keep telling her to back off, but she’s got it in her head that we’re doing something we’re not.”
Mickey swallows and turns his head to look at Martin when he leans back.
”And what are we doing?” he asks, and he doesn’t realize how it sounds until he sees Martin’s gobsmacked expression.
He lets out a startled laugh. ”Are we really gonna talk about this now? Here?”
And technically, Mickey agrees with him. He really doesn’t want to have the ’what are we’ conversation, and he definitely doesn’t want to have it now, here. But he’s already said it, and now he needs to know.
”Maybe,” he says and frowns when Martin just stares at him for a moment.
”I don’t know?” Martin eventually says. ”We have fun, right? I didn’t think you wanted it to be more than that?”
Mickey can barely hear his own thoughts over the noise from the bar, but he can practically feel his heartbeat in his throat. ”Do you?”
Martin makes a pained face, like it’s an involuntary reaction to the mere idea, before he shrugs helplessly and gives Mickey an uncertain smile.
”We don’t really have anything in common, Mickey,” he says. ”I don’t know, I just don’t see it going anywhere.”
”Thank you for participating,” the guy on stage says, his voice louder and verging on hysterical. It gives Mickey a reason to look away from Martin’s face for a second, hating the sympathetic twist to his lips. He feels like a fool.
”You suck!” someone yells in the audience.
”Yeah? Right back at you buddy!”
”Get off the stage!”
”Sure,” Mickey says, and nods. ”No, sure. You’re right.”
”Sorry?” Martin says and grins when Mickey rolls his eyes. ”And we can still have fun, right? Hey, I’ll buy you a drink! What do you want?”
”Anything, a beer,” Mickey tries to focus on Martin, on the list of prices pinned to the wall behind the bar, but there is suddenly too much noise, too many people, too much… stuff. ”I just gotta–”
He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, so he stops. He doesn’t know what he wants, but getting out of this room would be a good start.
Martin looks confused, and then tuts reproachfully when Mickey pulls out his pack of smokes and gestures in the direction of the doors. He hates it when Mickey smokes, always makes him brush his teeth before they do anything. Guess that’s another thing they don’t have in common. Mickey hadn’t given it much thought.
He leaves Martin by the bar to fend for the bartender’s attention on his own and goes back outside, ignoring the surprised look on the girl by the door when he strides past her. Once outside, he’d hoped the fresh air and relative silence would knock him back on track, but it doesn’t. Everything is exactly the same, only now he can add ’running away like a pussy’ to the list of tonight’s embarrassments. He hates this, this isn’t him.
He should go back inside, show Martin and his friends that he doesn’t give a shit. Have a couple of beers, get through the night, make that asshole suck his dick until he can’t feel anything but a warm mouth and his own pleasure. But he’s not repaying any favors, not tonight, let that shithead take care of himself, since he can’t see it going anywhere. Fuck that. It’s fine.
”I know–, no, I know…”
Wrapped up in his own bullshit, Mickey hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone. The same man from before is still on the phone, and he looks if possible even more miserable than he did when Mickey first arrived.
”That isn’t–, no, I know you didn’t… listen–”
Mickey ignores him, taking out a cigarette putting it to his lips. Might as well, he’s already out here. He lights it up. He, lights it up… come the fuck on, he lights it up. His lighter is out. Fucking great.
”Ey,” he says and turns to the guy on the phone, ”you got a light?”
The guy stares at him, and Mickey absently thinks he looks even worse up close. Like, disturbingly hot and built enough to properly toss a guy around if he wanted, but absolutely worn down by whatever it is he’s doing with whoever’s on the phone with him. Whatever, not Mickey’s problem. He shakes his empty lighter when the guy doesn’t immediately react.
”Oh,” the guy blinks, his eyes are red. He digs out a lighter from somewhere and hands it over. ”Here.”
”Thanks,” Mickey steps close enough so he can reach out and take it, and consequently hear the distant sound of a man’s voice on the other end of the line. He can’t make out any words, but the tone is unmistakable. The guy frowns and turns away slightly.
”Jesus, Jace, what the fuck?” he says, voice low and sharp. ”Are you serious right now? I’m not–, you know what?”
Mickey lights up and takes a couple of steps away to give the guy some privacy, but might still watch him out of the corner of his eye and hear pretty much everything he says. Call him a nosy bitch, but he really needs the distraction right now.
”I can’t do this right now,” the guy sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. ”We’re on in like ten minutes and I can’t–, I can’t do this with you right now. I asked you for time.”
He listens, and whatever it is that’s being said to him seems to hit a nerve. The general air around him of annoyed resolve slowly shifts into something more resigned.
”Yeah, I know… I’m sorry,” he says, and Mickey doesn’t know him or his situation, but he knows this can’t be right. ”Tomorrow, we’ll talk. I promise. Yeah, thanks… I will. Love you, too.”
Mickey shouldn’t be listening to this, he should finish his cigarette and go back inside. Find Martin and enjoy the night, have some fucking fun. Maybe he should, but he doesn’t want to.
He wants to go home, put on some fucking comfortable clothes and watch a movie with his kid.
”Heads up,” he says and waits until the phone guy looks up before he lobs the lighter back at him. He fumbles, but catches it. ”Fuck him, you deserve better.”
The guy stares at him, and rightly so. Mickey doesn’t know why he said that, he doesn’t know anything about it. But the guy looks… he looks a bit like Mickey’s feeling, deep down and buried many times over.
He looks lost.
”You deserve better,” Mickey repeats, because he already said it and he’s nothing if not all in. The guy opens his mouth on a shaky exhale, but he doesn’t say anything. Probably thinking of ways to get away from the freak accosting him on the street with unsolicited affirmation bullshit. Which, fair enough. Guess that’s Mickey’s cue to fuck off. If the guy would just stop staring at him like that.
A hand-holding couple suddenly walks right through their intense moment, heading for the doors. Mickey comes back to himself and, thinking quick, he takes out his ticket and waves it at the couple to get their attention.
”No thanks,” the man said, probably thinking he’s trying to sell it.
”Just fucking take it,” Mickey grumbles, shoving the ticket at them.
”Uh, thanks?”
Mickey waves a dismissive hand at them, already on his way.
”Thank you!” someone shouts after him.
He can’t wait to get home. Kick off his shoes, wash out the gel in his hair. Untuck his fucking shirt. Investigate whatever that cake poking business was about, hopefully cake. Watch his kid watch a movie, see his little face light up and mouth along with the words. Absolutely ignore Sonya’s inevitable attempts to get him to ’talk about it’.
His life is fucking fine the way it is, he doesn’t know why he got it in his head to try and make it something it isn’t.
#hey friends#I've had some feelings this week#and will try to get as many of these prompts out#as a double thank you#to you and the show#it's not much#but I hope it's something#also i got a bit carried away with this one#loved the prompt#thank you!#Anonymous
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Want You Back - Ulysses Klaue
“Ugh, I can’t keep doing this with you, it’s the same old thing every single time and I am fucking tired of it!” Selena Hawkins screeched at her fiancée Ulysses Klaue. Once again the 22-year-old caught her fiancée cheating on her, finding the evidence when a message popped up on his phone while he was in the shower. Selena didn’t mean to go through his stuff but she was curious; Ulysses was coming home later than usual, refusing dinner when she worked her ass off in the kitchen to fix his favorite meal, his hushed conversations over the phone late at night, and the kicker, a pregnancy test that definitely was NOT hers. “Baby, angel, princess, I promise I have no idea who that woman is,” Ulysses pleaded, lying right to her face, even with the pregnancy test in her hand. “Then why the hell was there a fucking pregnancy test in our trash can?! Don't fucking lie to me!”
But Ulysses ignored her and asked, “are you sure it’s not yours? We’ve going at it for weeks.” Selena wanted to smack the piss out of him but instead threw the stick at him and headed toward their shared bedroom and pulled out a suitcase from the closet. “What are doing? You’re not leaving are you? We’re engaged, did you forget?” Selena ignored Ulysses, stuffing clothes into her suitcase and zipped it up. She found an old school backpack and stuffed more clothes in it, her toothbrush, skincare products and put it in the doorway with the suitcase and finally took off the Tiffany Soleste engagement ring and sat it on the bedside table.
“Not anymore we’re not. Consider yourself single.” Selena was surprised herself as the words left her mouth; whenever she caught him cheating, she never thought she could go through with leaving Ulysses, she loved him too much for that. No woman in her family ever left their cheating partner, not her aunts, cousins, grandmother, even her mom, and she knew her mother would disapprove. Mrs. Hawkins would encourage Selena to work it out, give him time to grow. Selena did all of that, twice now, and still has yet to see any kind of growth or maturity with Ulysses and she didn’t know how much more she could take.
Selena considered Ulysses the love of her life, she wanted to marry him, have his kids, and he promised her all of that. She thought he was the one, that much she thought when Selena was barely nineteen; Ulysses said he would give her anything she could ever want or need if she held him down, and she accepted. “Baby, you can’t mean that.” Selena booked a flight back to her hometown, New Orleans and reserved a room at a hotel in the French Quarter. “I’m serious Ulysses, I’m tired of doing this with you. You keep saying you’re gonna change and then go right back to cheating again.”
At this point Ulysses was on his knees in front of her as she tried to leave the room and he wrapped his arm around her legs. “Get off me! The fact that you have the fucking nerve to cheat and you wanna cry? Bullshit!” Selena kicked him off her and dragged her bags to the living room of the Paris penthouse they once shared; she didn’t care if it was late, she couldn’t spend one more second with him so she rolled her stuff to the elevator. “We’re done, Ulysses.”
The elevator door shut and Selena was out of his life forever
6 months later
“YAASSS BITCH, FUCK IT UP,” yelled one of Selena’s best friends Andrea. They were in a night club in Sicily Italy and Selena was getting her life to the YG song Big Bank with her other two friends Kennedy and Sasha; they were cutting up on the dancefloor as Drea filmed them for Snapchat and Instagram, hyping them up as they twirled their hips to the beat of the song. Six months ago, Selena broke up with Ulysses, and like she suspected her mother and every other female in her family went off on her, calling her heartless for not giving him a chance to prove himself. Her aunts and cousins considered her lucky to even have a man like Ulysses, he had money, lots of it and he wanted to spend it on all her. What more could she possibly want?
But the thing is, Selena was a rich bitch before Ulysses and she’ll be one after him, she didn’t need him for money, she could buy as many Chanel bags and Louboutin heels she wanted and it still wouldn’t break the bank. The song ended and the DJ played a Post Malone song so she sat down where a waiter brought drinks to their booth. Kennedy and Sasha slid in on the other side. Selena sipped her lemonade sangria as she noticed a cute Italian guy wink at her and whisper to his friend. “So girl, six months free of Ulysses. How’s it feel?” Drea asked.
“It’s actually... nice. I didn’t think I would like it as much,” Selena admitted. When she told her friends that she left him, they were super supportive and ready to throw hands with Ulysses and the bitch he cheated with but she stopped them; Selena didn’t want anything more to do with him and she was pretty sure Ulysses’ men would shut that down quick. In the weeks after the breakup, she moved back into her dad’s Garden District home, holed up in her room and cried until she got sick, and that’s when Andrea, Kennedy and Sasha stepped in and told her to pack because they were going on vacation and it worked wonders. They partied it all over the world, and after a two week break back home they went to Italy and Selena was back to her old self. They even documented their excursions to show to their family when they got back.
This was their last trip before they went home for good, so Sasha suggested Italy after learning that Italian men loved black women, and the bitch was right. For the past two weeks, they were waited on hand and foot by gorgeous Sicilian men, given free bottes of wine, jet skiing at Cefalu beach. Selena was in heaven and on the second night in Sicily when she was still a little upset about Ulysses, a guy named Nikolai fucked the little sadness she had out of her and that was it. No more thoughts about Ulysses late night wondering what he could be up to. It was getting late, nearly three in the morning and the club closed at four.
“You deserve to be happy boo. Just be glad you didn’t marry him. That would’ve been a messy ass divorce,” Kennedy said. “Yeah, I know. I would’ve been divorced in my early 20s with a baby,” Selena laughed as she finished off her drink. She still wants to have kids one day, but that could wait; right now she was living her best life with her friends and she was enjoying it. They weren’t very drunk so they walked back down the street back to their hotel, laughing about high school memories. What Selena didn’t know is that she had a surprise waiting on her.
Ulysses Klaue was in a van along with three of his men waiting on Selena to come home from the club. He arrived in Sicily this morning and spent most of the afternoon trying to find her but failed, checking every hotel and villa in the area to see if she was guest, but no one under the name Hawkins came up. He was about to give up and go back home when he heard her laughter, and there she was, going down a side street. The building the four girls went into was on Cefalu beach, and waited a minute before he followed suit. There was a man at a computer behind the counter in the lobby and went up to him.
“How may I help you this evening sir?” the concierge man asked with a thick Italian accent. “Those girls that came in a minute ago. What room are they in?” “Le belle donne? Sono molto belle,” the man said pointing to the bank of elevators a few feet away. “Yes, yes, they’re very pretty, but what room are they in?” Ulysses was getting impatient and he wanted an answer now.
“Unfortunately sir, I cannot give you that information as it is confidential, unless you are with law enforcement.” Ulysses knew what to do and he pulled out a few hundred Euros, the equivalent of almost four hundred dollars in American money. “Would this be enough?” The man behind the desk looked in both directions before answering and sliding the money towards him. “Room 15C,” he said and went back to typing.
Ulysses took off, eager to see his girl after all these months. When the elevator opened up to the fifteenth floor he took off until he found room c; it turns out that the room wasn’t under Selena’s name, it was under her friend Andrea’s. He pushed his ear against the door and Ulysses could hear the popping of a champagne or wine botte and giggling. It was now or never; the love of his life was on the other side of this door. He took a deep a breath before knocking.
“Who is it?” someone yelled from the other side. “It’s maintenance! Here to check the air conditioning!” There was some shuffling before they unlocked the door and a girl that wasn’t Selena opened the door. “Maintenance? At almost four in the morning?” He wasn't going to comment that they were drinking alcohol at almost four in the morning, he just wanted to look for Selena.
He pretended to check the air conditioning unit for problems, wondering how long could keep up this charade. “Hey, you look pretty familiar. Have we met before?” Andrea, the girl who answered the door asked. They did meet before but only once, way back when Selena had bought him home for the holidays in the early days of their relationship. “I don’t think that’s possible. I live in South Africa.”
“What’s going out here?” Selena asked as she exited the bathroom. She was wearing a satin pink lingerie night gown that stopped at her thigh and her hair was pulled into a bun on her head. She was in the bathroom doing her skincare routine so her face was still damps with products. “Oh, just the maintenance checking on the air condition.” “Well, we didn’t ask for maintenance at almost four in the morning, so sir, you can come back later today.”
His time was up and he closed back the unit and turned to face her. The man with the tattoos on the side of his head and she could feel the shock on her face. “Ulysses, what the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?” This had to be some kind of dream, Selena was sure. Maybe she was a little too drunk and this was a hallucination of repressed fantasies and memories; there was no way he could be here, right?
“Angel, I miss you and you know I love you.” Did his dumbass really think he could just waltz on in after six months of hard work to get back to herself? She pretended to ignore him and turned to Andrea. “Anyways, I was thinking that before we leave, we should try going to Ida’s, some of their stuff is cute,” Selena said, typing on her phone.” Andrea was just looking at her friend like bitch you know damn well you see this nigga in our room. “Selena, you do know your ex fiancée is here right?” Andrea was sure that Selena lost her mind.
“Yeah, I know. I ain’t tell him to come here though.” Selena still hasn’t looked at Ulysses and in truth, she was scared, scared because if she looked him in the eye, that she would break down, ruining months and months of hard work to get back to herself. “Selena, please, I’m sorry. Believe me.” Andrea was beginning to feel uncomfortable so she excused herself, talking about going for a run on the beach. When she left, Selena let Ulysses have it, not giving a damn if she deserved her neighbors.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?! What made you come all the way to Italy? Just leave me the fuck alone! I don’t give a damn if you miss me, I said what the fuck I said when I said I was done. Get the fuck out of here.” Ulysses was heartbroken, he was sure that she would break after the first month and come back to Paris, that after it was all over they would get married and have kids, just like he promised her. Then one month turned into two, and two turned into three and so on, and Selena still wasn’t back. She had changed her number, moved back to America and everything was quiet. Not even her mom’s side knew where she was, as she wasn’t particularly close to her mother.
“Baby, I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry for that, but I don’t want to be without you. I can’t be without you. I want you to come back.” Ulysses really loved this woman, more than anything else, more than he wanted revenge against the Black Panther. “I can’t do that. How do I know you’re lying? And what about the kid?” He knew that this question would pop up and he was excited to reveal that it wasn’t his. “Kid’s not mine and I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you.”
Selena loved Ulysses, even after six months, but how could she trust him? She didn’t want to do this, not now, not when she was just starting to get used to not having him in her life. “Ulysses...” “Look, I still have your ring,” Ulysses said fishing his pockets for the Tiffany engagement ring. He held it out to her and got down on bended knee.
A second proposal. “Ulysses, it’s not just the cheating, it’s the missions. You’re gone for months at a time and when you leave I don’t know if it’s going to be the last time I see you, and you’re already a wanted man by S.H.I.E.L.D.” This was another reason why Selena left, she was always worried about Ulysses whenever his missions took him out of whatever country they were living in, not coming back for months on end with short phone calls at night. His line of work was too dangerous and she couldn’t stand the thought of getting a phone call from one of his men saying that he was captured by the government or worse, dead. She wouldn’t go through it, and it gave her heart palpitations every time he walked out the door.
“With the money from Ultron, you shouldn’t have to do this at all. I need you home.” He promised he’d do whatever it takes to get her back, and he would not break that promise. “For you? Anything, please just come home.” He sounded so sincere, and she couldn’t find any hint of a lie when she looked in his eyes; she didn’t want to throw away three years of dedication and she didn’t want to start over with someone else. He was still down on his knee with the ring still in his hand, looking up at her.
“If you ever do this shit again, I will leave you.” Ulysses slipped the ring on her finger before picking her up and spinning her around. “I promise, you have me.”
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