Chapter 1: You May Be Right
Summary:
Clint has an existential crisis and seeks assistance in an unlikely place.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s the same as it ever was. Wake up, make coffee, be sure to wipe the soot out of the mug (not going through that again, no sir), start up the forge, open shop, work on any outstanding jobs while waiting for customers, close up shop, kill the forge, be sure to wipe all the soot from his hands and face before leaving for the saloon (definitely not going through that again, the kids in the pool room still think he wears black eyeliner), have a drink, admire the most beautiful girl in the world, go home alone. Again. Same as it ever was.
Except it wasn’t. Lately, that farmer had been coming by a lot more for tool repairs and geodes and questions about smelting and asking about rocks and and and a-and even talking to him at the saloon where he was usually alone.
Well. Willy is always there, but it’s not like they ever talk much. They just sulk together. That was their thing, being alone together. With also Emily bringing drinks.
But not anymore, not now that Mica was absolutely everywhere. When did that happen? Why were they always there with their hair that sparkled like minerals freshly mined and their eyes like cold stones. They were so nice. To him.
It made no sense.
After weeks of noticing the presence of Mica Stone and the particular way they glanced his way once or twice, Clint realized that he hadn’t looked at Emily. For a while now. It was a punch to the gut. Emily was his perfect girl and he hadn’t thought of her once.
He might as well be a cheater, thinking of someone else like that, except that he wasn’t, because they weren’t in a relationship, and they never would be because the pedestal he placed her on was too high to reach. And he knew that. But still.
Maybe it was ok. Was it ok? He needed to ask someone.
Against his better judgment, he decided to ask Willy that evening. It would be a serious breach of their current arrangement, but he was the closest thing he had to a confidant. Silent drinking buddies could talk on occasion. It would be ok.
“Uhm. Hey, Willy?”
Willy blearily looked up, suddenly surprised that Clint was there, at his table, talking to him. Well. It would be rude not to say hello at this point.
“Yeah?”
Clint swallowed. This was going to be rough. Why was it so hard talking to people?
“When you have trouble, uh, making a decision about something, who do you… uh… who do you go to?” What. That is not what you wanted to ask, what is wrong with you. “Like, for advice.”
Stupid.
“Oh, that’s easy,” said a woman’s voice, ”I just ask Welwick! She’s amazing.” Emily carefully placed two new beers on the table and reached for the spent glasses. “Are you having trouble with something Clint?”
Shit. Shit shit shit, this was not how this was supposed to go. Of all the people in the world, Emily had to be the one to overhear the most embarrassing conversation of all time and interject. A quick glance at Willy and it was clear that this conversation belonged to Emily now and could Willy please get back to his drink thankyouverymuch.
“Is it anything I could help with?” Why was her smile so beautiful. Why did it make him feel absolutely horrible right now.
“Oh, uhm… I, uh, was just looking… for… some… s-spiritual advice?” Why did he say that why did he say that.
“Well, you know I’m a very spiritual person, I could tell something was bothering you, your aura has been off for weeks! I’m so sorry, I would’ve checked on you sooner if I had known it was a spiritual dilemma. Please don’t think terribly of me!”
“N-no, I could never do that Emily, not to you!”
She simpered and his mind reeled.
He was in hell. He had committed a grievous sin and for it, Yoba cast him into the deepest depths of his own personal hell.
“Oh I’m so glad, you’re such a good friend, Clint.”
Friend.
F r i end. Ffffffriend.
Oh. Friend.
Okay then.
“But seriously, you should consult Welwick, you know, from TV? She’s on every morning reading fortunes, I swear she’s speaking directly to me sometimes. Have you ever seen her? She’s incredible.”
Emily shifted, scribbling on her server notes and handing him his bill. She still remembered his regular order and knew when he was ready to settle his tab even before he asked. She was so thoughtful like that. Because that’s… that’s something that… friends… do. Friends.
“She even comes to the Fair every year. You should definitely go see her next week, I’m sure she’d have some wisdom for you.” She smiled. Why was it so bright and sunny.
“Sh-sure. Sure, Emily, thank you very much. I’ll. I’ll do that, I’ll go see her.”
She beamed and the flames of hell grew hotter.
She went back toward the bar and he noticed Mica, Mica Mica Mica, always Mica, always there, walking past Emily, back to the game room, a super moon eclipsing the sun that had been Emily, casting a furtive glance his way as they passed, and the hell he was in became a roaring inferno that Clint could no longer handle.
This couldn’t go on. He needed help.
Of all the places in the valley, Pelican Town was one of the most beautiful. The turning of the leaves made the valley shimmer in emeralds, rubies, and golds; the smell of the Gem Sea a sharp contrast to the leaves. At the height of the season, seeing Pelican Town in the fall was a real treat.
And Welwick didn’t get to see any of it.
Every year, Welwick hosts her fortune telling at the Stardew Valley Fair. Every year, she intends to stay a few days longer to enjoy herself. And every year, something always comes up to cut her stay short.
And just like every year, she had a fair amount of customers with the same old predictable problems.
Same as it ever was.
Especially with this fuckin’ guy.
This kind of guy was a dime a dozen. Welwick had seen so many of this guy that she put him on a bingo card to check off whenever she came to events like this.
That reminded her, she had to check Rasmodius’ bingo card soon. First to fill the whole card gets a bottle of the good stuff, courtesy of the loser. He may be out walking the grounds but her steady stream of customers would put her ahead in no time.
She discreetly marked this fuckin’ guy off on her card and turned her attention back to her customer.
Entering her tent, this particular fuckin’ guy was obviously nervous. Ok, so he’s never been here before.
He was also wringing his hands and looking away to the side. Definitely wants to ask about a crush.
He sat down and drummed his hands on the table nervously. Someone talked him into coming here and he’s unsure.
Welp, time to pour on that good old mystic charm.
She tapped a small button near her foot and her cloak billowed softly around her, another button slowly dribbled mist from beneath the crystal ball on the table between them as it began to glow.
He gasped and looked up at her. Just the reaction she was hoping for.
“Uh… uhhh… uhhhm… I, uh… are you Welwick?”
Yoba almighty, this fuckin’ guy.
“Ah, yes… my crystal ball is swirling with visions of your future,” she crooned before pausing briefly and adding, “young one.”
“Oh, oh gosh, no, I’m, uh… no, you’re too kind.”
Yoba, restrain the impulse to grab his shoulders and shake this fuckin’ guy. She looked up and—
“Oh wow, your eyes! They’re different!”
Welwick shifted gears quickly, smiling. “Yes my child, Yoba blessed them each on the day of my birth. One eye sees—”
“That one’s like a moonlight jelly!”
“Yes, one eye sees—”
“And that one’s green like the Gem Sea!”
“Yes my child, one eye sees—”
“Do they help you see the future?”
Yoba take me straight to hell this fucking guy.
“Yes. My child.” She stared directly into his eyes. No more interruptions. “One eye sees the future that will be, the other, the future that was to come.”
He swallowed nervously.
That shut him up.
“So I, uh, I-I need s-some advice. About, uh… it’s about my love life.”
...that did not shut him up.
Welwick waved her arm dramatically to break his concentration. She’d never get through this if he didn’t. Stop. Talking.
“Ahh... Indeed. I see you in a room, having a conversation with a lady… Oh! It'ssss… Emmmmily. You seem to be close friends.”
He deflated. “Fuh… friends. Right.”
Ah well, time to give him the kick in the pants.
“Ooo… It's dark, and I see you and a certain young person. They look a little bashful, but happy to be with you. Hmmm… now what's this young person's name? …I believe it starts… with aaaaaaaaannnnnnnNNNNNNNNNnnnnnMmmmmMMMmm??”
This fuckin’ guy choked on his spit. Okay it’s M, which townie starts with M…
MARU no Yoba no that wouldn’t, just no
MARNIE no no no she’s already got tail and this fuckin’ guy isn’t the type to crush on a taken lady
M—hahahaha, I can't even think it oh Yoba he'd kill me
Who is iiiiiiiiiittttttt
A shadow suddenly fell over the opening of the tent. “Oh! Excuse me, I didn’t realize you were busy. I’ll, uh, come back later.” Almost imperceptively, both the shadow and that fuckin’ guy froze. Just for the briefest of moments, they froze.
The shadow left and the air grew heavier. The silence was deafening.
Oh. Ooooh what was THAT that’s it THAT’S IT who is it WHO IS THAT who—
“…Yes, yes, it starts with M. They remind you of the earth and all the good things that come from it and they shine to you like… like crystals… of Mica.”
“Wha—” he sputtered, clearly caught off guard, “I don’t—what makes you think I know someone with a name like Mica??”
Yes, another one for the bingo card.
Also this fuckin’ guy.
“Ah yes, the local blacksmith. He does have a bit of difficulty interacting with the other townspeople.” Rasmodius sipped delicately at the stardrop liqueur in his cordial glass. “Frankly I’m surprised you were able to give him a reading without the poor man bursting into flames.”
He held out the now empty glass with a smirk. Welwick poured another draught of the very expensive stardrop liqueur with a pout. “Well aren’t you pleased as punch that he took up so much of my time. What is this, your fifth glass?”
“You wound me, dear Welwick. Haven’t you divined that I would never take pleasure in the misfortune of others?” He raised a single eyebrow.
That little shit.
“Oh shut up Mitchell. You old windbag. Speaking of bags, hand me mine please.”
“Windbag I may be, Trisha, but you’re just as old as me. ” He smirked and she rolled her eyes, taking the proffered bag.
She rummaged through a few pockets in the small satchell. “Augh, where is it, my eyes are killing me…”
“I cannot believe you insist upon wearing those things.”
“Hey, if it works it works. Aha!” With a flourish, Welwick brought out a contact lens case and hurriedly removed her colored lenses. “Oh sweet Yoba that’s so much better.”
The great M Rasmodius harumphed.
“Oh stop, not all of us can effortlessly be an imposing nine feet tall .”
The now slightly cowed Mitchell Rasmodius also harumphed.
“Look, divining is difficult, ok? I’m sure you know how much energy it takes out of you. That’s why I rely on the smoke and mirrors show.” Eyedrops oh Yoba yes life is worth living again.
“It’s easier for people to believe in the fake mystical shit like two tone eyes and seemingly unbidden winds and mists and flowy robes and all that than it is to trust a fortune as told by Trisha Wickerwell. ” She sipped at her own glass. “Anyway, he might not have self immolated but he was surely only a few joules away from bursting into steam.”
“How did you manage that level of frustration, by the way? It’s quite impressive.”
“Told him the name of his secret crush.”
Rasmodius blinked. “I thought you had not met the new farmer in town yet.”
“Nope, never met ‘em.”
Mitchell blinked. “Then how did you know their name? Ah, you used your proper divination this time?”
Trisha threw him a conspiratorial smirk.
“Come on, out with it.”
“Saw it written over and over again on a piece of paper sticking out of his apron pocket.”
Rasmodius coughed into his drink.
“Shut up.”
“He even drew little hearts over the i’s.”
This time he spit.
“That fuckin’ guy. ”
Notes:
I think shitposts are more shit-posty with chapter notes, don't you?
Clint is a horribly awkward man but I also think he's a wee teensy bit dumb as well. Not Sam levels of dumb (bless that himbo) but the kind of dumb moments I've had before where I'll forget the word for something and say whatever sounds close (gameboys and playboys are *not* the same thing, learned that the hard way tryna buy pokemon ruby). Anyway, I'm kinda excited to write more of Clint being a doof.
Me and @coolcoolglasses will make you love our version of this disaster man.
Chapter 2: We Didn't Start the Fire
Summary:
Leah and Elliott are meddling hens.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Look at him. Just look at him! He’s been jumpy like that ever since the fair, something is definitely up.”
Leah sipped at her wine as Elliott turned to appraise Clint across the saloon. After a long moment, he turned back toward his companion.
“Those eyes are shifting more than the sands of time. That’s the look of a man with a troubled mind.” He sipped at his wine pensively.
Leah stared into the distance for a few moments before gently swirling her wine glass. Her eyes darted toward Elliott. “I think he needs a vacation.” She sipped her wine.
“Yes, taking a break from Pelican Town might be good for him.” Elliot sipped his wine with a sigh.
Leah paused for a beat.
“Taking a break from all his worries sure would help a lot.” She raised her eyebrows and sipped.
Elliott stopped mid-sip and glowered at Leah.
“Wouldn’t you like to get away?” She sipped, her expression giving away nothing.
“Don’t you dare.” He sipped through a frown.
“Sometimes—”
“Leah…”
“You wanna go—”
“Leah.”
“Where everybody knows your na—”
Elliott jabbed his finger toward her accusingly as he cut her off, “you are a holy terror madam, conversation with you is a long-suffering ordeal.” He huffed and sipped his wine.
“You know you love it.” Leah smirked and sipped her wine triumphantly.
Elliott rolled his eyes and sipped his wine, failing to conceal the faintest of smiles. “Moving right along…”
“Footloose and fancy-freeee—”
“YOBA, STOP!”
After a few more glasses of wine and several admonishments regarding the frequency of song lyrics used in polite conversation, Leah and Elliott turned their attentions back to the blacksmith.
“Maybe… mmmmaybeee heee… hmm… no. No that’s too silly.” Leah stared into her freshly poured glass of wine and sipped.
“What’s too silly? You cannot leave me in suspense like this.” Elliott raised an eyebrow and attempted to sip at his wine, succeeding after the third try.
“…Nah, it’s silly it’s silly, there’s no way.” Leah sipped at the air near the lip of her wine glass. She tried again.
“Cease your dithering, you are giving me conversational blue balls.” Elliott pouted and focused on his wine glass, trying to sip with his mind.
Leah snorted into her glass mid-sip.
“Alright alright ALRIGHT I’ll tell you. What if what IF… He’s got a crush on someone.” She wiped a drop of wine from her nose with her thumb in a conspiratorial manner and took another sip.
Elliott blinked slowly and raised an eyebrow at Leah.
“What do you mean what if, it’s obvious he’s got a crush on someone,” Elliott scoffed. “His crush on Emily is the second-worst kept secret in town next to the nightly mayoral rendezvous.” Sip.
“You mean Marnie’s midnight ménage à Mayor?” Sssssip.
“Maddening.” Sip. “And I hate that you came up with that so quickly, I must be losing my touch.”
He frowned indignantly at his wine glass that, despite his best psychokinetic endeavors, remained un-sipped. He gave up and sipped with his mouth like some common buffoon.
“Not that crush you twit, absolutely everyone knows about that crush. Except for Emily for some reason.” She gestured pointedly with her half-empty wine glass, “I meant on someone else.” Nearly spilling what she had left, Leah steadied herself and held her wine in preparation of additional sipping.
“Who could you possibly mean?” Elliott furrowed his brow in a fresh attempt to achieve the perfect mind-sip. Either that or he was thinking too hard about the mechanics of sipping.
“Who would dare to steal the solid admiration of our love-struck Smith?”
Elliott’s eyes widened as he stared, unblinking, at the audacity of his so-called friend.
“Was that a Yoba-damn haiku?”
Leah stared back, raising her eyebrows. Sip. Blink. Ssssssip.
He raised his hands in exasperation. “I hate drinking with you. You always beat me at my own game. My chosen profession! How could you DO such a thing to me, you scurrilous wench.”
“Perhaps another sultry azure siren has caught our blacksmith’s eye?” Sssssssssssssip.
Elliott flapped his hand on the table. “I am divorcing you. I am going to wait in the rain, rob that maritime specter of his bloody pendant, marry the hell out of you, then divorce you on the spot as retribution to this beastly behavior toward me.” He sipped, annoyed at his inability to hide his smile.
Then suddenly his thoughts cleared. He blinked.
“Wait. Did you say azure? ”
The two increasingly tipsy friends stared at each other, expressionless, trying to process this potentially new information. Together they turned and observed Clint with as much concentration they could muster.
Around them the patrons from Pelican Town were meandering about the saloon, ordering food and drinks from the bar, and saying casual hellos. Unaware that he was being observed, Clint’s gaze wandered, craning his head to follow the soft teal tresses of farmer Mica as they passed by his table, then immediately snapped back toward his drink. Wide-eyed and flushed, he gulped down his nearly full pint of beer as though it could cool the heat rising in his face.
Leah and Elliott’s eyes met, blinking in recognition.
They sipped.
After some well-advised bar snacks and a few more ill-advised glasses of wine, the steadily drunk friends huddled up and got down to business. Hunched over the table with a page torn from Leah’s sketchbook and one of the pens Elliott always kept upon his person, they began to scheme. Soon they became so engrossed in their machinations that everything else faded into the background.
They were startled out of it when a pitcher of water thunked loudly onto their table.
“You two look like kids reading comics under the blankets after bedtime,” Emily said cheerily as she placed two glasses next to the pitcher. Hopefully they’d get the hint that it was about time to sober up.
“Yes that is exactly what we’re doing, except we’re writing instead of reading,” Elliott said as he beamed up at her, waggling his eyebrows. He brazenly stuck out a pinky as he sipped his wine.
“Weeeee’re coming up with a plan.” Leah giggled into her wine glass as she sipped.
Yoba, how much wine had she served them?
“Well I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but we’ll be closing up soon. I wanted to let you both know that it’s last call.”
“Ah, say no more my dear, we shall settle our tab shortly.” Elliott sipped.
“Yes yes, we’ll finish these up and let you get home for the night.” Leah sipped her glass and frowned at its sudden emptiness, but brightened when Emily replaced it with a glass of water.
She sipped, and it was as if the floodgates had opened. In an instant, she was the thirstiest she had ever been in her entire life. Suddenly this glass was empty too.
Emily refilled it with the pitcher.
“Alright then, I’ll leave you two to it! Wave me over when you’re ready.” The goddess of potable water turned back to the bar as Leah squinted in concentration, filling another glass.
The two schemers slowly sobering in the corner read and reread what they had written, crossing things out here, adding stuff there, and finally were pleased with their draft. After her fourth hastily downed glass of water, Leah snatched the pen from Elliott’s hand and began doodling on the corner of the page.
“Ok, here’s how it’s gonna work,” she said, gesturing toward the tiny portraits she’d quickly jotted down. “You an’ me, we’re gonna firstly rewrite these so they’re not all sloppy, especially since I just drew in the margins.”
“I can suddenly see what you were like as a child in grammar school,” remarked Elliott with a smirk. “That part is a given, please continue my dear.”
She glared at him and went back to her explanation. “Shaddap, you. Ok. Ok. When these are ready to go, we drop them off in their respective mailboxes during the night after they’ve gone asleep so they don’t catch us.”
“I like how you’ve drawn us actually perpetrating these heinous crimes. The waning moon over the farmhouse is a nice touch, and my hair is adorable.” He reached for the pen.
“Ehhhh, quit it,” she whined, refusing to relinquish the pen.
“And your chest is too large in this—”
“It’s called artistic license and will you knock it off!” She swatted his grabby hands away from the pen so he could not alter her masterpiece of a plan.
“Once they get the letters,” she pointedly continued, “they’ll both show up at the designated location thinking the other has asked them out on a date, then hit it off, then get married and have a million puggles or something equally adorable.”
“And of course we’ll be nearby observing the whole exchange.”
“Well obviously.”
“I can tell by the way you’ve illustrated us hiding in a bush while they share a plate of spaghetti à la Lady and the Tramp.” Elliott made an expression that could only be described as smarmy jackass face.
“Why must you piss on my parade, Elliott. I draw beautiful works for you and this is how you repay me.”
“You adore me all the more for it, dearest.”
“Shut up,” she swatted his arm. “Yeah you’re right you pompous ass.”
At the admission, Elliott’s expression brightened and he clapped his hands together.
“Alright! Let’s close up and head back to my place to write these out properly. If we’re swift about it we can get these fools together by the end of the week.”
Notes:
Don't you just love meddling hens, clucking away in their wine-fueled machinations?
Chapter 3: I Go To Extremes
Summary:
There's mischief afoot!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“I-I didn’t write this…”
“I know.”
Clint looked bemusedly at the creased paper Mica had handed him. He didn’t know what to think. How could he have possibly sent a letter to Mica? Writing a letter was one thing, he’s written dozens of letters to Emily before, but they always ended up crumpled on the floor of his bedroom. Actually sending them was something entirely different. He could never be that bold. He could never.
Mica sighed and sat down next to him on the dock. A leg dangled far above the water as the tide pulled the Gem Sea a little further from the shore. When it came back hours later it still wouldn’t reach Mica’s toes, but not for lack of trying. You still need quite a bit of height to reach the water from the docks at high tide, and that was a height they did not possess.
“You didn’t write this just like I didn’t write the letter there in your pocket.”
As they said this, they tilted their head and studied Clint’s face. He looked… confused? Deflated? A little bit sad. The sadness behind his eyes pulled at not a heartstring, but something in the general vicinity. It ached to see him look like that.
“O-oh…” Of course. Of course Mica didn’t write him a letter. How could he be so stupid to believe that the person that had consumed his thoughts nearly every waking moment since they first walked into his forge would want to see him of all people? Why would anyone want to meet him anywhere to talk about Something Very Important that couldn’t be said in passing like everyone else always did? But…
But if Mica didn’t write him the letter, and they knew that he hadn’t written their letter, then why…
“If… if you knew I didn’t write it, then why did you come?” Clint was wringing the hem of his sweatshirt in his hands, trying to keep at least part of his mind preoccupied. This was a lot to process.
Mica stretched and shifted. Was it a little closer? It seemed like it was a little closer. Maybe.
They shifted again.
That was definitely closer.
“Well see, that’s the thing. The letter was made to look like you wrote it, which meant that either someone was attempting a prank,” they said, shooting a quick glance over their shoulder, “or someone is meddling, and given that we’re being watched, I’d say it’s the latter.”
“What?” Clint began to turn to see just who it was that was watching them when he was stopped by a hand resting lightly on his forearm. He looked up, wide-eyed.
“Don’t look.”
Clint looked back down at Mica’s calloused, beautiful hand. He gulped.
“Listen,” they said, keeping their voice low, “in just a minute, we’ll get up and walk over to the tide pools just out of their line of sight. After that, follow me. I’ve learned a trick or two around here and I think we can lose them.”
“What are they doing, I can’t see anything through your crusty old windows.”
The impatience in her voice had long since shown on her face as Leah rubbed at the glass with the sleeve of her shirt. The view did not improve.
“Stop fussing like that, you’ll draw attention,” Elliott hissed. He had attempted to clean the windows in his cabin earlier but there wasn’t much improvement. Years of sea spray had built up a stubborn layer of salt deposits that, while excellent for creating a moody atmosphere in which to write moodily by candlelight, was not the best for viewing the scenery clearly.
His eyes widened and he shifted to the side of the window, just out of sight. “They’re coming this way, shh-shh, shush!”
Mica had gotten up from the dock and started heading back to the beach. Clint had risen to follow, and they both walked side by side as they stepped into the sand.
“What’s happening, I can’t see!” hissed Leah. “Curse you and your beachcore hermit house!”
Elliott scrunched his face in a judgemental appraisal of his friend. “Viper. They appear to be taking a stroll.”
“I know that, you giddy idiot, what are they doing.”
“Mica has their hands in their pockets and Clint is nervously fiddling with his shirt.” He sighed in frustration. “What is going on here, they look like they’re off to witness an execution. Why haven’t they fallen madly in love and adopted a million babies already? It’s very inconsiderate.”
“Oh! I see them now!” Leah flapped her hands in excitement. “Yoba, you’re right, either this thing is heading south very fast or Mica has one hell of a poker face.”
“It is quite fortunate for us that Clint wears his heart on his sleeve, then.”
“He looks like he’s about to throw up!”
“Yoba’s strength, I hope not. I don’t want to have to borrow another shovel to clean my beach.”
“With the way the youth around here is, I’m surprised you haven’t just bought one outright.”
The two very sneaky and inconspicuous matchmakers watched as the pair made their way across the beach. Nearing the fire ring, they paused and faced the sea, leaning closely together and speaking of something. It was very unfair of them to not even have the decency to face the cabin so their lips could be read.
Without warning, they turned and started walking toward the cabin with purpose.
“Shit!”
“Hide!”
Staring out toward the sea, Clint leaned toward the sparkling? Radiant? Luminous Mica Stone.
“What do we do now?”
Mica leaned in further and it suddenly got hotter outside, because surely that was the only reason he could conceivably have to blush like that.
“We turn toward the cabin and make like that’s where we’re headed, but just before we get to the door, duck out of sight and turn to go over the bridge to the tidepools. Once we’re over, I’m going to run, so follow me as close as you can.”
The sea breeze fluttered the loose strands that had been escaping from Mica’s bun and the lovesick blacksmith thought he had never seen anything more captivating in his life. He needed to stay as close to them as he could, and by Yoba that’s what he was going to do.
“Alright. I’m ready.”
“Wait, what?”
Elliott shot up from his hiding spot below the window, whipping his head around in disbelief. He had set a mirror across from the window in case they needed to be more surreptitious about their spying, which was a remarkable foresight on his part. Through that, they had nervously kept tabs on the pair approaching the cabin.
Unfortunately, that pair was suddenly gone.
“Where did they go!”
Momentarily forgetting about the crustiness of the windows, Leah mushed her face against them just in case she’d be able to see around the side of the house. All it accomplished was salting her cheek.
“Why don’t you have windows on all four walls of this place!”
“I don’t know, I didn’t build it!”
“I can’t see them!”
“Where did they go!”
“Do you think they saw us?”
“After how surreptitious we've been?” He stopped short as he suddenly recalled a brief flash of Mica’s eye from the dock.
“Shit.”
Scrambling over one another to be the first to reach the door, they burst onto the beach looking wildly around.
“Which way did they go?”
“I thought I saw them go over to the tidepools.”
“You goon, they couldn’t have, there’s no one over there!”
“I saw what I saw!”
“You’ve lived here forever, are there any trails over there? How could they have gotten away!”
“Woman I don’t know, you’re the one that spends all her time over there sketching in the summer!”
They stared over the bridge at the barnacle-encrusted outcrop in disbelief.
Sitting just out of sight in the canopy, Mica and Clint watched as their pursuers searched for them in vain. They both had to stifle a laugh as they turned from checking for pathways in the brush to looking under seashells and bits of washed-up coral.
Eventually, the pair took their bickering back across the little bridge heading toward town, hoping to find a new lead as to where their marks had gone. It was at that moment the two in the tree breathed a sigh of relief.
Clint couldn’t remember the last time he had so much fun. It had been exhilarating to pull a fast one on the town’s most notorious pair of meddling hens. Hell, it had been exciting just to be caught up in one of their schemes. He hadn’t thought he was important enough to meddle with.
He turned toward Mica. They were smiling. How did they get such a cute crinkle in their eyes when they smiled? His face softened with affection.
They both sat and enjoyed the sea breeze in silence. He could honestly have stayed in that tree and looked at them forever. It just might have been forever when Mica spoke.
“Hey.”
Clint blinked back to the waking world. “H-hi.”
“Let’s go to the saloon, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Oh. I-I’d like that.”
“Great!” Mica beamed as they jumped from the tree and turned to offer a hand down.
“It’s a date!”
Sweaty, dirty, and on the verge of overheating, the unsuccessful schemers trudged into the Stardrop Saloon under a cloud of defeat. They turned toward their regular table with downcast eyes and sulked like grumpy toddlers that had been told they couldn’t have any cookies until after dinner.
Practically perfect in every way, the bartender sent over their usual along with a pitcher of water and a light bar snack. They silently gave thanks to Yoba after the first sip when life became worth living again.
“I cannot believe that they got the better of us. Us!” Elliott scoffed into his glass and prepared to drink, but thought better of it and sipped instead.
“How on earth could we lose them? We looked absolutely everywhere!” Leah also scoffed into her glass and took a full pull. This was not an occasion to sip idly.
Suddenly a curt bang shot through the saloon, drawing both her eye and, upon locating its source, the drink straight from her mouth. Before Elliott could complain about his new damp and somewhat sticky state, she gripped his shoulder and jerked her head toward the far side of the room.
At the other end of the saloon sat the duo they had spent hours searching for. There they were, enjoying a drink together. They were talking and drinking and they hadn’t even noticed them come in.
Yoba be praised.
The two now successful schemers tried to hide behind their glasses to observe exactly what they had been looking for all day. Now they just had to watch.
The saloon was fairly empty when Mica walked in with Clint in tow. Mica’s stony facade gave away nothing. Clint, on the other hand, appeared to be wound tighter than a bowstring. They gravitated toward a booth in the back corner near the fireplace and sat facing each other. Mica raised a hand and made eye contact with the bartender and soon they had a pitcher of ale and two pints between them.
When the first pints were empty, they talked stiltedly of the events of the day.
When the second pints were empty and the third halfway full, Mica loudly slapped their hand upon the table and looked up imploringly.
“So.”
“Uhm… s-sooo…”
“You,” Mica sipped, “Are a blacksmith.”
Clint blinked. This was familiar territory.
“Yep, I’m a blacksmith.” He fiddled nervously with the sweat on his glass and glanced up.
“…My father was also a blacksmith.” He eyed his companion warily, unsure of where this would end up going.
“…My grandfather was a blacksmith as well.” They hadn’t run screaming yet so he must be doing something right, he just couldn’t read their face.
“I bet you can’t guess what my great-grandfather was.”
Mica made a show of seriously pondering the question. They looked at the ceiling, then toward the floor, put their finger to their lips in thought, looked to the side, lifted their finger in triumph, quickly returned their finger to their lips, and furrowed their brow in deep concentration. Finally, they looked up, resting their chin on the back of their hand saying tentatively, “…a blacksmith?”
Raising his eyebrows in a half-smirk, Clint replied, “how’d you know?”
The laughter that erupted suddenly from his companion was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard and he knew he needed to hear it again and again and again.
“What on earth are they doing,” hissed Leah. “Is he—don’t tell me he’s—”
“—using the 'my father was a blacksmith' line, oh dear sweet Yoba no!”
They both groaned inwardly. Each had been given the blacksmith schpiel when they were new in town and it was quite possibly the most awkward and embarrassing attempt at a joke they had ever heard. This relationship was doomed to end before it began.
“Oh poor Mica, we tried so hard for you,” Leah sipped despondently.
“Look, they’re trying to come up with an answer that won’t hurt the poor man’s feelings,” Elliott sipped in solidarity.
“That poor man is going to feel so heartbroken when they—”
A fit of giggles poured out of Mica and the two friends were stunned into silence.
“I can’t believe—”
“—it worked.”
They looked at one another in astonishment.
“It actually worked.”
“They… they liked it.”
“Huh.”
“Well. Cheers to that, I suppose.”
Clinking their glasses together they turned back to observe the date that was surprisingly going quite well and sipped.
Notes:
Look, Clint is just an awkward dude that feels his feelings very intensely, especially when they're feelings for other people. Sometimes we don't know why we go to extremes.
I like where this has been going, don't you?
Chapter 4: Ain't No Crime
Summary:
Plans and confessions and wagers, oh my!
Adding a prompt into the mix! Thanks @purpleandgreen
Notes:
Ok look the previous title of this chapter worked so much better on the next chapter than this one, so you'll get an update and like it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“What did you do.”
The Stardrop Saloon was usually a sleepy, laid-back sort of establishment most days, but something about today made the air seem electric. Patrons were buzzing with excitement about the upcoming night market and planning their visits.
“Wait, you’ve never gone to the night market?”
“Nope, I missed it last year.”
Mica sipped their beer while their not-date stared at them, agog at this information. It was honestly pretty cute.
The not-a-DATE-date was going well, all things considered. It had been sleeting the majority of the day, which made the chores around the farm gloomy and cold and absolutely miserable. Things started taking a turn for the better when they arrived at the smithy and offered to take Clint out for a drink, who in turn insisted that they warm up by the forge before heading out. It was a welcome invitation. Mica’s flush from the cold was soon replaced by the flush from the heat of the dying coal fire, which did an excellent job of hiding the blush that had been forming ever since the blacksmith sat next to them and offered a hot mug of peppermint chocolate.
“Mica, we have to go! You have to see the night market, it’s… really… it’s neat…” Clint trailed off, realizing his own excitement and suddenly being overcome with embarrassment. He quickly stuffed a pepper popper in his mouth and took a long pull from his own beer to prevent himself from talking with his stupid excitable face.
Sweet Yoba, Mica had never seen anything more adorable. They hummed in amusement and leaned closer, resting their chin in their hands.
“Hmm… are you asking me out on a date, Clint?”
Thankfully the resulting spit take was directed into a napkin.
“I-I-I, uhm, I-I mean, uh, if you’ve never, uhm, if you’ve never been before it would be nice to have someone show you around, is all.” So close. If only he had a spine of steel instead of the backbone of a jellyfish. He began sweating like he was back at his forge. The pepper poppers were really hot today, that must be what it was. Too many Scovilles. Yes.
He sipped at his beer to wet his suddenly dry throat.
“And you are offering to take me, hmm?”
A quirk of the brow and a subtle smirk from Mica practically caused steam to come out of the poor man’s ears. He coughed nervously and fumbled for words.
Yoba almighty, they enjoyed watching him squirm.
“Because if you’re offering to take me to the night market, I’d love to go with you.”
Clint beamed. “Y-yes! That—I’d like to take you. I mean, take you to the market. At night. The night market.” He took another pull from his beer and blushed.
Well, they couldn’t let him squirm too much.
He repeated himself.
“What did you do, Em.”
Emily bustled behind the bar, humming as she stocked clean glasses and replaced various garnishes that had gotten low. She looked as if not a thing in the world could ruin her good mood, not even intense questioning from her favorite surly customer.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about Shaaane.” Hmm hmm hmm.
Shane eyed her suspiciously. He knew something was up and was going to get to the bottom of it, but only because there was nothing better to do. That was definitely the only reason he would ask. It’s not like curiosity was eating away at him or anything.
“You have been hopping around all evening like Charlie does when Jas gives her blackberries.”
Emily did a little twirl as she refused to take the bait. He seethed in mock annoyance.
“Don’t play with me, I know you had something to do with… you know…” He trailed off, gesturing to the booth in the corner of the bar, flapping his hand in exasperation.
She glanced toward the booth and gave him a sly look as she put away shot glasses. He continued to stare her down.
“Of course I did, I’m the bartender. If someone orders a drink I serve it to them, silly!”
“You know what I mean.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
“You did something.”
An invisible spot on a pint glass suddenly needed to be wiped.
“You had to have done something, your ridiculous boyfriend hasn’t ogled you for weeks.”
She set down the glass and picked up another, cheerily determined to rid it of invisible water spots. “Clint is just my friend, Shane, not my boyfriend.”
“And you did something.”
“That is true, I became hella gay.”
“Dios mio woman…”
“Is it not obvious enough? I thought sapphire hair was pretty sapphic, though rainbow might be too on the nose…”
“Emily…”
She put down the glass and picked up another, wiping a smug look onto her face
“Emily.”
She hummed a little ditty.
“Emily. Tell me.”
“Shane Espinoza,” she said, lowering her already gentle voice and setting the glass down firmly. “Are you insinuating that I’ve been well aware of the crush Clinton Black has been harboring for me since the day we met and noticed immediately when it began to waver and why?”
She picked up another spotless glass to wipe, her face unreadable.
Shane blinked stupidly.
“Well I mean—”
“Might you be interpreting my actions lately as being calculated to stir internal conflict within our shy Mr. Black,” she set down the glass and picked up another, “to the point where he sought advice from an outside source and that I manipulated him into getting that advice from someone that would see straight through him?”
“Wait—”
“Could you be implying,” glass down, glass up, “that I’ve also noticed the two biggest gossips in town becoming restless enough to start trouble again?”
“Buh—”
“Would you also be suggesting that I would go to such measures to maneuver their regular table an inch and a half to the right in order to provide a better view of where our lovesick Mr. Black sits day in and day out?”
“Now hold on a minute—”
“Just so they could organically come upon the idea to play matchmaker?”
She set down the glass and looked directly into her friend’s face. It was a perfect picture of befuddlement.
“Really Shane, I’m surprised at you! Those are completely ridiculous conclusions to jump to. I couldn’t possibly mastermind such a convoluted scheme over a number of months just to get a little extra breathing room and make my friend happy at the same time.” She picked up another glass. “I’m just a bartender.”
He stared at her in amazement. A fly considered playing daredevil in his open mouth, which he promptly shut.
“I never could read your poker face.”
She set down the glass and smiled. “You love it.”
Everything was not going well at the table by the jukebox. They couldn’t see anything.
“Why must they move to a booth today of all days,” Elliott murmured into his glass.
“This is torture,” Leah whined into hers. “The angle is all wrong.”
“We can’t hear any of it! We can’t even read their lips!”
“They’re doing this on purpose.”
“They’re tormenting us.”
“Terrible.”
“Despicable.”
“The worst.”
“Crimes against us, that is what these two are committing.”
Denied their evening entertainment, the infamous meddlers sat back and brooded, contemplating what their next source of fun would be. After a few moments, Leah held up her glass and studied it thoughtfully.
“Hmm.”
“What is it, my dear?”
“Do you think…” she purred, swirling her glass, “that something could happen at the night market?”
Elliott stopped and considered this, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Do you mean in general or with those two?”
“Yes.” Ssssip.
“Oh. Well then.” He swirled his own glass in what he thought to be a roguish manner but in actuality looked like an out-of-touch dad trying to impress children. He had consumed several glasses prior to this one, after all. “Most assuredly.”
It got a laugh out of Leah for reasons that weren’t quite what Elliott thought.
“So, who do you think is the best bet to make something happen at the market?”
As soon as she voiced the question aloud, the pair found themselves deep in thought. There were so many people that could potentially pull shenanigans on any one of the three evenings of the market.
“We’ve got… and let’s say we’re just talking relationship drama here, we’ve got the possibilities of…”
“Mica and Clint…” Sip.
“Obviously.” Sip.
“Sam and Sebastian…” Sip.
“Oh Yoba those two could get into any amount of trouble.” Sssssip.
“Who else, darling?” Swirl, swirl, sip.
“Oh OH,” Leah set down her glass quickly and leaned forward conspiratorily, “Marnie and Lewis.”
“Oh that is too much!” Elliott grinned. “Normally I would be very present for any of that particular flavor of drama, but I find myself wondering if she’s not getting a bit, hmmm… shall we say exasperated with the whole affair? We haven't exactly seen them together lately.” He sipped a little sip, contemplating his glass. "Perhaps they've finally succeeded at being sneaky."
“That is precisely why I think they should be in the running.” Sly grin, raised eyebrow, sip.
“Hmm, true.” Sip.
“Hmmmm?” Sssip.
He looked up, cocking a brow. “Well if that’s bound to happen in any case, we have to exclude them from the running because they’re a safe bet.”
“Hmph. Fair. I guess,” Leah pouted disingenuously. “Well that just leaves the two, and I know we’re both invested in Clinca.”
“Darling you will never sell me on that portmanteau. If anything they’re Micalint, and even then it’s just as horrid.”
“Oh shut it you crab rangoon.” She flapped her hand dismissively, “anyways, what I think we should do—”
“Crab rangoon?”
“You have a stowaway in your pocket BUT WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY is that we should flip a coin for who bets on who.”
As Elliott plucked the sluggish crustacean from his breast pocket he came upon an idea. “I know, we’ll have this little fellow choose.” He set their now empty glasses apart and placed the tiny crab in the middle between them, resting his finger ever so gently on its shell to keep it in place.
“If it goes toward your spent glass, you get our latest obsession, and I get them if it chooses mine.”
“Wait,” she stopped short, “what’s the wager?”
“We’ll tally up how many scenes are caused by each couple and the loser pays the tab for the debriefing of the event.”
“That will be one expensive evening, and I look forward to you picking up my bill.”
“As do I my dear, I do not plan on holding back in the slightest.” He cleared his throat and struck a magnificent pose. “Release the Kraken!”
As he lifted his finger from the crab, they both sucked in a breath. It shifted in place. Their breath held fast. Just as it was becoming unbearable, the crab that was becoming increasingly tired of all this and just wanted to go back to its pocket moved its tiny little legs and tapped the stem of a glass.
“Dammit!”
Notes:
Sometimes you just gotta ask, what did you do, cause dammit, you gotta know.
Bit of a switch-up this time, I usually put my prompted writing in Smalldew Valley but this one grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me until I understood the prompt belonged here.
I can't wait for this date, can you? Of course you can't! Let's all torment Floop until they give us that next chapter already!
Oh wait. That's me.
Well this is awkward.
Just like the date might be.
Chapter Text
“Whyyy.”
It’s two weeks to the Night Market and Mica Stone, professional half-assed farmer and hot mess, is wallowing into a plate of spaghetti.
“I don’t see what the problem is, Chips. Don’t be so down.”
Clay Stone, full-assed florist and shameless gossip, dipped a crust of bread into their sibling’s half-eaten plate of spaghetti. “You’ve been flirting with him for months.” They took a bite. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Mica groaned, making a little gurgling sound in the back of their throat as Clay pulled the plate a little closer. They nibbled on a meatball.
“Didn’t you wear like, matching costumes at Spirit’s Eve?” The groaning increased with the remembered embarrassment. Clay pushed forward.
“Yeah yeah yeah, you did! Do you know how I know?” They skewered half a meatball. “Becaaaaause you made me wear UUUUHHHH-the SAME COSTUME.” They shimmied their shoulders in a little wiggle.
“Nnnnngh.”
“I joined you in your lust-addled—”
“Eww—”
“Hair-brained scheme of being the third wheel beat boy skeleton so you, dear sibling—”
“Please don’t…”
“Could have a chance to breakdance around your crushy-crush Davey S. Pun’kins.”
Mica whined, thunking their forehead on the table where the spaghetti used to be. A few times. For emphasis.
“Do you know what that made me?”
“Nnnnngh.”
“PART OF IT.”
“I know, but—”
“Which I mean, I was happy to do, easiest costume ever, super cute even without flowers.” They stole a fork and began twirling the remaining pasta. “But like, why should I hype you for a dude you don’t even want?”
"That… that’s not it at ALL!” whined Mica.
Clay stopped with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to their mouth.
“Sooo, you’re saying you DO want to be all romantic and hold hands and do kisses with each other, hmm?”
Mica sniffled into the table miserably.
“Yuh-huh.”
Clay shoveled the bite into their mouth and chewed thoughtfully. They’ve been needling their sibling for a long time, and that confession was a big deal. They signaled the bar and gestured toward their despondent dinner companion, indicating that they need dranks. Emily caught on and busied herself with preparations.
“You’re just embarrassed after being too forward, aren’t you.”
Mica’s ears practically steamed at the total recall.
“Why did I dooo thaaat.” They hiccupped a little sob.
Dranks appeared at their table with a little note underneath Clay’s glass. They take a furtive peek.
Sorry about the costumes, I thought they’d be cute! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
They glance quickly around the room, but Emily is nowhere to be seen. Clever girl.
Clay slaps their hand on the table, giving their sad sack sibling a little jolt. “Because that’s what makes you Mica. Mica gets caught up in the moment being all bold and brash and whatever and ends up teasing people. Relentlessly.” Clay placed Mica’s fresh drank on a coaster and slid it forward. “It just never, you know, registers to you that you’re actually, you know, FLIRTING.”
“I kno-ho-hoooow,” they whined pathetically. “Why am I so good at iiiiit.”
“Whyyy.”
It’s one week to the Night Market and Clinton Black is regretting every awkward thing he’s ever done in a fifty-foot vicinity of the farmer, which is pretty much everything he's ever done ever.
Why me, thought Willy. He just wanted to enjoy a beer, but lately his silent drinking companion had been anything but silent.
“What am I gonna dooo,” the blacksmith whimpered into the table.
Willy shrugged. He didn’t know, and right now he didn’t particularly care.
“I want to curl up and diiie.”
Willy finished his pint and raised a hand to the bartender. Time to go.
“Whyyy.”
It’s three days to the Night Market and known palavers Leah Blackwood and Elliott Books are lamenting the loss of their bet before it even had a chance to begin.
“What happened!” Leah mournfully sipped her drink.
“I wish I knew.” Elliott groused into his drink. “They were doing so well a few weeks ago, but now they’re awkward whenever they’re around each other.”
“Hell, they’re awkward even when they’re not around each other.” Sip.
“Something untoward must have happened.” Sip.
Leah stared pensively into her glass, wracking her brain for the mathematical equation that would explain how Clinca could possibly have broken up before they began.
As they both worried about a future without matchmaking, meddling, and Micalint in their lives, Emily brought over an order of fried calamari.
“Oh you’re an absolute doll, Em.” Leah gingerly picked up the slice of lemon and squeezed it over the still-sizzling dish. “This is just what we needed to drown our sorrows.”
“Yes, this and another bottle of the same would be just the thing, my delectable little sea urchin.”
Emily batted playfully at his arm. “Elliott, that flirting is going to get you in trouble someday. It’s enough to fluster even the most oblivious person.”
“I’m sure I have no idea who you’re talking about.” Sip.
“No, I’m sure you don’t.” Simper. “Let me grab you that bottle.”
Elliott sat back to nibble on their appetizer while Leah sipped the last of her drink. "That bottle is just in time, isn’t it,” she said.
“Yes, it really is,” chewed Elliott. “I believe we’re in for a long night of consoling ourselves.”
“Drowning our sorrows.”
“Plodding in our own personal private pity party.”
She laughed. “You know I love it when you get all alliterate.”
“Well we need something to lift our spirits out of this funk.”
“Would you like to order spirits instead?” Emily held a bottle of white as if she were prepared to turn right back around and fetch a different drink, which would be horrible because they’d have to wait even longer for a sip and they definitely did not want that.
“No no, nooo, no. No, we’re good.”
“We simply want to raise our spirits with this establishment’s fine food and drink.”
“Oh dear,” pouted the barmaid, “whatever is the matter?”
The two misfortunate meddlers sighed, one gesturing toward the table where Clint searched for the meaning and/or end of existence within his empty glass, the other gesturing toward the game room where Mica was desperately exuding an aura of Definitely Not Noticing the table Clint occupied.
“Oooh. Mint.”
Elliott nearly spit out his first fresh sip of wine. “Excuse me?”
“You’re talking about Mint, right? Those two are getting in their own way, aren’t they.”
“I’m sorry,” Leah closed her eyes in disbelief and held up two fingers to pause the conversation, then rotated them both counter-clockwise. “Rewind a bit. What did you call them?”
“What, Mint?”
“Yes, that!”
“You’re talking about Mica and Clint, correct?”
“Yes, Mint.”
Elliott stared wide-eyed into nothing for what felt like eons. “Oh dear sweet Yoba, no.”
Leah held her head in her hands in disbelief. “How. How could we be so oblivious.”
Emily quirked her head in confusion. “What… what were you calling them?”
Both failures waved the question off like a cloud of persistent gnats.
“That’s not important right now,” Elliott deflected. “What were you saying about getting in their own way?”
“Oh!” Emily leaned in conspiratorially. “Well. A few weeks ago I just happened to overhear them agreeing to go to the night market. Together. And now it seems the closer we get to the market, the weirder those two are whenever they’re in the same room together.”
“Yes…” agreed Leah, “we noticed that too.”
“Well,” Emily stood back, “I think they’re just being nervous about it.”
“Oh?”
“Of course! It’s like a date, isn’t it?” The two nodded in agreement. “And if it’s a date-date, it stands to reason that they’re both worrying and fretting and tying themselves into knots about it, because those two are acting more nervous than a vibrator salesman at airport security.”
Leah spit out her wine. Elliott sputtered and searched for his handkerchief.
“Miss Allen!”
“Well they are, just look at them!”
She handed over a napkin and sighed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Anyway, it’ll work itself out. They’ve just got first-date jitters, so your bet is still safe.”
“Wait—”
“How did you—”
“—know about the bet?”
“What bet?”
“Emily.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Em—”
“Whoops looks like someone’s in need of a refill buh-byeeeee.”
The two meddlers looked at one another for a long moment. A lot can be said using no words at all, and they said volumes.
The silence was only broken by the crunching of calamari.
“Truly, she is to be feared.” Sip.
“Indeed.” Sip.
“Whyyy.”
It’s two hours to the Night Market and Shane Espinoza can’t believe this bullshit he’s looking at right here.
It’s an uncharacteristically balmy evening for a Pelican Town winter, and like a good tío, he brought Jas to play in the snow-sand before the sun went down and the market opened.
The problem was the two idiots set up behind a makeshift duck blind in the middle of the beach.
He just wanted to make a snow-sandman with his lil’ girl before grabbing a couple of hot cocoas and taking her on the submarine ride like he promised.
He nodded and she let go of his hand, trotting toward the water to look for snow-sandman accessories. Once she was preoccupied, Shane approached the duck blind.
“Do you really think this is going to work?”
The two idiots turned to look at each other. They were decked out in wide-brimmed sun hats, mirrored glasses, and doubled-up slankets. They turned back, unperturbed.
“Well…” said one.
“I think we look rather inconspicuous,” said the other.
“Yes, we are behind a blind after all.”
“You two stick out like balls on a heifer.”
They huddled together, whispering hurriedly.
“Do you think he got that from Emily?”
“Maybe Emily got it from him.”
“Maybe—”
“Seriously, what the hell are you doing.”
The first figure sat up haughtily. “Well if you must know, we’re preparing for a stakeout.”
“So you’re spying.”
“No,” said the second figure, crossing their arms indignantly, “we’re observing.”
“Yeah, okay,” sneered Shane. He looked down at both of them, annoyed. He knew what they were doing and it was stupid.
“You know Mint spooks easily, right? They’ll see you a mile away in this getup.”
"Wh—"
"Even he calls them Mint, Elliott!"
“Yoba we are never going to recover—”
“Cállate.”
They shut up.
“Look, spy on them all you want, I don’t care, just get this eyesore off the beach.” He sniffed. “It’s blocking Jas’ favorite spot.”
“But—”
“Cállate.”
They shut it. The winter breeze picked up and started to whistle ever so gently.
“And go change your freakin’ clothes. Don’t you cujodos have winter coats?"
"Now come on—"
"I shouldn’t have to explain hypothermia to grown-ass adults.”
Shivering despite the solid burn they just received, the two idiots pouted as they packed up their blind and trudged back to Elliott’s cabin. Eventually, he turned toward his niece, who was bouncing up to him with a handful of driftwood and shell pieces. Her nose and cheeks were ruddy from the cold ocean wind and she was having a wonderful time.
“Tío, look! We can use these for our snow-sandman!”
“That’s great, chicklet.” He knelt down, ruffling the pom-poms on her hat and adjusting her scarf back into place. “How about we get some cocoa at the Night Market when we’re all done?”
She beamed at him. “When does it start, tío?”
“Soon, chicklet.”
Notes:
Welcome back! The next update is scheduled for 2025.
For real tho, during all this downtime I've been co-writing Operation: Get Marnie a New Man with my bestest partner in shitposting crime @coolcoolglasses. It's received critical acclaim in the Oh God and What The Fuck categories, and is up for best I Thought We Were Friends How Could You Do This To Me fic of 2022.
And yes, I know this was the title of the previous chapter, but dammit, it works better here.
Chapter 6: Get it Right the First Time
Summary:
It begins.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As the sun sets over the Gem Sea, the temperature drops rapidly. The air has a familiar bite to it that causes chills to roll down spines.
The chill that ran down the spine of Mica Stone, however, was unrelated to the temperature.
The eerily familiar tingling started at the bottom of Mica’s neck and worked its way up through their hairline. It’s something they’ve felt all too often deep in the mines. And it’s distracting enough that they keep looking over their shoulder, expecting… something.
The trouble is, they don’t know what.
They’re not crazy. They’re not. Really, they’re not. It’s just that someone is watching them from somewhere and they can feel it on their skin.
Fifteen minutes into the first day of the Night Market and Mica Stone, twitchy and paranoid, feels like someone is out to get them.
They lean nonchalantly against a post and wait, fidgeting. Just a little.
On the shore, a patch of beachgrass rustles. There is no wind.
Clint arrives at the beach 15 minutes late. He looks for Mica but can’t find them.
Through the crowd, he spots a mass of blue-ish hair bobbing to and fro between vendors. Smooth as silk, a tall redhead sidles over and kisses them.
Kisses them.
They were kissed! In public! Where everyone can see!
He feels his heart sinking. How could he be so stupid? Taking that extra time to get ready was pointless because Mica is already here enjoying themselves. Without him. Being kissed by someone else.
Kissed!
His shoulders slump as he turns, defeated before he even began, and heads home.
A tap on the shoulder and a "hey buddy" snap him out of the fug he's sinking into.
"You ok?
Mica Stone, the most beautiful creature in existence, is peering up under Clint's downturned face, angelic visage scrunched with concern.
He blinked, confused. Wasn’t Mica on the far side of the dock? Slowly turning his head, he still sees the blue-ish ‘do visiting the shops with the redhead. Then another, lighter blue-ish head appears, and another, and another, and another.
…Tourists.
“Uh, did I… leave you waiting long? Sorry I’m late, I just…” Mica trails off, looking around as a child shrieks in delight at the taboo of staying up this late past bedtime. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, they turn back to their frazzled companion.
As Mica scans the shoreline, Clint swallows down the acid bubbling in his stomach. He can be cool about this. He can be normal. He can just pretend like his white-hot anxiety isn’t crawling out of his skin and melting into the sand like molten glass.
Just be yourself and everything will be alright.
“Oh no, no. Nope. No. Just—just got here myself.” Real smooth. Reeeeal smooth.
“Cool!” Mica is only half listening, turning at another suspicious sound. “Cool.”
“Have you seen anything yet?”
“No, no.” Mica’s eye twitches slightly. “I haven’t seen them yet.”
“Huh?”
“Anything, I haven’t looked at anything.” They run their fingers through dark teal tresses and smile. “Didn’t want to start without you. You did invite me, after all.”
Yes. Okay. This is good. Clint can work with this. If Mica’s happy, he’ll be happy. And then everything will go perfectly and he’ll be confident and brave and ask Mica out on a real date and not chicken out at all.
They make their way into the market, both silent, both nervous, and both completely lying to themselves about it.
A tent flap twitches.
Mica and Clint wander hither thither and yon, looking at things but not really seeing them. Clint gets them hot drinks and tries to explain certain vendors, deflating each time Mica doesn’t seem to be listening.
If this were actually a real date, it would not be going well.
A click*whirrr is heard by no one over the sounds of the market.
Mica grows twitchier and more distracted as the evening drags on. The night air that is refreshing to most patrons has become cold and unwelcoming. The atmosphere around the two is increasingly heavy and awkward.
This is it. Clint is in a literal hell.
He wracks his brain for something, anything that can salvage the evening. The submarine? No, with this vibe it might get even worse if they’re cooped up for that long. The mermaid show? No, no. No. Nnnnnno.
Unless…
As Clint turns to suggest that the two of them grab a little snack and take in a show, Mica cuts him off at the knees.
“Listen, I’m sorry…”
The blood drains from his face as Clint’s heart drops past his stomach, through the dock, and straight into the harbor.
“I’m not really feeling up to this right now.”
Maybe the tide will take his heart out to sea and it’ll be eaten by one of those other fish everyone always goes on about.
“Can we try this again tomorrow?”
Before it’s swept away into the cold, unforgiving night, Clint reels his heart back in tentatively. Just a little bit.
“You said this goes for three nights, right?” Mica rubbed their arms with a shiver. Whether it was from the cold or the paranoia, they couldn’t tell. “We should come back tomorrow.”
Clint tries to put his ocean-brined heart back into his chest as smoothly as possible.
“Oh! Oh, yeah, ok, sure, that sounds like a plan.” So goddamn smooth you don’t even know.
Panicked whispering is quickly shushed and then resumes as the two exit the market.
Mica hates everything about this.
What an absolute disaster. What a complete and total waste of an evening. They went in hoping to not act like a fool, and yet. Mica still can’t shake the residue of feeling watched. It feels slimy. And they were really looking forward to this, too.
The sand seems harder to walk through on their way back to town. Even with plans to come back tomorrow, there’s still a weird weight to the air. Mica is so on edge they’re ready to cut a bitch, and Clint’s anxiety is threaded so thin that he’d snap if one more of his heartstrings gets plucked.
Crossing the bridge in silence, Mica and Clint part ways.
And with that, Schröedinger’s date ended. The box waits, unopened, leaving them still uncertain whether they were just on a date or not.
Maybe one of them will be brave enough to open it tomorrow.
Notes:
You ever get that feeling where you're absolutely sure you're being watched and it's super distracting so you tear your hair out in paranoia but it ends up being completely innocuous and you were wigging out for nothing?
Yeah, me neither.
Chapter 7: You Picked A Real Bad Time
Summary:
Date: take two
Notes:
Hey, we posted a bunch of Pomegranny Farm Stories this weekend! So ICYMI:
1. Operation Marnie chap 29
2. Operation Marnie chap 30
3. Call Me! one shot
4. Scenes From a Pelican Town Restaurant chap 7! (you're here!)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
This time Clint is early.
The dock is crowded with both townies and tourists, but not to the point of being overwhelming. Despite the crowd, the vibe is one of hushed tones and negotiations behind doors left slightly ajar. Murmurings of dirty deals being done dirt cheap mingle with the scents of coffee and incense, giving the whole event an eerie, ethereal sort of atmosphere.
Thank Yoba it’s not as much of a sensory nightmare as the carnival at the fall fair, because Mr. Clinton Black is on edge. His apprehension is slowly rotating in his mind like a rotisserie panic attack with eleven secret fears and anxieties.
It is not enjoyable.
The worst part is he doesn’t even really know what’s wrong.
It could be a general “hanging out with the cutest farmer in the valley” nervousness, or it could be something else.
Maybe the source of his worry is the fear that Mica doesn’t really want to be here except they just had nothing better to do and wanted to see how badly he could screw up being a normal human person in public.
Perhaps he’s scared that Mica is only hanging out with him on a dare. The cool kids are probably laughing at how awkward and awful he is. Maybe they’re hiding somewhere right now, watching, waiting for him to mess up so they can take a video of him falling off the dock or something and put it up on the tic-tacs.
Or rather it’s that he’s scared of monopolizing Mica’s time when they have a million better things they could be doing rather than humoring him at the night market and they could be with literally anyone they wanted and that he’s just a big awkward waste of time and air and space that only gets in everyone’s way and he should just probably die in a fire.
Mica couldn’t actually enjoy spending time with him. Nobody ever has before. Besides, that beautiful teal ball of fluff is so far out of his league it’s laughable. He isn’t in any league to speak of. Hell, Clint never even signed up for Little League. If only he had an interest in baseball, he might be worth forming a meaningful relationship with.
He’s definitely not worried that it’ll go so well he won’t know what to do with himself. What if… what if they want to hold hands?
Yeah, right.
Maybe it’s all of those things. Or maybe it’s not any of those things.
Maybe he just needs a snack.
Thinking about snacks, his mind trails back to his not-date and, musing that Mica is quite the little snack, is immediately ashamed of himself for having Thoughts.
Why are you like this? Just…
Just take a deep breath and Don’t Think About Anything.
He wishes he could figure out why he’s so… ugh. The spiraling anxiety is compounded by an increasingly sour stomach and a headache that’s been creeping in at the seams for several hours. And his brain just won’t shut up.
It’s fine, it’s fine it’s fiiiiiine. It’ll be ok. Just… just sit down for a little while and wait.
And so, Clint sits, and Clint waits, and Clint dies a little more inside with each moment he passes alone in his own company.
It’s two minutes past the hour on day two of the night market and Mica Stone is running late. Well, not late-late. More like bordering on embarrassingly tardy. But late is late is late, and in Mica’s mind, they’re late.
Instead of a nice and easy ride to the seaside, Mica’s method of transport to the market this evening is their own two feet. Feet that are currently blistering from being shoved into weird costume cowboy boots made of unbroken leather. It was all they had left in the closet after someone chewed up their best pair of sneakers past the point of salvage and then piddled in their work boots. Miss Pepper looked so pleased with herself for having defeated the offending footwear that they couldn’t even be mad. She is just a puppy after all.
Fantasies of having more than two pairs of shoes and having something more reliable than a mercurial horse to get around town dance through Mica’s head. A second, non-living vehicle might not be a bad idea. Maybe they could discuss the budget with their sibling later.
Mica makes a mental note to speak to their sibling about training their damn dog to respect personal property.
Passing through the town square, they decide to stop indulging in flights of fanciful car ownership. The thoughts are becoming bitter and salty, and Mica desperately wants to not be grumpy this evening. They’re all too aware that this particular want is not easy to achieve. It’s a difficult battle because of course the horse would feel like being extra disagreeable today by refusing to let anyone even think of putting the saddle on her.
This is sabotage, plain and simple. Salt and Pepper are conspiring against me. I just know it.
Now that they think about it, Salt is probably sulking because Clay called her an old nag and compared her dappled silver coat to a bucket of old dishwater. To this offense, Salt promptly bucked the horrible little florist and their horrible little saddle back into the barn before sauntering away. However, her smugness was nothing but a front. The ego damage had already been done. When will Clay learn that hurting that horse’s pride is a surefire one way ticket to Pout Town?
Not being grumpy is harder than it looks when the animals are all against them.
Mica makes another mental note to speak to their sibling about not antagonizing their only mode of transportation “for funzies” anymore. It’s unprofessional. And annoying. And oh my Yoba STOP or you’ll be awful to be with all evening!
Determined to make this night go well, they pick up the pace from where they dropped it, shake it off, and continue on toward the market.
The sandy beach feels extra fine in the winter season. Toes wriggle and bury themselves in the frosty beach despite the looming specters of frostbite and hypothermia. All caution is thrown to the wind because Leah Blackwood does not fear the cold. The cold is not a hindrance. The cold keeps her sharp, keeps her wits about her. There were much more important things that needed her attention than some chilly toes.
Like whatever the hell is going on at the dock.
She jabs her elbow to the side, hitting Elliott Books just below the ribs. He does not like that but restrains himself from complaining loudly and at length. Under normal, less stealthy circumstances, he would definitely be making a fuss about bruised or broken ribs and demand medical treatment. Ideally, this would happen where the local physician could hear and volunteer his services.
Instead, he keeps his melodramatic trap shut and relies on exaggerated facial expressions. The two have known each other long enough that they didn’t need words anymore. They obviously still use words every chance they get, but they weren’t strictly necessary for holding a conversation.
|
ヽ( ಠ o ಠ)ﾉ ⊂(◔_◔ ) ( ͡º – ͡º ) ° ° ° ¡ヽ( ⊙□⊙)ﾉ! ┐(￣ヘ￣)┌ |
The pair continue gesticulating at each other in their intense yet silent conversation. After reaching a consensus, Elliott pulls out his phone, fumbles it, and struggles through sending a quick text before they turn their full attention to whatever the hell is going on over there.
Sitting on the dock with his head between his knees, Clint takes a few deep breaths. Sitting next to him with a look of concern, Clint’s not-date gently pats his back.
Eventually, he lifts his head and tries to stand up and get on with his not-date and have a good time and do everything so right and so well that they go on a date-date for real and the world is spinning in ways that it shouldn’t be and now he’s gotta sit back down.
Again he closes his eyes and puts his head between his knees. A coffee is offered and sipped slowly. Unexpectedly, the town doctor arrives claiming he got a text about a “man down” at the entrance to the market. Seeing that there is, in fact, a man down, he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.
“Okay, can one of you tell me what happened here?” The question is answered with noncommittal shrugs. Apparently Clint was like this when Mica got here and neither of them know why the man can’t seem to stand up.
Harvey puts two fingers on Clint’s wrist, checks his watch, and frowns a little. He then pinches the skin on the back of Clint’s hand and his frown deepens. “You’re running a little slow. What did you do today after your appointment?”
“Well…” Clint’s mouth feels sticky and dry. Speaking is trickier than usual. “I… went home.”
“Yes?”
“And I changed my clothes.”
“Go on.”
“And then I came here.”
Harvey waits patiently. There is nothing further. He clears his throat and tries again.
“Was there not anything else? Did you have a meal?”
Clint shakes his head morosely. “Wasn’t hungry.” After all, he had been too nervous to eat anything. And it would be better if he and Mica could eat something together at the market. That’s what you do when you go out with people, right?
Harvey stares at him blankly for a few moments. “You haven’t eaten anything.”
“No.”
“How about water?”
“Wasn’t thirsty.”
Harvey pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses in frustration and lets out a slow sigh conveying precisely how much he does not need to deal with this right now. “Clint,” he clears his throat dramatically, steepling his fingers. “You have been fasting all day for your physical, which was several hours ago. Are you telling me that you haven’t ingested anything for the past twenty-two hours?”
The blank stare the doctor receives in return is answer enough. The gesture to a half-empty cup of coffee made the answer even worse.
“Mica, could you please get some drinking water from over there? I believe Emily is volunteering at the hydration station today.” He fishes around in a little pouch clipped around his waist. “You, keep sitting for now and eat this.”
“…Isn’t this candy?”
“Without using a glucose meter, you have what I can only assume is very low blood sugar. On top of that you are on the wrong side of dehydration.”
Clint stares at the man blankly.
“…Yes, it’s candy. There is protein and sugar in there to get your glucose levels up just enough for you to go home without collapsing, which I want you to do. I also want you to get some actual food in you, not just this candy. Mica will be back with water soon.” He pushes the fun-sized candy bar into the fading man’s hands and speaks with authority. “Eat this and then get some liquid in you. I want you to drink a full glass of water, wait twenty minutes, and then drink another glass. Of water. Then go home, have a sandwich or something, and go to bed.”
“But—” Clint begins in protest before being cut off with a raised palm.
“Who am I?”
“Th… the doctor?”
“And what did I just give you?”
“…Orders?”
“And what are you going to follow.”
“…The doctor’s orders.”
“Good man.”
Before long, Mica returns with a plastic cup of water with Emily in tow carrying a full pitcher just in case the cup isn’t enough. They both catch the tail end of that exchange and share a look of concern.
The teal little farmer sits down next to their crestfallen just-a-friend as he slowly drains the cup. The little blue waitress refills it two more times before Clint starts feeling human again.
After a few words with the very patient doctor, it’s decided that Mica will escort Clint home while Emily pops into the saloon to pick up an easy, nutritious meal. After some effort, the trio makes their way up the beach and back into town.
Leah Blackwood, self-proclaimed beach yeti, reluctantly dips her frost-nipped feet into a warm foot bath. She grumbles under her breath about how she’s “just fine” and that her toes are “just a little cold, that’s all” and how it’s “not a big deal.”
Elliott Books, resident drama expert, pauses momentarily from rummaging through his cabinets to slowly applaud his friend’s masterful performance of an idiot in denial. She does not thank the academy.
“I don’t know about you, love,” he says, lifting the kettle and extinguishing the portable burner, “but I am desperate to know what was actually going on over there.”
Leah hums as he hands her a steaming mug of ginger tea with a generous spoonful of lemon honey. Today she’s been given the mug with a tongue-in-cheek dictionary definition of what a writer is. She finds it relatable, as she also is a noun with a love-hate relationship with blank paper.
Feeling her body return to life as she warms up ever so slowly, the idiot in denial sips her tea and thinks. “Well obviously it was something medical, otherwise the good doctor wouldn’t have stuck around.” Her eyes twinkle as she perceives the smallest twitch of an eye.
“Thank Yoba some upright citizen just happened to have his number.” Sip. “His personal number.” Sssip.
“When did you even get a chance to change his name to Doctor Hardbody? ”
Seeing that her needling was garnering the desired effect, she pressed on.
“Did you see his sssexy little fanny pack? ” Ssssssipipipip-sip.
The hotter the writer’s face feels, the more he hides behind his voluminous hair.
“Why, Elliott! You look a bit flushed! You’re not coming down with something, are you?”
He clears his throat and looks away.
“Oooh, that sounds like it could turn into a nasty cough. Perhaps you should go to the clinic in the morning.”
The throat clearing becomes more pronounced and deliberate, drowning out Leah’s sassy mouth. It’s the kind of cough that takes command of a conversation. “Yes! So! Anyway!” He clears his throat once more for good measure. “I believe we were discussing the disaster that was Mint’s second attempt at a date?”
The sun had long been down and the evening was a quarter-past salvageable.
While Mica slowly guides Clint back home to put him to bed, Emily hurries along to the Stardrop Saloon.
With a quick wave to the barman, she throws on an apron and heads back to the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge soon proved to be more difficult than she had hoped. It was packed so full of ingredients that it was a challenge to think of something that would meet Harvey’s requirements. Anything fried was right out, as was anything heavy, greasy, or raw. So basically, everything Clint usually ordered at the saloon was on the Do Not Eat list. Even if he could have them, there’s no way he’d be able to stomach it in his current state.
The choices immediately available seemed to be just bread and salad.
This would never do.
“Hey Guuus,” Emily called through to the back bar. “Do we still have any of that pumpkin soup from earlier in the week?”
“Sure do!” The barman put down the glassware he was sorting to give his full attention. “I put a batch in the freezer to keep it for longer.”
“Is it portion-sized?”
“Yes ma’am!”
“Perfect! I’m gonna grab one for a delivery.”
In no time at all, Emily stepped inside the warm and toasty forge. Thank Yoba she had the foresight to heat the delivery up at the saloon, because she had no idea Clint’s apartment did not have a kitchen.
The place was… rather cozy. Despite the lack of a dedicated food prep station, it feels like a home. A tidy all-purpose table and chairs is nestled near the front of the shop. Between that and the hearth, carefully labeled raw minerals, crystals, and ore samples line a display table. A glass cabinet filled with examples of Clint’s more fiddly work sits adjacent to the mineral display. Rings, brooches, amulets, and pen knives glitter in the dying light of the coal fire.
Emily had seen Clint’s work displayed at the fair more than once, and it was all incredibly well made, but she always found weapons to be distasteful. Despite that, what’s on display before her now stands in stark contrast to the armory. There is artistry behind this forge. She had no idea he could make such delicate things. As far as she knew, blacksmithing was just hitting a big bunch of red metal until it turned into a shape.
It’s a little embarrassing that she never really wondered about what he does. She promises herself that she’ll ask more about the jewelry in a few days after he’s recovered.
Remembering that she had hot soup to deliver, she steps through the door left of the forge. It leads to the living quarters where Mica is fluffing pillows, tucking blankets, and generally fussing over their friend like a nervous, hovering bird. With a light knock, Emily enters the room offering the takeout bag.
Mica breathes a slow sigh of relief. Yes! Good. The food is here. Emily will give Mica the food, Mica will give the food to Clint, and he’ll eat it and stop looking like he’s about to pass out and die and everything will be fine. It’ll be so fine that it’ll be like nothing ever happened. They can have a do-over. Mica and Clint will spend time together at the market without anything disastrous happening.
After all, third time’s the charm, right?
Right?
Notes:
I've been sitting on this one for a quick minute because I wanted to wait until we set up something over in Operation: Marnie. In fact, we ended up with two things. It's been a very prolific weekend.
But good god, let's hope these disaster bags get it together soon. There's only one day left for the market!
Chapter 8: Got to Begin Again
Summary:
Emily has Things to Say.
Notes:
You may have noticed that the sassy Stone sibling has changed their name. May I reintroduce to you the farmer with the most screentime in the Pommegranny Farmiverse, Clay Stone!
You may proceed.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tap tap tap.
The knock on the forge door is quiet and polite. Hello, it says, is anyone home, it says, I just wanted to stop in and check on how you’re doing, it says. For such a quiet sound, it is very chatty.
When no one comes, the visitor peers through the small porthole window, craning this way and that to get a good look around the place. They’re barely able to see on the edge of the multipurpose table, an elbow and a whiff of steam are just visible.
Tap Tap Tap.
The elbow startles and moves out of sight. In short order, the bolt is drawn back and Clinton Black opens the door.
“Emily.”
She smiles and holds up a basket, a red gingham tea towel covering its contents. With a nod, the door opens wider and she heads inside.
The Stardrop Saloon does not open until noon. This is a widely known fact to the citizens of Pelican Town. It’s even posted on the door for visitors.
· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
Hours: 12:00p - 12:00a
· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
The woodcut sign is rustic, classy, and informative.
Despite all this, two vagrants camp outside the front door awaiting entry. Gus has never served brunch before, but maybe today will be different.
It could happen.
One stamps their feet in the cold.
Maybe a coffee?
The other cups their hands together, warming them with their breath.
Maybe mimosas? Maybe…
It doesn’t take long for the forge to warm up the place.
Clint had been sitting at his table nursing a mug of coffee when Emily came to call. Now they both sit, enjoying the basket of breakfast goodies Emily brought along with a fresh cup of pour-over.
After last evening’s blood sugar debacle, Emily decided she would check in and make sure Clint had a hearty breakfast, and she said as much. The man nods appreciatively, slowly chewing the last bite of a biscuit sandwich stuffed with egg, cheese, and Gus’ signature homemade sausage. It’s calorie dense and very filling. When she hands him another, he takes it, distractedly.
“So…” she begins, exploring the sensitive topic hanging in the air. “About yesterday…”
A pathetic wail escapes through a mouthful of biscuit sandwich #2 as Clint rests his forehead on the table in defeat.
“Would you like to talk about it?” More exploration, this time with a gentler tone. “I’m happy to listen.” She tops off his coffee and shrugs. “Sometimes saying things out loud can help you work through whatever is bothering you.”
He looks up miserably, eyebrows knit together like a jaded puppy hoping that this time, this time there might be a treat. “Are you sure?”
She smiles, eyes kind, nodding. “Take your time.”
“I…”
The concerned puppy pauses, organizing his thoughts with a sip of coffee.
“I… like Mica.”
He looks up expecting to see any number of expressions except the one Emily is wearing. Her face is open, as if to say “yes, and?” Apparently the confession was unsurprising. Has he really been that transparent this whole time?
Confessing to somebody, anybody, that he, Clinton Black, like-likes Mica Stone, is possibly the scariest thing he has done ever in his whole entire life. And it wasn’t bad as all that. If he can do that, maybe he could do anything.
Maybe he could even elaborate.
“I like spending time with them. A-and I would really like to spend more time with them, you know?” He sips his coffee. “Sometimes I think they might also like spending time with me, but then also sometimes I think they’re just being polite about it.”
Eyebrows raise in encouragement to continue. With a deep breath, he does so.
“I’m scared that if I tell them how I feel and… ask them. On, you know.” Deep breath. You can do it, you brave little toaster. “That if I ask them on a date they’ll say no and never come back and hate me forever.”
Everything about the man screams misery. The poor thing has worked himself into a million miserable little knots fraying in a million different ways. This is harder than he thought. Maybe saying everything out loud makes things come true. Shit. It was he who ruined his chances all along!
A gentle touch on his hand brings him back from the brink of another anxiety spiral.
“I don’t think that’s likely to happen. I’ve seen how you two interact at the bar,” she says, continuing before he can protest. “Those are not the actions of a person faking it.”
Emily places her other hand on top of the hand that’s already on his. “Mica likes you too, Clint. It’s clear as day to me.”
Well. This is unexpected. His mind nudges the box of disparaging thoughts to the side and opens the dusty bag of positive thinking. Things are looking good. This could be ok, couldn’t it?
But… positive thinking is exhausting. It’s back to the box for just a moment.
“How can I tell them, though? I’m,” he gestures at his whole, miserable self, “me. I couldn’t even tell you when I— when I—”
Oh shit.
The penny drops along with his stomach.
Shit shit shit shitshitshitshit—
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” she smiles that damn smile again. “I already knew.”
Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckityfuck—
“You— why— if you… why, if—”
“Sweetheart,” she smiles apologetically for the truth bomb she’s about to drop. “I’m gay.”
Oh.
“Oh.” For some reason he feels… lighter. “Oooh.”
They both smile for different reasons.
“You know what I think? I think you can tell them. You have the tools for it.” His confusion prompts her to continue and she gestures to the forge. “Literally.”
She can see the wheels turning in his mind. He’s so close! It’s time for Emily’s Encouragement, patent pending.
“I saw the display case last night. I had no idea you did such delicate work, Clint. You’ve only ever shown weaponry at the fair.” Unused to praise, the blacksmith blushes in embarrassment and curls in on himself. “And it’s always very well made! You can see the artistry you put into each blade, you know?. But those,” she points deliberately to the glass display case filled with various items of jewelry. “Those are a different kind of artistry.”
Huh. He never thought of it that way before.
“If you can’t say it with words, why not say it with art?”
At 11:30, the door to the Stardrop Saloon opens to reveal a whistling Gus, taking out the trash generated in preparation for the day. Hup, flip the lid, toss the bag, strike a pose, close the can. It’s going to be a good day.
Trash disposed, he turns to go back inside and sees them waiting there, eyes shining and hopeful.
“Gus!”
“Guuus!”
“She’s not here yet.”
Leah Blackwood and Elliott Books put on their most pleading pouty faces. One’s eyebrows raise. The other’s lip trembles. Both gestures say the same thing without saying a word.
Pleeeeeeeease?
It’s one of the most pathetic displays the barman has ever seen from two grown-ass adult human beings.
“She. Is coming in early today.” Mumble grumble mumumbgle. “I suppose you can come in and warm up while you wait.”
Delight sparkles in their eyes.
“Thank youuuu!”
“Thank you Mr. Ozcan!”
“But the kitchen won’t be opening early."
“Aww!”
“Boooo!”
You have to be firm with troublemakers sometimes.
In the forge, Clinton Black finishes what’s left of a blueberry muffin and thinks. It was nice of Emily to check on him. She’s a good friend.
A good gay friend.
He chuckles to himself. In hindsight it’s obvious. That was her kissing that pretty redhead the other night at the market. If he hadn’t panicked at a glimpse of blue-ish hair, he might have noticed that very important detail.
Good grief.
Emily really did give him a lot to think about, didn’t she? He had almost forgotten about the cabinet. He did benchwork in his youth, but those tools got put away a long time ago. He used to make intricate little things. Now his bench is covered in odds and ends that didn’t have a dedicated place; bits of scrap, broken tools, and sooty rags littered the top.
If Emily hadn’t pointed out the cabinet, his eyes may have continued to sweep over it unnoticed for another ten or twenty years. The only thing he registered anymore was the forge.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he realizes that the empty space he had been staring into wasn’t so empty after all. Eyes refocus on the display cabinet. The glass itself is coated in a thin layer of soot, but the contents within are only slightly dusty.
You put a lot of love and care into the things you create, she said. Your love language isn’t like everyone else’s and it doesn’t have to be.
He turns the latch and takes a ring from the display. A large faceted ruby sits atop a golden ring, secured with a bezel. He picks up another. Ruby, aquamarine, topaz, and jade alternate in an iridium eternity band. Another. Gold, emerald. Another. Iron, magnetite. Each and every piece is unique.
Why did he ever stop making these? Sure, the guild contract took up more and more of his time and farm tools always needed repaired and this and that and the other thing always required the forge. People stopped asking for smaller pieces, and without the demand he just sort of… stopped offering those services.
Your love language isn’t like everyone else’s…
He always did seem to stumble with words.
…and it doesn’t have to be.
Clinton Black, current blacksmith and former silversmith, makes up his mind. Retrieving a pad and pencil, he sits down to draw.
Leah Blackwood pulls back the sleeve of her bosom buddy Elliott Books to read the stupid pretentious analog watch he wears on his stupid pretentious wrist. It’s stupid, it’s pretentious, and it says it’s just about one o’clock. When the second hand ticks over to one o’clock on the money, the saloon doors open to admit a beautiful blue babe that’s about to serve up some hot, fresh tea.
Well, not tea exactly. Hopefully it’s more like mimosas. Chilled mimosas with a side of hot goss.
“Emily!”
“Emilyyy!”
“Well aren’t you two here early!” Emily twirls behind the bar to hang her coat in a little cubby. “How did you get Gus to let you in?”
“Oh, you know,” said one.
“Secret ways, secret wiles,” said the other.
“Speaking of secrets—”
“No.”
Never before had they heard such a cheery dismissal.
“But we—”
“Really want to know what happened last night on the dock?”
“…Yes?”
“No.”
The two patrons frown at one another. This is not going how they planned. Emily was supposed to eagerly spill the beans about the Minty doctor debacle, but no. Here she is, flatly refusing to even open the can. She’s leaving them beanless. Beanless and thirsty.
“It is a private matter, so you’ll just have to wait and see what happens tonight.”
Drat. No beans.
“I don’t suppose we could place an order for brunch?”
The bean-denier raises an eyebrow with a smirk. “Mimosas?”
“Mee-moes!”
“Mimosas!”
Clay Stone, local horse botherer and sage advice giver, watches as their dear sibling cries into a half-eaten plate of eggs.
“Why why why WHY do I keep finding you whining face-down in your food.” They tap a sad, eggy shoulder and throw both hands up in disgust. “I can’t even steal any of this, it’s all covered in sad whiney bastard.”
A pathetic sound burbles up from the scrambled eggs.
They know why, of course. The asking was rhetorical. The only possible reason Mica Stone, local sad whiney bastard, could possibly be face down in a plate of eggs, and a perfectly good plate of eggs at that, yobdammit, is because they are bad at romance.
Mica tried, they really did. They tried and tried but it kept ending in disaster. Date one? Paranoid disaster. Date two? Hypoglycemic disaster. Date three? Well, that’s the thing. They’ve got one more shot to go on a date with their super mega big-time crush and they’re terrified that if it goes wrong just one more time, then that’s it. There is no hope, love is dead, and they’ll just have to throw themselves into the sun.
“I’m going to throw myself into the sun.”
“Oh come on now, be reasonable.” Clay eschews the wet eggs and tries for the barely touched cup of coffee. “It’s not practical. It’d be muuuch easier to fling yourself into one of the bottomless pits in the mines.” Sip.
“Ugh,” they spit the drink back into the cup. “What on Yob’s green earth did you put in this?”
Mica sniffs eggily. “Nothing.”
“Ah yes, dark and bitter. JUST like someone I know!”
Clay does a little shimmy and holds a pose mid-jazz hands, but Mica decides to be a slugbutt and leave a fella hanging. Guess they gotta do everything around here.
“Ba-dum chhh!”
What is the world coming to when a fella has to do their own rimshot?
But still Mica slugs it up and refuses to move. For a moment Clay can’t even tell if they’re breathing.
Can you drown in scrambled eggs? Is that even possible?
With literal eggs on their face, Mica turns their head to breathe, now with an earful of eggs. Clay is about to say something pithy again, but Mica stares into nowhere with dull, dead eyes, and…
Oh. Oh shit. They’re actually worried. Like, FOR REAL worried.
Clay temporarily shifts out of gremlin mode and begins picking bits of breakfast out of their sad sibling’s curls. Pick.
“…It’ll be fine.” Pick pick.
“But what if it isn’t.” Sniffle.
“Hey, you got this.” Pick pick pick.
“But what if I don’t.” Snrrrf.
“You can do a fun date, dummy. I know you can.” Pick pick p-YUCK.
“But what if I can’t.” Snnnnortfleh pleh bleh.
“Dammit Mica!” Clay shakes the egg bits their big sibling snorted up and spat out onto their hand. “I’m tryin’ to help out here, quit coke-snorting your eggs and clean yourself up ya dingus.” With a disgusted face, they clomp off to the bathroom, leaving the egg-baby to wallow alone.
“There better not be any eggs when I get back out there!”
“MUUUUUH.”
“Just DO it, Chips. You’re making the place look untidy.”
Five minutes and several kitchen towels later, Clay returns carrying a nondescript brown package. Seeing that the place is passably clean, they place the package in front of an egg-free Mica.
“What’s this.”
“Early Winter Star. Figured you could use it sooner than later.”
Devoid of all emotion, Mica opens the box to reveal… boots.
“Since Pepper pissed in your boots and ate your stinky sneakers and everything.”
They’re nice. Really nice. The deep blue boots are covered in a sturdy, soft material. Substantial soles, decent ankle support, insulated yet breathable. The only visible extravagances are the polished steel toe caps and some coral embroidery near the top.
They don’t even look like they need to be broken in.
“Whereth. Thh. Aaa.” Mica unties their tongue and tries again. “I’ve never seen boots like this before, where did you even get these?”
“WELL Y’SEE you’ve been bitching for a million years about your shitty boots, all ‘WEH my boooots’ and ‘WEH working in the mines hurts my feeeet’ so I thought to myself, SELF, you magnificent sonofabitch, you can shut them the fuck up with some actual good shoes and maybe they’ll like them SO MUCH that they stop being a whiney little pissbaby for at least ten minutes.” Clay polishes their glasses on their shirt so they don’t have to keep looking at what this whole deal is doing to Mica’s face. “So then I was like YOU KNOW WHO KNOWS ABOUT SHOES and it’s Haley but she was worthless for practical footwear so I asked Emily and she made these.”
Mica looks past the run-on sentences and studies the boots.
“She made these?”
“Yeah who knew she was a cobbler on top of everything else, go figure am I right.”
The long-suffering little sibling slides their glasses back on. They’re greeted with a barely audible sniffle.
“Aw hell, don’t cry.”
A lip quivers.
“Really? Really.”
Tears begin to well. One escapes and rolls right into the side of Mica’s nose, joining the remainders of the cry-snot that’s threatening to make a comeback.
“Come on now, stop that.” Clay produces a handkerchief out of nowhere and hands it over. “You already ruined your eggs, what else do you want!”
Tap tap tap.
The knock on the forge door is quiet and polite. Hello, it says, I’m back, it says, checking to see how you’re doing again, it says. A lot can be said with one of Emily’s knocks.
Again, no one comes to the door. Again, the small porthole window is used for peeping.
Through it she sees the blacksmith sitting at a little workbench she never noticed before, focusing intently on something with tools she can’t quite see. He does a thing here, studies it, does a thing there, studies it again.
Clint flips up a magnifying visor and inspects the thing in his hand. As he turns it this way and that, Emily catches a glimpse of what he’s been so focused on.
She does not knock again. Instead she turns away, smiling.
He’ll do just fine.
Notes:
I was walking around, minding my own business, when suddenly I found myself set upon by too many crows. "Write! Write a chapter!" they screamed at me. At least, that was the subtext. All I could really make out was "CAW CAW MOTHERFUCKER!"
Anyway, here's Wonderwall.
Chapter 9: A Matter of Trust
Summary:
Third time's the charm?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
People meander around the docks on the final day of the night market. Some are there for the last minute closeout bargains, others waited just to avoid the crowds from the first two days. It’s still crowded, but there’s a little more breathing room.
Despite the reduced attendance, there are few vantage points that make it any easier to find specific targets among the crowd. Hiding out in a ground blind on the frozen beach offered a broad view of who was coming and going. Holing up in an unoccupied boat gave a close-up but limited scannable range. Both locations kept the watcher undetectable to the unobservant attendees.
Tonight, however, Leah Blackwood and Elliott Books have decided they’ve had enough of stakeouts in the freezing cold and have taken to hovering around the coffee stand. They may be exposed, but there’s at least a steady supply of hot drinks to be had.
“Ugh, when are they going to get here I’m bored.”
“Be patient, darling.” Elliott delicately blows away the steam from the surface of his coffee and takes a sip. “They’ll get here when they get here.”
Leah’s patience lasts only as long as her coffee does. The empty cup lazily spins around and around in her hands so it has something to do. Free hot drinks are nice, but the waiting period between cups is excruciating.
“Who do you think is gonna show up first?”
“Oh Mica, definitely.”
“Not Clint?”
“Mmn.” Sssip.
An endless moment passes. The sounds of chattering folk, the waves, and a horrible best friend pointedly sipping at a coffee while making eye contact knowing full well that her cup is empty, the bastard, begins to grate Leah’s already frayed nerves. She’s feeling combative, and deals with it the only way she knows how.
“You wanna bet on it?”
“I do love making you pay the bar tab.” Sssssip.
“Shut up.”
A holler from the coffee corner alerts those on the docks that the next batch is ready and that they should come get it while it is hot and available. Elliott considers expanding upon how this sentiment pertains to him, but decides low-hanging fruit isn’t his style this evening.
Leah desperately makes a beeline for the fresh pot and hands over her cup. The impatient woman does not even wait for the steam to dissipate from the dark liquid before taking that first long awaited sip. It’s bliss. The steamy drink warms her through to her very core and keeps her fingers nice and toasty. She feels rejuvinated, reinvigorated, re-caffeinated.
“Ok ok ok. So,” she sips, pausing to get her thoughts in order. “I’ll take Clint, You take Mica, and the loser owes the winner another drink.” Sssip. Ahhhhh.
“What’s the secret third option?”
“The what?”
“Don’t play coy with me, madam,” chides Elliott, sipping his own recently topped off coffee. “You always have a secret third option up your devious sleeves.”
Leah thinks on this. She’s beginning to twitch. How many coffees has she had this evening? Three? Four? Seven?
“What, like if it’s neither?” The thought of both of them chickening out on this “third time’s a charm” date hadn’t previously occurred to her. It very well might be a possibility.
What a depressing thought.
“If they ghost each other the prize gets downgraded to a coffee.”
“Dearest, the coffee is free.”
“Exactly.”
Away from the market near a sandy bridge just up the beach, two people meet. They’ve unsuccessfully been trying to meet for two days. This time they both arrive at the same time. The pair stand where the stone meets the sand, facing each other in the cool night breeze, both nervous, both trying not to show it. The awkward silence is broken by both in an awkward attempt to move things along.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
An amused snort escapes one and both break the remaining tension with laughter.
“You wanna head in?” asks one.
“Sure,” answers the other. “Let’s go.”
This is Mica’s third time going to the market, but only on a technicality. Tonight is the first time they’re actually experiencing it. Nobody in the town really talked about the night market in great detail, but it’s so much more than any words could describe. The lights, the sounds, the slightly festive decorations; if it weren’t for the soft crash of the waves and the smell of the sea on the cold night air, this could be mistaken for an event in one of the boroughs in the city.
The whole thing hits Mica right in the nostalgia. There are many things they miss about being in the city, but… there are a lot of things they’d miss here if they were to leave the farm. Events like this, for example. And their goats. And mining.
And the sweet, tortuous feeling of spending an evening with a crush when you have no idea where any of this is going and it is killing you.
Said crush is guiding them between various floating vendors, pointing out this and that, what’s new this year, what’s a long-standing staple of the market. He looks… really good. Mica can’t quite place what’s different. Have they never seen that jacket before? Did he do something with his hair?
He smiles, cheeks ruddy with the cold. Minuscule flurries of snow seem to frame his profile in the lantern light. Dear sweet Yoba. Mica could look at that smile all day.
“What do you think? Should we?” The man with the bewitching smile raises eyebrows in anticipation.
“Hmm?” What? Shit, what did I miss!
“The mermaid show. I could— I can go get tickets? If you want.”
“I, uh— yes!” Is it the smile? Did he whiten his teeth? “Yeah, that sounds pretty cool.”
“Okay!” Clint beams. “I’ll go grab some for the next show, don’t go anywhere I’ll be right back!”
Mica watches him head toward the ticket vendor. A certain type of person might think that they hate to see him go but love to watch him leave. That kind of person wouldn’t be blushing at the thought, though. Or maybe they would. Who’s to say?
Mica begins browsing the nearby boat stalls in the unexpected alone time. There’s a surprising amount of holiday decorations on offer on the small boat. It’s a wonder the plants didn’t freeze solid in the cold.
They begin sifting through the seasonal plant displays, wondering if they could surprise their sibling with any of them. This one? No. That one? Mmmno. This one seems familiar… do they have one already or is it something new?
As the plants are pondered, Mica feels a light touch on their shoulder
“Heeey.”
“Wow that was fast!” They set down a succulent arrangement and turn to find not their date at all who in Yoba’s seven hells is this.
“I seem to have lost my number, can I have yours?”
Oh my YOB he can’t be serious.
“Just put it right in here,” the stranger proffers a phone pulled open to the number pad. The attempted smoldering look only succeeds in turning Mica’s stomach.
“You can call me whenever you’re feeling lonely.”
G R O S S
If Mica were anywhere other than a crowded festival, they would grab this clown by the belt and throw him off the dock. If they tried that now, the sleazeball would probably hit a boat on his way down, crack open his skull, bleed out, drown in the surf underneath the pier, frighten whatever teenagers are currently down there making out, and generally cause a ruckus so loud that Mica would end the night dateless and imprisoned with a charge of manslaughter.
But maybe… No. After all, this is a crowded festival with lots and lots of witnesses, so it’d probably be safer not to cause a scene. Diplomacy is the only option here.
“Go away.”
Nobody said diplomacy had to be polite.
“Aw, don’t be like that baby. We can have a good time together.”
“Leave.”
“Did you know you’re gorgeous when you’re angry?”
The man is as smooth as a bowel movement and twice as disgusting. His refusal to fuck off right out of here and leave Mica alone is really starting to get on their nerves. Throwing him into the harbor is starting to feel like a viable option.
“Alright, alright, I’ll go,” the man concedes. “But take this…”
Without warning he grabs Mica by the hand and quickly scribbles a phone number on their palm. The sensation is disgusting. Mica can feel their face heating with barely repressed anger as the urge to slap this asshole right across the face with his own phone number rises with each written digit.
“Don’t lose it, okay? Call me some time, baby.”
And with that, the man spins on his heel and saunters away, shooting a pair of finger guns before disappearing into the crowd. Mica glares after him just in case he decided to spontaneously combust right there on the dock and grabs a handkerchief to remove the offensive screed.
It won’t come off.
That little shit used a permanent marker.
Scanning the crowd for the offender so they can punt him into the sun, they find Clint on his way back, tickets in hand. Mica hides their hands in embarrassment. Who knows how long it’ll be before they can scrub them clean? Maybe there’s some place selling gloves around here.
Smiling, Mica walks forward to meet the blacksmith halfway. Nothing will ruin this evening. They won’t let it.
For Clinton Black, today feels… easier. This is easy. He can do this. He is doing this! There’s no pervasive sense of being watched, blood sugar is where it ought to be, anxiety is (for now) under control. After all, it helps to have a little courage in your pocket, wrapped up all nice and protected and safe. All he’s got to do now is deploy it at the right time.
For real though, he cannot believe his own luck. This is going so well! They’re having fun. Mica is having fun. With him! Mica is having fun at the market with him AND they’re going to see a show together. Together!!
Oh yob they’re going to see a show together.
The next available is in half an hour. That’ll work. He grabs a pair, thanking the ticket seller before heading back along— wait no, he also needs two more tickets please, sorry, thank you— the gangplanks. Clint slides the tickets in the breast pocket of his coat next to his courage. Scanning the crowd for his date crush friend, he finds them near some plant arrangements. Next to some guy.
Next to some guy that takes Mica’s hand.
No…
Next to some guy that takes Mica’s hand and writes on it.
What is happening? Is Mica blushing?
Did they… is it… am I…?
Bewildered and distressed, Clint steps out of the main walkway to hide, leaning against the wall of Willy’s fish shack to compose himself. He just saw his crush, the person he came with specifically and has been spending the entire evening with, hand in hand with another guy that was smiling like a total jerk and doing something to Mica’s palm.
Mica was just waiting for you to go away so they could hang out with other more interesting people. Just look at the empirical evidence. They’re bored already and started chatting people up as soon as you left. You big dumb idiot.
Clint clutches his head. It’s too hot. Why is it so hot? There are too many people here, that’s what’s making everything so hot and awful and—
You knew this was going to happen, deep down. You’re no fun at parties. You’re weird and awkward and people can’t stand to be around you.
Clint slides down the wall of the shack, folding in on himself as he begins to spiral. Thoughts race in every direction and all of them are going the wrong way.
Mica couldn’t ever like you. They just agreed to the mermaid show out of pity. They agreed to this whole thing out of pity. And now you’ve bought the tickets and you’ve got to suffer through it with someone that would much rather be anywhere else than with you.
Clint hugs himself tightly, afraid that if he doesn’t keep himself together now, he’ll crumble to dust and blow away in the wind. Why is he always like this? Why does everything fall apart as soon as he lets his guard down?
He is miserable. Devestated. How could he face Mica now? Unconsciously he touches the pocket holding the despicable tickets. There’s an unfamiliar lump. Something else is in the inner pocket, he knows that, but in this haze he can’t quite remember…
It’s… a small leather tool roll. Without thinking he unrolls it and lifts the protective flap.
Fingers brush against the tissue paper wrapped around the piece he’d been working on all morning. Oh. That’s right. How could he forget about this? It says more than words every could. He remembered wanting nothing more than to give this to Mica and finally let them know how he feels. The metal is smooth under his fingers in stark contrast to the rough, crinkly paper. It grounds him.
Don’t react instinctively when your instincts are catastrophic. Last time a glimpse of blueish hair convinced you that Mica was kissing someone else, even though it was completely the wrong shade, length, and texture. Not exactly your finest moment.
So then what was actually happening? What did it look like it could’ve been?
It… it looked… like that guy was hitting on Mica.
Was Mica smiling? What was their body language saying? Were they talking at all?
They were facing away so uh… uhm… but they looked pretty stiff, like a statue!
Did Mica look like they were enjoying being propositioned by a stranger with no boundaries and a sharpie?
You know what Mica looks like when they actually enjoy talking to a person and it did NOT look like THAT.
With shaky determination, Clint takes a deep, calming breath and stands. Then he rewraps the tool roll and secures it in his pocket. It’s time to go back. Tickets in hand, he steps back out into the market.
Mica is alone again, staring down the dock like a dog sighting prey, relaxing their posture after a few seconds. Clint doesn’t know how to feel. But then they turn and smile, not in general but at him, and suddenly whatever was bothering him doesn’t matter so much anymore.
Touching the pocket once more, Clint steps forward to face his fear. No matter what happens, nothing will ruin this evening. He won’t let it.
Notes:
Sometimes you have to trust not only others, but yourself.
And you also have to trust that I will finish this dang story, even if the breaks between chapters are excruciatingly long. I'll do it! Just you watch!
Chapter 10: This Night is Still Young
Summary:
Let's get this show on the
roadboat.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“That was… wow. That was WOW-wow.”
As “date” activities go, the mermaid show appears to have been a success. So successful, in fact, that Mica cannot stop bouncing their heels on the way out of the floating theater. Every second of the show was mesmerizing. It was “wow.” Mica tries to find the words, but their vocabulary seems to have taken its government mandated 15 minute break.
“WOW!”
Clint let out a long sigh. The show was great even though he didn’t actually see any of it. He remembers the spotlight bouncing off the stage ocean and making Mica’s eyes shimmer and sparkle with amazement. And he remembers the way the audience swayed to the music, causing Mica’s arm to brush against his in brief contact… Clint experienced a completely different show.
“I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that,” Mica continued. There’s an energy there that Clint has never seen. It’s adorable. “I thought it was going to be like, marionettes or burlesque dancers or something, not a fully produced musical number!”
“What!” Clint snorted in amusement. “How— where did you even get that idea?”
“I don’t know! It seemed like the most likely possibility given that we’re all the way out here.” Mica smiles, hopping to the next gangplank leading back to the dock. “That was like something you’d see in the city, and stuff like that doesn’t make its way to podunk towns like this one. Musical theater is expensive, gotta be sure they recoup the cost.”
“How do you know all that?”
Mica’s perfect mouth twitches in amusement. “I grew up with musical theater.”
Clint mentally fist-pumps a yesssss. He picked a thing and it was good! He did a good! But wait… if musicals don’t go much further than the city…
“Didn’t you say you grew up out here though?”
“Pfff, yeah man, tapes exist.” Mica doesn’t elaborate until Clint quirks his head like a confused puppy. “We watched all these old VHS tapes Gram recorded on the TV. It wasn’t until we moved to the city that I realized she was into some really out-there stuff.”
Mica spins to the next plank and begins walking backward to face their date. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to see a show again without traveling like 300 miles. Or stealing cable.”
“300 miles? Geez, that’s a long way to go for a show.” Clint has never traveled that far for anything. Ever! The distance is unimaginable. “You must really like musicals if you’d go 300 miles.”
“Uh, yeah I do. They’re great!” Mica’s excitement is becoming infectious. “Next time there’s a good one in Zuzu we should go and you’ll see what I mean.”
Clint’s heart stops him in his tracks. Did... did they just—
By the time his brain finishes buffering, Mica has already stepped back onto the dock. They turn and smile, and Clint has nowhere to go but forward. Back is no longer an option.
“Seen them yet?” Sssip.
“Nnnope.” Leah pops the P dramatically. It barely occupies the space where the drama should be. “I’m beginning to forget why we’re even out here.”
Elliott pats her shoulder with a be-mittened hand. “For the drama, of course.”
His friend stares forlornly at the grounds in the bottom of her cup. Empty again. “This right here is the most dramatic thing to happen this evening.”
“Oh poor you.”
“I need a fainting couch so I can throw myself backward in duress.”
Elliott swirls the remains of his cup. “You could try it now anyway.”
“I would fall off the dock!”
“But it would be dramatic, would it not? You are currently suffering from a dreadful drama deficiency.” Sssip.
“I am, it’s terrible.”
“Fatal, even.” Sssssip. “Especially if, in your overwhelming grief, you throw yourself into the sea.”
“Only coffee can save me from such a terrible fate.”
“Oh whatever shall we do for the remaining five minutes of brew time?”
“Whither away and die.”
“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“That’s the point!”
Throughout the evening, Clint would touch the breast pocket holding the piece he worked so hard on whenever doubt began to stir in his mind. Nestled right next to it are the other tickets. The secret surprise tickets. The secret surprise submarine tickets that he hoped like hell would be a success.
Yob he hopes they’re a success.
The two wander around the market at a leisurely pace, taking in the general atmosphere and keeping an eye out for tasty snacks. Unbeknownst to one, this is only meant to kill time before the super secret surprise submarine ride. And so they go, side by side, with exactly the vibe you might expect from an impatient gift giver waiting for The Reaction.
They do all the touristy things one does at the market. Something deep-fried in a paper cup is purchased. Pictures are taken of the floating pig. Endless boat-window shopping. Soon enough, they come back around to the tiny plant shop Mica was perusing earlier.
As they look over what’s been put out to fill empty spaces, the merchant is waved over and Mica begins bombarding him with questions, such as “what do you have for someone already into plants” and “no, like, really into plants, waddaya got” and “they’re a florist, do you have anything rare or what?” As soon as the word “rare” is uttered, the merchant starts whispering about secret menu items behind the back of a hand and the discussion turns serious.
Clint observes the back-and-forth. They appear to be haggling. He wonders who’s winning. With the way it’s going, it looks like it might take a while. And wouldn’t it be nice if Mica had a drink waiting for them when they were done?
Yes. Yes it would be nice. In fact, right now would be the perfect time to step away to grab a couple of coffees while Mica negotiates a purchase.
What a thoughtful idea! Did Clint really think of it himself? He must have, because why else would he be striding so confidently toward the coffee corner?
Look at you, being completely normal and not panicking at all! Keep it going! You’re doing GREAT!
“Two coffees, please.” He holds up two fingers to indicate the number of desired coffees. “Oh, and could you make one of them a mocha?” Asking for an off-menu item feels so daring. He’s pulling out all the stops tonight!
“Well, I don’t normally do full-on mocha at these things…”
Perhaps he went too far.
“But if you’re just wanting a little chocolate in the coffee, I think I can whip something up for you.”
Yesss.
“Hey baby, did you miss me?”
In a soft baritone, such a statement might make Mica swoon into a giggling mess of a person. This reedy tenor only causes Mica’s blood to simmer and spit like a kettle running dry.
Like a persistent fungus, the sleazeball has returned. He stepped from out of nowhere and stood right next to Mica, getting all up in personal space that does not belong to him.
“So whaddaya say, babe? You wanna get out of here, maybe grab a drink?”
“I thought I told you to leave.”
“Aw, don’t be like that baby, I know it was only so you could watch me go.” The sonofabitch smirks, tossing their hair in the cool, nonchalant way that insufferable men do when they want to impress someone but pretend like it’s not that big of a deal if you even notice, really.
This smug little fucker—
“I could give you a repeat show,” the smug little fucker leans in closer, wrapping an arm around Mica’s shoulder possessively in a way that hints no escape, “perhaps without pants this time.”
Anger and annoyance and disgust roll off Mica in waves. They are trying so hard to hold back a powerful urge to retch for fear they might actually vomit. Flipping this little shit off his ass and into the harbour seems more and more like a viable option. He smiles and taps Mica’s nose.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re angry.”
If that’s true, Mica could compete in and win any number of beauty pageants with their special skill of throwing disgusting creeps directly into the sea.
Everything is going so well! How lucky is it that the coffee merchant just happened to have chocolate today? And he didn’t even charge extra! Granted, the coffee was already free because the town paid upfront for everything, but it was still pretty cool!
Everything is coming up Clint and it’s giving him a double shot of confidence. His head swims with the anticipation of surprising Mica with a mocha, only to then surprise them even more with a submarine ride, and maybe if he’s still feeling bold enough…
If he’s still… feeling…
The thought sputters and dies as Clint stops short. He can’t seem to get his brain working again, and he can’t tear his eyes away from that guy. Not 50 feet away, the guy that was with Mica earlier is back and now they’re closer than ever. They’re— they’re touching! In a hug! Oh Yob, is this—
Nooope!
Before The Thoughts have a chance to begin another beatdown on Clint’s self esteem, The Voice steps up.
The Mermaid show went so, so well.
But—
Nuh! Nope! You were there for the whole thing. How well that show went is empirical evidence that the Other Thoughts are liars.
Huh. The little voice has a point. Those other thoughts are big fat liars, and perhaps they always have been, right?
So then why are Mica and that guy being all touchy-touchy?
Think about this. Earlier Mica was not having a good time when that guy was there. Isn’t it likely that Mica is once again not having a good time now that he’s back?
Y… yes. Yes that is logically very likely. But—
Do you want Mica to have a bad time?
No.
No! Mica should not be having a bad time tonight. The last two nights were bad already. There’s nothing he can do to fix that. This time, though, they should have a nice time no matter what, and if this time Clint can fix it? Then he’ll fix it.
Clinton Black, a man that makes himself smaller almost on reflex, pulls back his shoulders and straightens to his full height. Then he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and steps into the fray. Is he prepared for trouble? No. But he’ll face it anyway.
“Let. Go. Of. Me.”
“I can tell by your eyes you’re a real spitfire, you know that?”
The jerkass’s continued lounging on Mica’s shoulder is unwanted and he knows it. He knows it, Mica knows he knows it, probably anyone with eyes to see knows it, and yet he does not stop. Because hey, what’s an obstacle or two in the long run, really? Walls are meant to be broken down. The higher they are, the better the challenge.
“I like ‘em feisty.” He rolls his tongue like a purring cat and paws clawed fingers in the air.
The scowl on the feisty spitfire’s face melts away into a grin and the horrid little troll takes this as a sign of progress. There’s even a twinkle in their eyes now. Operation: Wear ‘em Down is practically a success already. He’ll have this teal tease eating out of his hands and possibly other things in no time. And then he’ll—
Abruptly a shadow falls over them, eclipsing all else. He sighs inwardly. Of course there would be interruptions. Looks like it’s time to enact Plan B: Intimidate Obstacles to get back on track to some quality alone time.
Arm possessively wrapped around Mica, the master seducer turns to upbraid whoever it is encroaching on his good time and finds himself staring straight into a heavily weathered leather coat. He tilts his head upward. He tilts it upward some more.
When he’s finally looking high enough to see the face of the man in all that leather, it takes all he’s got to not visibly wince.
Standing before him is a giant, six-foot-four slab of a man that looms above literally everything except the boat. Two steaming coffees are gripped in his rough, meaty hands. His eyes narrow to near slits as he tilts his own head downward to assess the situation.
What— How can a man be so WIDE?
Two coffees… wait, TWO coffees?
Aw hell.
“Is there a problem here?”
SHIT.
It suddenly becomes imperative that he exit this situation as rapidly as possible. Time for Contingency Plan Ω: Get the Fuck Out of Here.
For no real important reason or anything like that, the perfect gentleman decides to stretch, releasing Mica from confinement that wasn’t really confinement-confinement because they are just two good ol’ buddies just catching up and it’s not a big deal or whatever so don’t worry about it, ok? It’s cool, we’re cool. Everyone’s cool.
The super nice guy flips rapidly through his mind to find excuses to weasel out of potentially physical confrontations while still saving face. “Oh heeey, I—”
“Is this man bothering you, Mica?”
Despite the gentle tone, the sheer bulk of this man effectively made the statement intimate both a threat and a promise.
Okay fuck this.
Without another word, the little weasel exits the dock as nonchalantly as possible without causing a scene. When he can still feel those giant, dispassionate eyes bore through him as he hits the beach, nonchalance becomes a little less important and he breaks into a sprint. The sooner he can get away from Pelican Town, the better.
Only when the man steps off the dock and is swallowed by the darkness does Clint relaxes his posture. With a relieved sigh, he turns back towards his date. Or what he hopes is his date. Is this a date? It… it is a date, isn’t it? It’s been going like a date.
His maybe-date stares at him, mouth slightly agape.
Oooh no. Did he go too far? He many have gone too far. Oh man, he went way too far. Or maybe not? All he did was stand there and ask a question, really. But come on, he’s so big, of course there will be implications.
He instinctively wants to curl in on himself, but resists the urge as hard as possible— there are more important things than whatever the hell his mind is trying to do right now.
“Are you… ok?”
“Ah-hahaha, ha, yeah, I’m ok thanks…” Mica stumbles over their words, a little embarrassed to be caught staring. “That was pretty cool.”
Having never done anything “cool” in his life, Clint looks puzzled at this assertion.
“I’ve been trying to get rid of that ass all night and all you had to do was just look at him. He’s got major boundary issues and refused to take ‘fuck off’ as an answer.”
Clint’s eyebrows shoot up. He didn’t know Mica could swear.
“The jackass even wrote his number on my hand with permanent marker earlier. I tried to wash it off best I could, but… uhm.” Their words trail off as they look at the evil little scribbles still visible on their palm. The the phantom feeling of pen on skin is becoming physically uncomfortable. “You know what, I’m gonna try washing it off again, it’s giving me the creeps. Maybe, uh, maybe Willy has better soap in his shack.”
The accidentally cool guy stays put, holding two steaming drinks as he watches Mica head off to scrub their hands for a second time.
That did not go quite as expected.
What he expected was needing to physically remove the man and potentially drop him into the freezing water to cool him off. That last part wasn’t strictly necessary, but something told him it would be very cathartic.
Instead, what he got was a jerk that practically ran away without needing to do anything other than stand there while being big. Did he scowl? He might’ve been scowling. There was definitely some purposeful looming.
Clint is fully aware how he comes across when he doesn’t slouch and makes eye contact with people. Honestly, it makes him feel a little self-conscious when people look at him like some potential threat. He puts himself out there as little as possible to avoid the wary looks unless he wants to make a very specific impression.
But Mica didn’t look scared, did they?
Mica… didn’t look scared. If anything, they looked a little stunned. He’s never gotten that reaction before.
Maybe he should work on his posture.
“Bored bored bored BORED.”
Leah Blackwood taps the empty paper cup against her palm, emphasizing each word with a hollow tup tup tup.
“Darling, I get the impression that you are mildly exasperated.” Sip. “Would you say that is accurate?”
“B-o-r-e-d!”
The frustrated woman is just about done with this wintertime stakeout, especially since her attention span disintegrated three coffees ago.
“Look at you, I’m over here bored out of my mind and there you are, taunting me with your hot delicious bean water.” She scowls disgustedly. “How dare you.”
Still not done, she crosses her arms in a harumph and begins to pace in a tight little circle.
“How. Very. Dare! I declare it is not fair! We’re getting nowhere and you’re just standing there with a terrible air of laissez faire, tossing your hair while you stare over there and refuse to share of what you are aware. And do you care? Non, mon frère.”
The line was calculated to provoke. Leah waits for the inevitable outcry at such malicious rhyming. And she waits. And she waits some more. But the protestations never come.
What a waste of good bait.
She spins around, prepared to lecture her friend on the importance of lavishing her with attention every second of the day. Still he pays her no mind. He doesn’t even react when she pokes him in the side, simply raises his hand and points two fingers in the direction that’s transfixed him.
There, just on the other side of the boardwalk, Mica and Clint are having some sort of conversation that leaves Clint thoughtfully holding two coffees while Mica hurries away.
“What.”
“What!”
“What is happening!”
“What is the meaning of this!”
Leah grasps her bestie by the shoulders, hissing and shaking him furiously, her empty cup toppling to the ground, long forgotten. “We need need need to help these fools fall in love!”
Elliott hisses back, intense and eager. “This ship must come in!”
“If only we could be his Cyrano.”
“Ooh, that’s an idea. Gently nudge Mr. Black down the proper path to love with ventriloquism.”
“You know, I’ve always wanted to be a little voice.”
“Me too!”
“Should we do it?”
“Yes, you crazy dame!”
Scanning the area, they spot the perfect place for concealment. There is no practical reason to tiptoe conspicuously toward a nearby plant display, but they do so anyway. As they reach it, the two crouch down out of view on the opposite side of the dock. Now they just have to figure out how to talk their way onto the boat to get to better cover.
The co-conspirators stare intently at their target, still standing with his two coffees and an unreadable expression. If there ever was a time, that time is now! Before one of them can grab the attention of the merchant, both are grabbed by a firm hand on the shoulder.
“And just what do you two think you’re doing?”
Shit. The jig is up!
“Whatever it is you’re planning, no you’re not.”
“Awwww!”
“Emilyyy!”
Emily Allen looms over the two schemers, hands firmly grasping their shoulders and pulling until they rise back to standing. She tuts disapprovingly.
“He needs to do this on his own.”
“Aww, come on!”
“Just a little bit?”
“He’s floundering!”
“We need to fish him out!”
“Lure him back!”
“Give him the bait he needs to make that catch!”
“Our encouragement is necessary—”
“Just let us give him a little nudge—”
Without a word, she grabs them each by an ear in a firm headmistress’s pinch. The protests to let them do what they want immediately shift to requesting she not do that, actually, and continue weakly as Emily escorts them off the dock, up the beach, and back to the bar where they can no longer interfere.
In the warm, comforting climate of the Stardrop Saloon, Leah Blackwood and Elliott Books each rub life back into their tender ears and sulk behind their usual table. The arrival of two glasses and a full bottle of wine does nothing to pull them out of the melodramatic mope they’re determined to stay in.
“On the house.”
That perks them up a little. After all, if they can’t spy, plot, and meddle, then they can at least have a complementary drink or two or five.
Before one can reach out to grab the bottle for the first pour, the bar mistress pulls it away.
“Now, what did I tell you?” Emily stands over them, posture scolding, waiting for a satisfactory answer. All she gets is mumbled grumbles
“What was that?”
“Not to meddle.” mumble grumble
“Leave them alone.” grumble mumble
“That’s right! And why?”
“Because…”
“…He’s gotta do it himself.”
“And why is that?”
“So he can grow as a person.”
“So he can grow as a person.”
“Good.”
Emily places the bottle back on the table and steps away, returning a few minutes and two glasses later with another bottle and a charcuterie for two. Artist and writer profess undying love for her as they descend upon the board. It should keep them occupied for a little while, at least.
Returning fresh and clean after scrubbing off as much ink as possible, Mica gratefully takes the offered cup. It’s still hot. Fragrant steam cuts through the cold. A long, deep drink warms them from the inside and they smile at the unexpected hint of chocolate beneath the coffee.
Once again, the two begin meandering down the dock, each wondering how to jumpstart the conversation. A lot has happened in the past few minutes. Maybe the most recent event would be the easiest.
“I didn’t realize they did mocha, too.”
“They don’t.”
Mica feels their face heat a little at what that might mean. Or maybe it’s just the drink. Or maybe their coat is too warm. Or maybe a lot of things.
“Ssso! Have we seen the whole market?”
“Not quite,” replies Clint. “There’s one more thing to check out.”
“Yeh? What’s that?”
They slow to a stop and Clint turns toward Mica, tossing a thumb back over his shoulder. “Well… this.”
At the other end of the thumb floats a large metal vessel, gangplank bobbing gently with the movement of the water.
Sub?
“Oh.”
Sub ride?
“Oh wow. Really?”
“Did you— did you want to check out the underwater tour?”
“Heck yeah I do!” Excitement flashes in Mica’s eyes before tempering briefly. “Do they still have any tickets left?”
After trying so, so hard to school his expression from giving anything away, Clint lets a grin break through as he pulls two tickets from his coat pocket. “Already got ‘em.”
Sub riiiiiiide yeaaaaaaah!
Their face stretches wide, beaming with childlike glee. With a grin of his own, Clint nods toward the sub and offers an arm. Mica takes it.
And so, together, arm in arm, they step onto the submarine.
Notes:
Well thank god something here is still young.
Mica not being able to get over the mermaid show reminded me of a song I know, and now you know it too! You're welcome.
Pages Navigation
KidAbsurdity on Chapter 1 Fri 14 May 2021 02:39AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 1 Fri 14 May 2021 05:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
Account Deleted on Chapter 1 Wed 20 Oct 2021 11:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 1 Thu 21 Oct 2021 07:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
tittlediddle on Chapter 1 Fri 29 Oct 2021 07:29AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 1 Sat 30 Oct 2021 03:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
scooter (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Dec 2021 05:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 1 Sat 18 Dec 2021 09:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
regz_ann315 on Chapter 1 Tue 26 Nov 2024 12:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
logomisia on Chapter 2 Thu 29 Jul 2021 12:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 2 Thu 29 Jul 2021 11:29AM UTC
Comment Actions
CerealMonster on Chapter 2 Fri 17 Sep 2021 07:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 2 Thu 23 Sep 2021 04:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
logomisia on Chapter 3 Wed 01 Sep 2021 07:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Thu 02 Sep 2021 08:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
coolCoolGlasses on Chapter 3 Wed 01 Sep 2021 11:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Thu 02 Sep 2021 08:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
PhytoCondria on Chapter 3 Thu 02 Sep 2021 01:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Thu 02 Sep 2021 08:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
purpleandgreen on Chapter 3 Thu 02 Sep 2021 01:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Thu 02 Sep 2021 09:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
Miuuuu (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 17 Sep 2021 01:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Thu 23 Sep 2021 04:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
TheMerryPanda on Chapter 3 Tue 12 Oct 2021 11:15AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Mon 18 Oct 2021 06:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
mistymadam on Chapter 3 Tue 19 Oct 2021 07:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 3 Thu 21 Oct 2021 07:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
PhytoCondria on Chapter 4 Mon 18 Oct 2021 06:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 4 Mon 18 Oct 2021 06:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
coolCoolGlasses on Chapter 4 Thu 21 Oct 2021 06:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 4 Thu 21 Oct 2021 07:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
logomisia on Chapter 4 Mon 06 Dec 2021 09:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 4 Mon 06 Dec 2021 11:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
KidAbsurdity on Chapter 5 Tue 21 Mar 2023 03:46AM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 5 Tue 21 Mar 2023 03:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
KidAbsurdity on Chapter 5 Tue 21 Mar 2023 11:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
tigertigertigger on Chapter 6 Sat 26 Aug 2023 11:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
FloopTheCooper on Chapter 6 Sun 27 Aug 2023 01:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
coolCoolGlasses on Chapter 7 Sun 01 Oct 2023 05:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation