#bonus closer angle under the cut where i got in there between the like. fuckin. pincer things coming out from their cheeks

[front-facing-pokemon]

#mega rayquaza #bonus closer angle under the cut where i got in there between the like. fuckin. pincer things coming out from their cheeks #see this one looks way cooler than regular rayquaza. the lipstick is yellow which matches their color scheme much better. i still think they #would be better off Without the lipstick but if they have to have it then yellow is a better color. not sure what the pincer things on their #face are but i guess they look cool. good for grabbing. and now their eyes are red instead of yellow. normal rayquaza eyes are yellow right? #okay they are i checked phew. i can't risk making any more Mistakes in these tags lest everyone bust down my door and kill me #i'm a real pokémon fan i Swear. everyone who knows me in real life this is my only single personality trait #ugh. 4x weakness to ice my belovèd. just like every other legendary

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Invisible

A/N: So, I may have cheated on the prompt a little bit here. There’s no grand underlying reason for the smooch in question, no holiday or celebration, no circumstances, no threats, no expectation. It comes out of the blue, but is there really no reason? Debatable. Hope you can forgive the cheating. This is a one shot, not connected to anything previously written (which is DIFFICULT for me so that’s why this ended up being so lengthy) 18 Kisses down, 2 more Billy smooches to go plus a bonus one!! Happy friday everyone!

Word count: 3,764

Prompt from: @something-tofightfor (thank you for your unending patience as I took way too long with this one!!)

[[MORE]]

Billy matched your stride step for step, his hand clamped tightly around yours to ensure that you wouldn’t get seperated. When a girl scout troop stopped short in front of you to take a group photo, he pulled you close to his side and steered you around them. When a pamphlet was thrust into your face by an energetic man selling tickets to some attraction or another, he barked a “Not interested,” over his shoulder, tugging you along before the paper even came close to you.

“Billy, we’re not in a rush,” your free arm crossed your body, fingers finding the crook of his elbow and giving a light squeeze.

“Yeah, I know, just tryin’ to get there.” He tried not to let the agitation that he felt from being in such a crowded area seep into his tone.

You laughed, pressing your arm closer to his, turning your face to kiss his bicep through his shirt sleeve. “You don’t even know where we’re going, though.”

He turned, looking down at you from behind his sunglasses. You were wearing that sideways smile that always sparked a twinkle of mischief in your eyes and a rush of heat in his chest. I don’t deserve her. But even as he had the thought, he felt his own lips twitch upwards. “No, I don’t. But I know we don’t need whatever that guy’s sellin’.”

“No, we don’t.” You squeezed his hand and rested your cheek against his arm, your other hand falling from his elbow to swing freely at your side again. You sighed and he felt his lips twitch even more, knowing that it was the sensation of the sun on your skin that had pulled that sweet sound from you. You’d just stepped out of the shade of a colorful awning, the light bathing your bare arms and shoulders, your face tilted up and your eyes shut, absorbing the warmth like a sunflower. “Mmm that feels so nice,” you purred.

“Mmhmm,” he responded, stopping at the corner behind the group of people waiting for the signal to change.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t wear that sweatshirt?” You stepped in front of him, hands running up and down his forearms.

The signal transformed, the red DON’T disappearing, reading only WALK in bright white lettering. “Mmhmm.” he answered again, grabbing for your hand and proceeding to cross the street.

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

You’d been digging in your bag for your keys, waiting eagerly by the front door for him when Billy had come out of the bedroom wearing the sweatshirt in question. The sleeves were pushed up and straining against his muscled arms, hands in his pockets, the hood pulled over his head. Whatever you were planning, you were excited about it, but when you saw him your forehead wrinkled up and you tilted your head to the side. “Billy…” adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag, you took a step closer to him. He swallowed, eyes angled towards the ground. You reached up, right hand slipping under the material of his hood.

Billy shifted his weight and raised his own hand to match yours, wrapping his fingers around your wrist in a less than halfhearted attempt to stop you. He brought his eyes up to yours, finally locking with them, and what he saw there made him loosen his grip. I can’t stop her, she…Your eyes were clear and fixed on his, full of patience and a silent request for his trust. There wasn’t a soul on Earth that he trusted more, himself included. Dropping his hand, fingers grazing your wrist bone and the skin on the underside of your forearm, he kept his eyes on you as you grasped the edge of the gray fabric and pulled the hood down slowly. As you did, your fingers raked through his hair. It was growing long again, and you knew how much he loved it when you grabbed it and tugged or dragged your nails over his scalp. An almost imperceptible groan came from the back of his throat as he gripped your hip and you smiled softly at him. “It’s too hot for this,” you placed your hand on his chest, sliding it over his soft tee and under the opened zipper. “It’s 95 degrees. You’ll cook.” Dropping your right hand to his chest, you slid that one beneath the sweatshirt as well, removing it from his shoulders.

“Yeah, I know…” he mumbled, helping you yank the sleeves from his arms, face still downturned. You gave a good pull and came away with the well worn hoodie in your hands, tossing it over the back of the couch.

“Hey,” you bent slightly and tilted your head so that you could meet his eyes. “It’s okay, Billy.” Eyes scanning his face, he watched you raise your hand to slowly bring it to his cheek, the tips of your fingers tracing the ridges of one of the jagged scars that cut through the skin there. He closed his eyes as your touch roved over his jaw and up to his ear. The nerve endings there were damaged, some beyond repair. For the most part, the heavily scarred portions of his face were numb to your touch or to the gentle brush of your lips. But he still felt it in his bloodstream, in the way it raised goosebumps on his arms and forced him to take a breath. She doesn’t care about them…

But I do. “Yeah...I know, I just…” he shrugged. I just hate the constant reminder of my fuckin’ mistakes… I hate that she has to…

You turned away, grabbing a shopping bag that had been sitting on the bench by the front door. “Here,” you rifled through it, double checking the items inside before handing it over to him with a shrug of your own.

“What’s this?” He eyed you suspiciously before opening the bag and peering inside. He pulled the largest item out first- a black fitted baseball cap, the brim already slightly broken in. He imagined you squeezing and folding it to get the curve just right, your tongue poking out from between your lips like it did when you were concentrating on something you cared about. Another dive into the bag turned up a pair of sunglasses, large enough to obscure most of his face, especially when paired with the hat. He shook his head, staring at the items in his hands. She… she did this...she knows how I…

It had been a year since Billy’s name had been cleared- since the nearly endless court proceedings had culminated in the ruling that he’d been manipulated and turned into an assassin, a trigger man to clean up after some high powered government and military officials- and far longer than that since the night that nearly killed him. In all that time, he’d barely ventured out of your apartment, and never in the daylight. People are gonna stare at me. They’re gonna stare at the fuckin’ freak, then they’re gonna stare at her… That was his reasoning for hiding, for withdrawing from the second chance he’d been given at life. He knew you didn’t care about the scars. It blew his mind, but he knew it as fact, knew it as clearly and as fully as he knew that you were it for him. But he knew that other people cared. Other people cared, and they would make assumptions about him...about you. At night he felt less visible, less seen and more comfortable. But he knew that you loved the sunlight, loved the feel of it on your skin, and so he’d agreed to go out and do something with you in the day, even letting you choose the activity. He was uneasy about it, but the way your eyes sparkled, tears pooling before they slipped down to your smile when he’d told you; the way you’d thrown your arms around him and laughed, it made him sure that it was worth whatever discomfort he’d be in. I’d do anything for her. Anything she wanted.

“I knew you’d want to…” you bit your bottom lip and shrugged again, indicating the sweatshirt. “So I thought this might make you feel better about…” you sighed and stepped closer to him, placing your hand on his chest again, over the heart that beat solely for you. “Even though I don’t think you have to-”

He cut you off with a kiss. It was just a quick one, just to the corner of your lips, just enough to turn them up into a smile. “It’s perfect...you...you’re perfect. Thank you…” Bag still in his hand, he realized there was one more item inside, but you reached in before he could. “What’s that?”

You brandished a small tube and took the empty bag from him, laying it back on the bench where it had been. “Sunscreen.” You popped it open and squeezed some onto your hands before rubbing it into your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose. “My friend Nadia?” He watched you squeeze a little more onto your fingers and rub it into your forehead. “She works for a dermatologist. She told me this one’s good for sensitive skin.” Sensitive skin. That was what you said when you were trying not to talk about the raised and rippled lines that crossed his face. You finished working the lotion into your skin, rubbing your hands together to absorb any residual. “You should use some, too.”

Billy cleared his throat as you extended the tube to him. “Nah, I mean… I’m…” He held up the hat and glasses. “You got me covered pretty damn well.”

You combed through his hair, fixing some of the strands that were sticking up from having the hood on. “Never hurts to have extra protection from the sun, Billy, and you haven’t really been in the sun in a while, so you might burn and then-”

He sighed. “Okay, gimme the thing.” You smiled and handed it over, taking the hat and shades from him so that he could use both hands. She’s too fuckin’ good to me… too fuckin’ good for me. When he opened his eyes after rubbing the sunblock hastily over his face, he was met with you modeling his new glasses. “Those look good on you.” Everything looks good on you.

“They’re gonna look better on you.” You raised them up and rested them on your head. “You missed a spot…” Your tongue appeared at the corner of your mouth, right where he’d kissed you, right where he imagined it poking out while you broke in the hat’s brim, and his heart flipped. Your thumb came up to the most pronounced of his scars, the bullet wound that tore through his cheek, and swiped some excess sunscreen that had gathered around the pitted edges, smoothing it out over his nose. “There.” You tapped the tip of his nose as you finished. “You ready?” Like it was nothing, like you hadn’t just shown him how well you knew him and how much you loved him, you dug your keys out of your bag and opened the front door.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

“Nah, you were right, too hot for that sweatshirt.” He tapped the arm of his sunglasses. “This is much better.” The two of you had finished crossing the street, and he continued walking until he felt you tug on his hand.

“This way,” you indicated the direction with a tilt of your head.

That way? But that’s…

“Come on, Billy, trust me.”

He nodded and let you lead him towards the park. Walking in the streets was one thing. People so busy with getting from A to B that anything in between was just a nuisance. But in the park things slowed down. People looked up from the pavement, noticed details that they didn’t have time for on the street. You passed by two entrances, choosing the third and pulling him out of the steady stream of bodies and into the greenest spot in the city. “Where are we…”

“You’ll see.” You squeezed his hand, another request for trust, and he responded with a squeeze of his own.

Less confident and sure now that there was more space and an easier pace, he let you take the lead, fidgeting with his hat, yanking on the brim, trying to disappear. He saw you notice out of the corner of your eye, but you didn’t say anything, only leaned closer to him, pressing more of your arm against his, making it more known that you were there with him. You pointed out dogs and street performers, told stories about you and your siblings and the fun you’d had in the park growing up, changed the topic to what you should do for dinner later, and then back to another dog that had stolen your attention. Before long you stopped walking, and turned to face him. “Okay, we’re here.”

You watched his reaction as he stared at Loeb Boathouse, at its iconic green roof and walls of windows. “You wanna…” He turned to you. “You wanna rent a boat?”

You nodded. “I do. Come on.” He let you pull him over to the attendant, ducking his face down as you dealt with the rental and collected the oars, thanking the young man who’d helped you.

“Thought you’d just wanna… I dunno, take a walk or,” he sniffed. “Or somethin’.” You were close behind the attendant who was pulling one of the rowboats over for you to use, both hands occupied with the wooden oars. His went to his hat, one gripping the curved bill, the other palming the top to shove it further down on his head.

“Nope, wanna try something new, Billy,” you looked over your shoulder at him, smile throwing more light that the summer sun. You turned back to where the attendant had successfully secured one of the small vessels in Central Park’s fleet, stowing the oars inside the boat before turning back and reaching your hand out to him. He took it instantly, feeling less self conscious the moment his fingers closed around yours. “Help me in?”

He moved closer, his other hand cupping your elbow to help keep you steady as you stepped one foot and then the other into the boat. It rocked gently beneath your feet and you let out a small ‘Oh!’ that sounded more like a laugh than anything. “I gotchya,” he assured you, feeling an involuntary smile shaping as you lowered yourself to the seat with his assistance. He climbed in carefully, taking the seat across from you, his knees on the outside of yours, your hand dropping to the right one. People on the street had their phones and their music to enclose them in their own little world. Billy had your hand on his knee to do the same.

He rowed out and away from the shore, awkwardly at first, but getting the rhythm down in just a few strokes. “Sorry, never done this before,” he explained.

“Me either, you’re doing better than I would,” you laughed. You were out in the middle of the lake now, a few other boaters scattered nearby, but far enough away from the sidewalks and the boat ramp so that it was quieter- as quiet as it gets in Central Park on a Saturday afternoon in July. “Hey,” your hand came back to his knee, and he stilled the oars, resting them in their holders. “You know why I wanted to come here? Do this?”

Billy shook his head. “No, but I have a feelin’ you’re about to tell me.”

“Look around, Billy.” You leaned in and pointed to the other boats. “Look, everyone’s in their own little world. Look over there,” you indicated a couple not so different from the two of you, engrossed entirely in one another. They could have been anywhere. Lake Michigan, Loch Ness, the Pacific Ocean- all they saw was one another. “Or them,” you switched directions, pointing out a young family, two small kids chattering away at their parents, laughing at ducks and throwing the feed that was supposed to be for the birds at one another. “Now look at me,” you whispered. He turned his head and was met with your eyes. You’d taken your sunglasses off, irises bright in the glimmer of sunlight bouncing off of the water, and he was hit hard with the way you were always there; always there with him and for him. “No one’s here but us, Billy.” You reached for his glasses and he balked slightly, but you didn’t drop your hand. “It’s just us,” you said again, fingers making contact with the rim of his glasses. “Just me and you.” You pulled them off, folding them and sticking them in your bag, keeping your eyes on him. “Everyone else is invisible.”

He swallowed and immediately looked down at the boat’s floor, at your sandaled feet between his boots. But I’m not… I'm not invisible...people can see…

Your hand came up from his knee to his face, tilting it back up. “Billy,” he could feel the sincerity in your voice as you said his name, making it sound too good to belong to him. “Don’t hide from me, please. Don’t…” Your fingers traced around the top of his ear before coming back down to graze his jaw. “You know I don’t care about your scars, right? You know when I look at you, I don’t even see them.”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what you say.” But how?

“It’s what I mean, Billy. When I look at you?” You shook your head. “I see you, Billy. Just you.” Your fingers came back up towards his ear, slowly slipping under his hat.

He sucked in a breath, heart pounding. She really… she doesn’t… she wants to… He fought the instinct to stop you, gripping the oars tightly to keep his hands from clamping down over his hat. You slowly removed it, the bright sunlight hitting his face, warming his skin.

“That’s better,” you smiled, setting his hat down on top of your bag before brushing your fingers through his hair like you had when you took down his hood back in the apartment. “Hey, you.”

He blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, shifting his eyes around the lake. That other young couple was still lost in each other, the family still preoccupied by the ducks. She’s right, no one’s lookin’. “Hey,” he answered quietly as your hand came back around to his cheek. He caught it, keeping it there, leaning into your palm. Feels better than the sun.

“This okay?” you asked, thumb sweeping under his eye.

“Yeah,” he closed his fingers around your hand and pulled it down to kiss your palm. No one’s ever cared this much about me. No one’s ever… He pulled your hand into his lap, turning it in his grasp to run his fingers along the creases in your palm. “Yeah, this is okay.” He reached with his other hand for the back of your neck, careful not to disrupt the boat too much. His tongue came out to wet his lips as he leaned in closer, the sudden need to kiss you eclipsing every thought, every sound, everything. He closed the distance, covering your mouth with his own, delighting in the slight whimper you let out as he made contact. The hand behind your neck moved up into your hair, curving around your head to change the angle so that he could deepen the kiss, open it up and fill it with everything he was feeling. Your free hand found its way to his chest, the light pressure pumping even more warmth into his heart.

Before he met you, Billy had known his fair share of women. He’d known them intimately; knew how to pull sighs and moans from their lips, knew how to keep them coming back for more, knew how to make them want him. But none of them had truly known him, nor did he want them to. But you knew him. You saw him, saw through the clouds of doubt and insecurity, saw who he was beneath all the bullshit, and you didn’t flinch away. You only came closer, only showed him that you were there, that you were always there. His eyebrows knit together, the lids of his closed eyes shuddering under the weight of the way he felt about you, and he tried to say it all with his lips on yours, with the slow, easy way that his tongue curved around your own, with the gentle but firm way that he held you still, locked in that kiss. He knew you’d need to take a breath soon, but if it were up to him he’d never break away.

He did, more reluctant than he’d been to let you take his hat and glasses, teeth closing lightly over your bottom lip before completely pulling away. A breath tumbled out from the depths of your lungs, changing into a tingling laugh and taking the form of a smile on your face. “Billy…” you bit your bottom lip, where his teeth had just been. “What was…”

“Nothin’. That was nothin.” He leaned in again, pressing another quick kiss to your still plump lips. It was nothing...and everything. “Today is perfect. Thank you… for bringin’ me here and…” he narrowed his eyes, keeping them glued to yours. “Thank you for seein’ me… for makin’ me feel like more than…” he indicated his scars, though even to him they mattered less now. “Just… just thank you.”

You leaned forward to rub your nose against his. “Anytime, Russo.”

Yeah. Anytime. Any place. Nothing else matters. Everyone else is invisible.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @thebbtongue @lexxierave @gollyderek @thesumofmychoices @songforhema @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @roses-in-your-country-house @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @songtoyou @stories-you-wont-hear @breanime @luminex3

#billy russo #billy russo x you #billy russo x reader #billy smooches #kiss prompts #kiss requests #a kiss in a vehicle #(A BOAT) #for no reason #(OR ALL THE REASONS) #i hope you like this #enjoy the face touching #and the boat smooching #happy friday!

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 73: Courting Disaster

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter Four. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: Canon-typical body horror, insects, butchery mention, mild robot discrimination, food description.

So many people, so little time.

_________________

Although once a DeMarco-Boyle Housewares, this space no longer prided itself in selling quality furniture, appliances, or other domestic goods. 'Choly, Sticks, and Angel followed a wide corridor. ‘Choly took in the interiors of the place, mentally distanced from the clack of his cane on the wood flooring. With its complex, radiating door frames, and austere, faintly metallic chevron wallpaper, he could nearly believe the building had always been laid out in such a way--if not for its unusual inverted curly light bulbs and the chartreuse-to-vermillion tint they cast. They passed a dozen or so people before the corridor opened into a lobby, whose mode of dress suggested coarser more contemporary fabrics in unrestrictive, breathable cuts. Though something to which he normally wouldn’t have payed attention, it irritated his read of the place that he couldn’t with any confidence definitively say the color of anything.

He shrank smaller, if only internally.

The closer to the interior entrance to the mall, the more distinctly ‘Choly could discern the sounds of socializing. A stout Latin woman with teal-streaked victory rolls and dark heavy makeup sat at the front desk, bored with her literature. Above the desk, a sign from the ceiling read “Anchor Inn Concierge.” He nodded to himself, understanding very little.

As they stepped into the mall proper, 'Choly's jaw slacked. He had underestimated the population of this settlement. Unable to visually count everyone in open walkways or in shops, he instead returned his attention to the building itself. Store fronts of both floors now boasted neoteric neon lettering and icons, all in the same strange glow as the fixtures in the Anchor Inn... and the massive armillary-reminiscent chandeliers. Brilliantly streaked Barre granite comprised all the main interior façade, ornamented with all manner of sleek nautical lines and rounded corners. In intervals, an unassuming yet oppressive angular bronze-patina face repeated along both sides of the second story’s frieze, from intricate, motion-traced niches. He unlikely would have noticed them, if not for the chandeliers; though the skylights let in some amount of natural light, it would otherwise have been all but pitch dark inside without its unusual fluorescent fixtures.

Arriving at the first crossway, to their left lay an anchor location called The Hall, and their right, an anchor which read See’s. Sticks had to stop and think a moment before they continued to their left. ‘Choly’s head tilted, but he followed, suddenly admiring the teal and coral chevron tiling floor.

“I thought you wanted the food court,” ‘Choly mumbled, doing his best to keep close. “Is this place really running like a prewar shopping mall?”

“In a lot of ways, Ant Lane is a holdover from the before times,” Sticks replied. “Some tradition’s held fast, but it’s also adapted so people could legit live here. I told you earlier, let me handle the finances. I’ve got to see a fella about a can of Cram.”

The Grey & Gould Jewelers to the immediate left of entrance to The Hall, once a Fallon’s Department Store, now touted itself as a gold and silver exchange. ‘Choly nearly committed to staying outside with Angel, except the Mister Handy did not hesitate to enter with Sticks. He reclaimed his composure and followed.

Again, that green-red light illuminated the glass-top display counters and their contents. Hurricane fence provided a grate between customer and clerk; behind it, safe deposit boxes lined the two longest walls. He opted to stay out of Sticks’s way and instead browsed the various goods on display. Ancient jewelry, trinkets, and implements amounted to much of what he could lay eyes upon. He supposed it wasn’t so strange that weapons were absent from this pawn shop, but noticing it consciously set him on edge. Angel remained glued to him as he endeavored to identify if any of the jewelry caught his attention.

The broker did instead. It wore a blond hornet’s nest beehive, clearly a wig, a faded silk necktie, and nothing else. Its dark sunken eyes studied both his ghoul companion and the valuables laid out on a velvet tray, as did the two and a half long, thin, sinewy tentacles which seemed to have replaced its tongue. Its trapezius-thick neck and broad shoulders supported a head jutted forward, but its pale, muscular, mangled, venous torso lacked arms until the hip region. ‘Choly both loathed and appreciated that the counter itself censored what the lower half of the creature must have looked like, but he could make out at least two hands supporting its slouch across its side of the counter.

His cane dropped from his arm to the vinyl wood floor, eliciting the attention of the three other customers, the broker, and the blond ghoul. Angel picked it up for him and handed it back.

“Sir, you seem most on edge,” it spoke at a hush.

“I don’t think that’s an Unfolded.”

“Hard to say, though I suspect you’re right. You should go accompany Mister Hawthorne. You emphasized before how much you wanted to be up to speed with things. What better way than to be involved?”

He agreed with it. Once the shop resumed its activity, he sidled up to Sticks with bated breath.

“See anything you like?” the ghoul entrepreneur asked him with a furtive side glance. “And please don’t say Darryl.”

‘Darryl,’ the broker, slapped Sticks’s right hand playfully with a tentacle, and made eye contact with ‘Choly. The chemist let out a tepid chuckle and wiggled the fingers of a hand upheld, and Darryl waved back with a guttural affirmative.

“What you’re up to interests me more.” He squinted in thought watching Darryl resume plucking at a glass abacus while scrutinizing Sticks’s valuables. “...Wait a fuckin’ minute. If I had to cover the cost of your Pip-Boy with all my gold and silver, then where did this come from?”

Sticks stuttered, and crossed his arms to quieten a nervous laugh.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave all this stuff in the golf course safe. You weren’t about to press that robot to fork it up, now, were you?”

“You mean to say you stole all that from Bogey!” Angel exclaimed, furious. “How could you!“

“You’re right to point it out. Wicked big deal that I did separate these liquid assets from Bogey,” he grinned, watching Darryl in encouragement that the creature continued its appraisal. “We’re both broke as fuck. Aside from some clothes for you, we gave everything from the golf course to Sanctuary. This stuff is the only way we’re going to afford anything while we’re here, Mindy.”

Sticks’s angle stymied both chemist and robot. Meanwhile, Darryl had taken up a handheld chalkboard and diligently written on it with chalk in tentacle. It held up for them its declaration, crabbed and rapid, but no less efficacious: It’s impossible to steal from robots. They don’t have belongings. Knowing history on curios influences appraisal. Screwing over a robot’s worth 20% bonus. ‘Choly snorted, wide-eyed and aghast, but decided that saying anything further would just dig him in deeper. Sticks chuckled and applauded. Darryl gestured to the abacus, but neither could discern the value he’d arrived upon, so it erased its board and printed it right in the center of the tablet: 1260.

“Holy shit, man. You’re always too good to me.”

The amount of caps quoted choked ‘Choly up. Darryl went to the back of the room to scoop the payout from a bin, into a large fabric drawstring bag on a scale. The creature returned and slid the tray of the Cram tin’s contents under the counter. It plopped down the sack in front of Sticks, eliciting a pleasant grin.

“You’re a pleasure, my friend. Thank you.”

Darryl’s parting gesture by tentacle could have been genial or hostile, but ‘Choly waved again regardless, sticking even closer to Angel than before.

“You still all right to walk?” Sticks asked, sliding the sack into his apron. “The food court’s all the way at the other end of the mall, and you already look like you’re struggling. These folks might not like that security let Angel in here, but they can’t argue with a guy needing a wheelchair.”

“Do allow me to help you, Sir. It ails me, to feel as though I must divide myself up until there’s nothing. Surely, you could manage the trip atop me?”

“Why the fuck do they hate robots?” he snarled, mounting Angel mostly in spite. He teetered upright with the reins, but held steady, glaring at the green-red internally lit glass shaft in the crossway which once hosted the mall’s central functioning elevator. “The Rust Devils didn’t come through here, did they? And what is Darryl!?”

“Wish I knew.” Sticks shrugged. “ The sentiment goes back a long way. Glad you’re rising above it, though.”

His frustrations distilled into a short-tempered sigh.

“Getting down there is one thing. Getting back to the inn will be another. --We are returning to the inn, right?”

“Only board available to visitors.”

Along the way, pockets of people in the walkway stopped to watch ‘Choly ride his Mister Handy, varying from appalled to impressed to confused. Without the requirement to heed the method of his gait, he more easily took in details around him from his vantage. A few black ants the size of house cats wandered through the mall, and its denizens didn’t so much as bat a lash, with the exception of two or three happily coddled as though pets. Children accounted for an appreciable percent of the population, as did ghouls. No other denizen resembled Darryl. Though he did not pause to browse, several pop-up tent kiosks at the center of the walkway enticed him despite their continued tradition of seeking one’s attention by any means necessary. He halted where the mall took a slight bend, staring at a large store which looked to host nothing but thousands of pieces of lambent glass, hung from the walls and ceiling.

“Burlington glass,” Sticks said. “It’s pretty, I guess. Pretty weird. Don’t want to know what’s in it to make it go.”

“The glow must last a long time, if it’s in the chandeliers.”

“Yeah, those folks handle all that. They’re electricians. Or maybe not, since there’s no electricity involved. I don’t think. All the lights, that’s their doing.”

“The installments are certainly not electrical,” Angel agreed.

Rather than speculate himself, he progressed the group on. At the second crossway of the mall, the guards processed visitors at the main entrance to Ant Lane to his left. To his right, the still-named Sutter Grove had become something between a library and bookstore. Straight ahead, the anchor store’s entrance façade still retained the staggered framed lettering of a General Atomics, though the title now read Customs House.

The food court lay between the Customs House and Sutter Grove. The Laners had erected a roof-high wall of salvaged car hoods and gull wing doors hoods to separate it from the walkway. Four armored guards screened both the incoming and outgoing traffic of its entrance, an extra measure of their guarantee of thoroughness. ‘Choly’s breathing shallowed as he dismounted in preparation of complying yet again.

He knew better than to question it. He remembered the harrowing checkpoints at Deenwood.

“Anchor Inn security warned us you’d be this way,” one of the guards said. “Can’t say why the Aldermen would okay your robot, but none of us is right to argue. No weapons, right?”

Angel demonstrated yet again, with a flourished weariness quickly becoming routine.

Two guards, both correctly male this time, patted down ‘Choly and Sticks.

“That some kind of bulletproof vest?” one asked ‘Choly.

“It’s a sort of back brace.” He bristled when the guard untucked his shirt and pulled up it and the cardigan to inspect his lower back. The guard could barely tuck a finger between the material and his skin.

“Can you even breathe under that thing?”

“Better than without it, that’s for sure. Are we all right to go in?”

“Ehh...” The first guard clicked the car handle button on one of the lowest gull doors in the wall. Once the pneumatic hinge raised it out of the way, he reached through to pull the handle of a second door, which opened the other direction. “Bone appetite.”

‘Choly sighed once the court-side door shut, relieved they had not bothered to check inside Angel, but the next breath slammed his olfactories. Aromas of roasted meat and fresh baked goods mingled with the tang of raw seafood and sharpness of bulk spices. He prinked at his shirt tails while his senses acclimated. Eight white Egyptian revival columns rounded the octagonal space, but no longer neatly divided the restaurants and grocers’ kiosks from the seating area. Tall standing lamps supported swirled Burlington bulbs similar to the chandeliers. ‘Choly looked at the bulbs a fraction too long, and their wavelength burned a reverse in his vision for some time. He rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, hoping to locate some kind of fresh food that might agree with him.

He realized the name ‘SEE’S’ emblazoned all the guards’ armor, even those at the main entrance and the Anchor Inn.

Sticks already seemed to have his stomach made up over dinner, though he still accompanied ‘Choly eyeing everything. Many fresh dishes resembled thick stews or dumplings. He could identify chowder and fruit pies without question, but struggled with all else. Menus’ numbering often contained slashes and several symbols, typically in a variation of P/C/$. A few listed ‘PULLS ONLY.’

“Those are the prices, then? And the exchange rate?”

Of course cash would be worth the least, typically requiring four or five times more.

“Cash, caps, pulls. Hope you like Vim,” he grinned aside.

‘Choly toed disgust and confusion.

“Vim?”

They wandered the grocers and spice merchants in curiosity. A couple of merchants shooed away ants trying to get into their wares, negotiating with them to behave sooner than strike at them in any way. The one restaurant that had existed before the mall’s repurposing which did not offer prepared food, housed the butchers with the largest selection. Much of it lay on ice beds in twin large deli refrigerators. ‘Choly skimmed all the different cuts of meat, seemingly more intent on feeding his brain than his body. Opalescent Mirelurk appendages and their louse-like hatchlings, like deformed crustaceans. Iridescent Fog crawler and Stingwing tails reminded him of overgrown lobsters. Husked Bloatfly and Bloodbug thoraxes, unidentifiably lumpy if not for the meat price tags. Dark Radstag rump and shank, ribs, and loin. Ruddy, well-marbled Brahmin flanks and tenderloin. All kinds of eggs filled one shelf, even some small jars labeled ‘Mirelurk roe.’ Skinned Pelts hung behind the counter, along with chickens strung by the neck, and rabbits strung by their feet.

Two girls ran the counter. The spindly elder, no more than sixteen, had long straight dark hair with a fringe, and wore a frog-knotted tweed bolero shrug over a crepe chemisette with a high lace collar, bedecked in jingling aluminum junk jewelry. While another patron arranged an order with her, she casually cracked into a can of Vim Refresh, ritualistically separating the ring pull tab from the can to pocket it. ‘Choly could hear the discussion involved Radfowl, and eavesdropped to reassure himself. The demure younger girl, likely no older than twelve, had short curly hair and wore a too-big cardigan over a too-many-layered pinafore. From a stool beside her workbench, she diligently tackled butchering the mutated geese the hunters had brought inside. Their Neapolitan mastiff lay calmly beneath the counter.

Several other prewar animal meats appeared amongst the mutants, but the one which stood out to ‘Choly had the label Iguana. Too many textures, colorations, and shapes comprised the hefty pile of over-butchered meat for him to believe it all originated from the same creature. He frowned to Sticks, who’d turned from the ice bed display to scan the court in thought.

“There’s wild iguanas running around?” he mumbled to the ghoul, with worried inflection. “None of that looks like lizard meat.”

“Hm? What, oh.” Sticks looked for the Iguana on display, and ‘Choly pointed to it. Hesitant, he dug for the right phrasing. “It’s slang for meat that you’re not sure where it came from. If you’re hungry enough, it’s hard to stay picky.”

“Can’t waste a thing these days, can we?” the elder ribbed in a viscous Maine accent, having just finished up with her customer. She draped herself over the deli counter to sip at her soda. “Name’s Phin. Little Lucy Grandchester over there’s my sis Wanda. And that down there with a watchful eye, that’s Box. We’ve got just about any cut of meat you could crave.” Her face messed up through a swig. “...Think I’d recognize two geezers with a robot. How the hell did you smuggle in that thing?”

“We didn’t smuggle anything!” ‘Choly defended. “I’m Melancholy.”

“...Yeah, well. You just gonna loiter? You’re blocking the path to paying customers here. Scram!” She finished off the drink and threw it at them. ‘Choly’s reflexes couldn’t get his hands up fast enough, and it beaned him in the mouth. She pumped a fist and stood to get another soda from buried under the ice. “Two points!”

‘Choly rubbed at his mouth and scowled, teetering on wielding his cane in retaliation. Sticks and Angel pulled him along, the former laughing at his pouting.

“...’Two points’... My face is not a basketball hoop...”

A flighty, younger man stopped them. He had slicked hair, plus-fours, an afghan-knit ulster, and a large lace shawl with no shirt.

“--Hey, listen. Word of advice, since you looked so interested there. Best be keen about what you buy from the Clark sisters. They’re turning a pretty pull by making sure they’ve always got Iguana for sale, but nobody could say for sure how come they’ve had so much lately. I’ve had my suspicions for a few months now, but I’ve seen it a few days ago. They’ve been provoking the Royces up the Lane, then scooping up what gets blasted off. And I’m positive similar could be said of the Radfowl hunt earlier.”

“I know full well what Iguana might be,” Sticks insisted, no less repulsed by the implications than before. “Sounds like you’re the girls’ competition.”

“Not that there’s any competition for their knife skills, but I’m no butcher. Look, your robot helped them out something wicked. Lots of small parts no one else bothered with. A PERSON could be next! You’d better turn that thing off the moment the ants say so! Or we’ll--”

“--I’m right before you, mate,” Angel spat. “I believe I’ve had enough of this hostile attitude. I attend my owner--and friend--to assure they’re taken care of. We’ve all complied with your settlement’s regulations. I mean no harm, and I swear by Asimov that I would never chop up any moral, law abiding citizen!”

“Just what a robot would say,” he sneered, fed up with the pair. “I have better things to do than argue with a flaming tin can.”

“Good,” Sticks muttered. “So do we.”

“Among other things, I’m brass,” Angel sniveled on their way to where Sticks had clearly wanted to eat from the start. “Not a tin part in me!”

“We know, chap. We know. Now, my belly’s getting impatient like you. How can we interest Mister Carey in eating tonight? Ant Lane’s food court has a bring-your-own-bowl policy, but this place has killer bread bowl stews. Dinner’s on me.”

The savory, yeasty aroma of the restaurant snared him, and he hemmed.

“...I’ll give it a shot. As long as it isn’t Iguana.”

Sticks eyed the menu.

“Radfowl tonight.”

‘Choly’s mouth skewed.

“Looks like we ended up seeing the fruits of our effort earlier anyway.”

“...Yeah, but now it costs me some pulls.”

Sticks ordered for them. Angel carried their tray in one tendril, and a Vim in each of the others, and took them to sit at a vacant cafe table. After setting down their meal and providing utensils from its storage, it held ‘Choly’s cane for him.

“Spasibo.”

“But of course! What are friends for? Now dig in, gentlemen!”

Beneath the lid sliced from the crusty boule, the center of the bread had been scooped out to house a thick creamy stew of earthy vegetables and tender nuggets of dark meat Radfowl. A few spoonfuls in, and ‘Choly swam in how hearty the whole thing was. He bit into the bread lid with a crunch, then sopped with the remainder of it, eyelids heavy with comfort.

He had his reservations opening his chilled can of Vim, but when he needed a drink, he popped the pull tab on it. He distrusted his ability to drink from the opening without cutting his mouth, if he folded the tab off now, but he promised himself he’d do so before discarding it. A sip yielded herbal flavors more at home to a tonic than a cola. Burdock shone out more strongly than any hint of sarsaparilla, with a bright, somewhat grassy back flavor of orange-vanilla. He hadn’t remembered much liking Vim before, but he liked it well enough now.

He took another bite of his stew. When he looked over to Sticks, the ghoul was already half done, ripping into his bowl to dip with.

“Delicious, though this thing’s so big. I don’t think I can eat it all.”

“I’ll be more than happy to help you finish anything you can’t,” Sticks smirked. “I always look forward to this place every time I visit. I can’t get ‘em but every few years, with how my travel arrangements tend to work out.”

‘Choly noticed then that Sticks had ordered more than the two bread bowl stews and two sodas: a slice of warm latticed pie sat on a square of parchment.

“Can’t not start off our stay at Ant with an apple pie. Some prewar comforts are still around. Split it with me? Surely, you’ll have room for at least a bite.”

‘Choly fell doe eyed.

“Fresh bread, familiar desserts. You’re right. I do think I like it here.”

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