Archive of Our Own

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Martin has smelled fed up on people before.

Usually shortly before a sharp comment about the boys’ antics and aimed to incite some sort of throw-down.

During their time at Blackwing the throw down had tended to be unilaterally to their disadvantage and had not rarely been a show of power.

It had meant tucking his shoulders, literally or figuratively, and waiting for the storm of retribution to pass over.

The fact that the CIA had staffed the secret operation only meant that there was never a shortage of small men ready to feel slighted and become ‘fed up' at even the smallest of noises from any of them.

Riggins had put Vogel with them at some point - maybe curious to see what would happen to them, or what would happen to the balance among Project Incubus now that a fourth, somehow of their kind, had been added to their dynamic.

Maybe the man had become soft with old age, Martin wouldn't know - what he does know is that they’d made the entirety of Blackwing regret adding what would turn out to be the missing puzzle piece to them.

All Projects escape that fateful night in a rush of havoc and adrenaline - in hindsight it must've been a Universe Thing - but it's the Rowdy 3, all four of them, who land the first hit and howl that first wail of exultant warning.

Since their escape Martin has come to anticipate those moments before the throw down - the perfume of done-with-this - with a heady rush of battle-ready hunger and desire for violence that tells him again and again that he - they - are that storm whose calm-before has passed with the last drop of a pin.

The first time that he smells it on Drummer, he doesn’t even recognize it.

She’s guzzling her third King’s Cup in as many weeks to the howling encouragement of the Rowdies. In the orange-indigo shade of the fire-lit night her throat is working quicker than she can think about the vile concoction of Beer, Tequila and some fruity abomination Cross had stolen a bottle of for his private perusal until he’d gotten so sick of it he hadn’t even finished half.

There’s some low-shelf Bailey’s-knock-off in there too, somewhere.

To round off the truly terrible experience.

When she puts down the only pint glass that survives The Van, she looks him dead in the eyes and swallows. Martin inclines his head, tipping the open neck of his beer at her in a salute that has no hopes of hiding his pleased smirk.

Even with the woodsy-smoke-scent of burning twigs and leaves between them he catches a smell like bitter oranges and the fizz of Double Dip Candy from her.

It throws him for a hot moment when he realizes that it’s a scent he cannot place – before the honeyed ginger of revenge-plotting steals into the mix and Drummer salutes him back with one finger and pointed canines that flash in the corner of her smile.

Martin takes a drink, considers the reason for her persistent streak of bad luck at King’s Cup – himself – and resolves to be as much of an asshole to her as he can in the coming weeks when she’ll undoubtedly try to get back at him.

At least as far as the game goes.

Universe knows he doesn’t have the strength to do her anything but right in any other instances.

The mystery of her payback and the curious new scent are tabled, as The Van steers them off their backroads and into populated areas where they gobble up one of The British Guy’s friends and follow the stream of creation until it spits them out somewhere in the South.

Their young passenger looks over their shoulder too long and Drummer asks for them to stick around just long enough to figure out why.

An exhilarating chase and plentiful meals later, Martin gratefully veers the growling Van off the paved roads and onto unfamiliar dirt-roads again to the loud, rolling beats of the Dead Kennedys.

He doesn’t remember the scent until that evening.

The boys have rolled out their mats around their haphazard campsite and it’s only Drummer and him still staring into the fire – recapitulating on the wild chases and the ways of Universe respectively.

His nose catches something interesting and he opens his mouth to better parse the scent of bitter-oranges and Double Dip Candy. And he remembers, sharply, the origin of the scent.

Across the fire, Drummer looks like she’s ready to tear into him.

She looks positively deviant in the darkness. Her large eyes reflecting the fire in her irises and the sinuous stretch of her body culminating in the dangerously lackadaisical way two of her fingers trap the neck of the bottle, dangling it from her hold.

Martin feels warm.

Pleased.

Probably because of his correct assessment that she would want to get back at him for three King’s Cups in as many weeks.

“Will you let me get back at you for King’s Cup,” she tempts him – sharp canines making an appearance in a there-and-gone flash of a smile and Martin snorts.

“No.”

She huffs. All affectated-put-upon and child-like in a way that makes him want to smile at her with a gentleness he’s not certain his face will even manage.

It’s a lot, sometimes, to have her be so open with them – trusting with even her more vulnerable quirks. Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever really get enough of it.

“Cough Up,” she proposes then, adding another thick branch to the glowing coals and low-burning fire that Martin had started in the beginning of the evening.

“That’s not King’s Cup,” she reasons, “and I might have a chance.”

Martin’s forgotten who invented Cough Up. He thinks it might have been Drummer and Gripps, throwing outrageous insults, questions and statements at Cross, trying to stop him from chugging the last beer-can in one go.

Cross had lost with a loud guffaw because Gripps had started singing That’s Amore and Drummer had looked so surprised he might as well have grown a second head.

And thus Cough Up had been born.

Vogel is somehow both the worst and the best player – depending on which end they are on. They have a knack for finding that one thing that would make a contender Cough Up, while also being leading Cougher as there is very little that Vogel does not have an inside joke on that would make them laugh no matter whether others understood or didn’t.

If the Drummer wishes to go down drinking, Martin is not going to deny her.

“Come closer,” he accepts, “I don’ feel like yellin’ across to get you ta spit.”

An excuse, really, but Drummer is already moving, two fresh beer-cans in her hand. When she plops down on the couch next to him, he already knows that opening the can is going to mean foam and he only grumbles a little when she bats his bottle out of his hands to replace it with the can.

“I go first,” she insists.

The thing about Cough Up is that the focus only needs to be on chugging the damn thing down your gob without trying to listen to the shit that comes out of your contester’s mouth.

Amanda has been chugging King’s Cups in unfair quantities over the last month and she knows exactly how to not listen to the invective comments of someone else while she does it.

Except, of course, that the particular drawl that somehow always creeps into Martin’s tone makes it a bit more difficult. Not that she will let him know that or permit for it to deter her.

She swallows through a tickle in her throat when he gets real close to her, at some point, growling so low she can feel it in her neck.

Dirty pool pays off, she knows.

She plans a bit of that herself for when it’s her turn.

For now, she breathes a triumphant smile into the last gulp of her low-shelf beer – warm and shaken and nearly stale – looking directly at him, instead of ahead, as she crumples the now empty can in her free hand.

The alcohol is rushing to her head with a pleasant buzz of warmth and zen before she notices that she’s been grinning at him for too long.

She wonders if he even notices.

“Your turn,” she points with her chin and can’t help the sickly sweet spread of her smile as he lifts the can.

Revenge is hers.

The first sip of bitter brew hits his tongue right at the same moment as the vengeful note of honeyed ginger hits his nose and Drummer looks dead at him:

“Would you have sex with me?”

Surprise makes him gasp.

The instinct to inhale comes too quickly even for him and for a second it’s like he’s dying and then survival instincts kick in and he expels the liquid before it can become any worse.

No shit he Coughs Up.

Martin hacks, beer spilling into his beard and onto his pants before he spreads his legs wider and bends his body over the vee to better get air.

It’s terrible and he hates it and when he finally manages to look up at the witchakookoo his voice is shot to all hell.

“Drummer,” it’s a warning or a validation he doesn’t know all too well himself and both are viable, but she smiles and lifts her own bottle with a small “Cheers” and he doesn’t get any wiser about her that night.

Okay, okay so – she doesn’t set out to like… y’know make the whole dynamic uncomfortable.

Honest truth, that’s the least of her plans.

She likes being with the Rowdy 3 and upsetting that particular balance could mean an abrupt ending to the tank-girl-fairy-tale of rushing around in the Oh No Van, following where the stream of creation leads them, breaking shit and roasting stolen marshmallows over a tire-fire in the evening while trying to out-drink each other.

When Martin’d said ‘ain’t got nowhere to be except here for you’ she had never been so keen to prove herself worthy of the decision as then.

This still applies.

Except Amanda is also very much human and though her life had been – at some point – put on a violent hold, she has lived through a few romances.

If that is what you could call the teenaged craze of hormones, pimpled attraction and make-out sweat.

She’s made it to her twenties before the Pararibulitis had closed the lock on her doors but there isn’t much difference between having bad hormonal sex as a sixteen-year-old and having it as a twenty-two-year-old.

Even the worst alcohol doesn’t make the day-after-regret easier.

She doesn’t want to wake up on a ‘day-after’ with her mouth tasting rotten and her tongue feeling like felt only to look over her shoulder and realize that Martin has fallen asleep in a small pool of his own regurgitation after some hazy sense of unsatisfactory copulation.

No, Amanda is after something else.

Something more… gourmet.

It had come to her attention in Wendimoor, when Martin’s hand had buried in her hair, had clutched, had held until gravity had pulled her back to her feet and he’d looked like he hadn’t wanted to let go.

She’d felt something then, but had quickly put it down to the exhilaration at having been freed, or having done the freeing, and being reunited with all the Rowdies.

And maybe it hadn’t been as far out of the ordinary as she’d thought it was, but she’d started to notice how he’d keep seeking her out.

How he’d closed his eyes and leaned into her when she’d finally put her arms around him, how his hand had felt warm and big on her thigh when he’d tried to shrink just enough to fit under her chin and into her hug.

When she’d asked them to go looking for the army, he’d stopped her before she could vomit her words all over the odd forest floor. Had promised her it’d be done before she’d even managed to ask and she swears – she swears – that he’d passed her by just close enough that she’d wonder if she’d actually seen him hold eye-contact until the last possible moment or if she’d imagined it.

He’s asshole enough to do it.

And even though he is an asshole – who’s been making her drink King’s Cups more often than any person should have to – he also is the one who has been parting with his vest so she could have another layer to shiver into on the chillier nights.

He’s the one who has had her back on grocery runs when it’s about more delicate necessities than mere food.

Martin gloats about making her lose the games she introduces the Rowdies to. All bright smile and glowing eyes egging her on to commit an error and accept the loser’s punishment as the Rowdies meted it out.

And while he would usually sit in plain sight for just that purpose, since their return from Wendimoor, she has lost count of the times that he’d choose to get up close and personal with her - low voice taunting her from over her shoulder.

He’s the one who’s been making space at the Camp Cooker for her when she’d expressed an interest in learning at least the most basic rudiments of keeping oneself alive – strong arms wrapping around her while she drained spaghetti water into their surrounding shrubbery.

He’d been helping, of course, but Amanda can’t quite forget the warm length of his frame lining up against her back, surrounding her in a utilitarian embrace.

Martin might scoff at the idea of getting them anything else than junk food, but gladly offer to hold her up to pluck fruit from the bearing trees that they might happen to pass, shoulders sturdy under her thighs and hands steady on her lower legs.

Three months after their return from a magical kingdom, Amanda has become something of a connoisseuse of these moments.

Her emotional palate has been spoiled rotten with his attentions – a hand on her elbow, a look over the rim of his glasses, a low rumble close enough for her to feel it – and she will freely admit that she does want to see what stuff they’re made of.

And if there might be more of it.

Given her inherent lack of subtlety, mirrored by the Rowdy 3, she’d decided against spending agonized nights over-analyzing the situation and coming up with a ‘foolproof plan’ to garner insight into the emotional state of the most private person she’s met to date.

Any ‘-proof’ plans will always, inevitably and without fail, meet their foil in the very incident they’d been proofed against.

She’d elected to go for the jugular instead.

Figuratively speaking.

Although she does wonder if Martin would like that in a more literal sense as well.

Vogel and Gripps had turned in early – tired after a sugar-rush-crash and knackered from keeping Vogel in line respectively.

It’d been Cross, Drummer and Martin who’d cleared out a small pit for a fire and settling in to wait with libations in case either of the two would wake up for some late-night tomfoolery.

When it becomes clear, hours later, that neither of them will, Cross proposes a game of Cough Up between the three of them.

Martin is understandably half-apprehensive.

It is probably at least a little obvious how often his eyes stray to the Drummer, trying to gauge if she will – or maybe even challenging her to – come out with another whammy to make him Cough Up.

Darin her to be brazen and loud and dirty even in front of Cross.

Except that Drummer is curiously well-behaved.

For a Rowdy anyway.

She snorts beer through her nose once when Cross makes her laugh during one of her drinking turns and segues into a heated argument that it’s not the same as Coughing Up.

Cross yips when she throws an opened and full beer-can at his face and he ends up doused in most of it.

It’s only when he excuses himself for Little Tigers, stomping away into the woods and cracking the dry underbrush under his boots, that the sweet satisfied smell on Drummer changes with a breeze of the wind into something bitter-sweet, fizzy and orange.

Martin’s beer-can is on his lips and he recognizes too late the candied ginger when her eye catch his.

“I’d look pretty choking on your cock,” she taunts him with glittering eyes and a fey smile.

It hurts, in a fashion.

Instinct is tearing at him to breathe and supply his muscles with oxygen to react to what could be a threat. While he’s trying to not think about Drummer on her knees and he knows he’s forgotten the beer-can when the liquid squeezes through the wrong pipe and he starts hacking.

He’s crying from the lack of air, the exertion scratching up his throat and making him cry out of the corners of his eyes.

When he finally wheezes a fresh breath in, he lifts his head just enough to watch her swallow a sip of her beer.

Cross is already whooping congratulations at the witchakookoo, high-fiving her and throwing himself down into the makeshift sofa they’d cobbled together with a challenge to Drummer herself.

Martin can’t quite catch his breath quickly enough to exact retribution, but he doesn’t think he’s fooled when her eyes seem to hold his throughout her drinking turn.

Every swallow is a challenge and the uptick in the corner of her mouth tells him that she knows.

Martin doesn’t go to sleep for a long while.

Ain’t nobody ever said he’s a genius. But Martin didn’t get by being a slow idiot either.

He’s been around for a while. Ran the streets with people who didn’t look at his bloodied knuckles twice but didn’t cry wolf when he suddenly disappeared either.

So he knows that bein’ the only gal in a group of punks can be exhaustin’.

He’d been too young back then to do anything more’n watch, but he’s seen enough to know that he wants to do better by Drummer.

Wants all of them to do better by her.

Sure she’s easy on the eyes and smart as a whip. Been keepin’ Vogel safe when they couldn’t and Universe knows she’s stronger than she tends to give herself credit for.

A tough cookie that one. A true Boss.

Kind and soft and unwilling to put them at unnecessary risk, but also hardcore enough to drink ‘em under the table if that’s what’s needed.

She’s an amalgamation of dichotomies and Martin wouldn’t have her any other way. He wouldn’t have her try to change for any of them – ever.

So when he’d noticed himself lookin’, he’d sat himself down for one very important rule: Whatever might happen, it would be up to Drummer to take the lead.

He’s held still – mostly – when she’s laughed herself to tears that she’d hidden in his shoulder, forehead dropping against his shirt from behind even as her chuckles shook her.

He’s been her mosh-pit-partner, bowling her around and into other gals-guys-assorted-peoples, catching her sweaty-bruised-cackling body with his time and time again as they’d circle the pit.

But any step closer between the two of them had been firmly Drummer’s decision.

Martin doesn’t want to make her feel like she’s only around because either of the boys – or him – would think her nice enough to fool around with given a coupl’a beers.

Not that he’d push her outta bed if she’d ever decide to come askin’, but he also ain’t in the business of makin’ her feel like that’s her only value to them. Food an’ pleasure.

Drummer’s one of them.

And even if Martin sometimes needs to give ‘imself a stern talkin’ to, that means that she’s at liberty to have what she wants, when she wants it, the way she wants it.

Jus’ like the rest of them.

Except, of course, that she’s fixin’ to kill ‘im with her recent dedication to makin’ him Cough Up in a game that rarely ever involves any of the others.

Now Martin won’t lie – it feels special to be singled out by Drummer in this fashion, it does.

But when he Coughs Up the third time in a row since she’s started toyin’ with him like this, he can’t help the small glimmer of hope that blooms in his chest as she details a supposed wet-dream she’s had of him (of them) that maybe she ain’t just in it for the win.

That maybe she means it.

That maybe, just maybe, the triumphant witch whose dark eyes glitter at him while her lips wrap around the most sinful words, will let him prove to her – someday – that he’ll happily provide.

The Van doesn’t do Traffic Jams.

In fact, Martin thinks, this has to be the first time that their vehicle has steered them away from their off-beat-paths and frustratingly straight into a gridlock that seems to stretch for miles from where he’s sitting.

Martin is convinced that there are plenty of roads they could be taking right now instead of sitting here, slowly melting into the hot asphalt under their wheels.

Vogel, Gripps and Cross had taken the first hours of their almost-standstill for some fun in the back – swinging from the chains and kicking-swiping at each other like over-active squirrels.

Drummer is trying to become one with her seat and Martin contemplates taking off the rings on his fingers lest he’d accidentally burn something with a focused reflection. It’s been known to happen and he’s not certain if he wants to tempt the Universe into yet another unmitigated disaster.

Being stuck in this traffic is bad enough.

Martin wishes for the more temperate regions in the North. But first he has to get through this without losing his patience.

His fingers drum the wheel.

The radio is cycling through various frequencies, trying to catch a station that suits The Van. Trying to find anything else than the suitably infernal Country or Pop that would intermittently blare from the surrounding cars.

If he hears one more rendition of Sweet Home Alabama, someone’s Toyota is going up in flames in courtesy of a Molotov – Martin will have no regrets.

Drummer’s window is rolled down like she’s trying to incite a breeze.

Incite-invite.

If he were wind, he’d feel plenty invited by her open window – by her pulled up hair and her reddened face, the open shirt-collar around her neck, the beads of sweat on her skin.

He’s hungry.

He’s tired.

He’s antsy to move.

“You wanna get back there and throw them around a little?” Drummer offers. Martin hadn’t even noticed her looking at him.

Stubbornly he pulls his eyes forward again – gluing them to the infuriatingly cliché bobble-head-dog in the rear-window of the Mazda before him.

The Van rumbles.

His tongue catches a drop of his own sweat from his upper lip. Vogel topples into the back of his seat with an enthusiastic yell and the pressure of his impact is gone the second he gets his feet under him.

Martin growls.

Drummer doesn’t look away from him. “It’s just that all of you are pretty much the worst at sitting still and—“

Martin stays seated.

Traffic Jams are the Worst.

Cross’ arm flops onto the gear shift and Martin sighs with a quick swipe of his brow as he checks to make certain that they’re still in Idle. A bottle of water appears in his line of vision.

“’s not cold,” Drummer moans, “but it’s water.”

Martin could go for about five Tequila Shots right now. But he’s not going to make any of his Rowdies drive and it’s better than nothing. Accepting the capped bottle, Martin settles away from the steering wheel and sinks into his own chair – maybe Drummer has the right idea.

Sweat pools in his trousers, in the creases of his belly, trickles down the length of his arms.

The chaos in the back of the van dies down as the minutes tick by and the sun rises higher.

They roll haphazardly in their queue – hoping for another meter and another meter and another meter.

A kid sticks their tongue out at Martin and he gives them an angry finger.

Drummer takes a page out of the Rowdy Book and does away with her shirt – roasting in the sweltering heat like the rest of them, in jeans without belt-buckles and no-shirt. For a while it looks like she’s dozing.

The Rowdies in the back quiet down.

Beaten by the heat.

Body-heaps in various stages of undress are rolling around on the Van floor in the back, hoping for ideal positioning and enough shade that, if no one moves, the heat will not get any worse.

Beer-sweat stinks up their metal beast.

The Van is still circling through stations as Martin rolls another five meters and just as he coaxes the shift back into Idle Drummer stretches with a displeased groan.

Her pale skin is ruddy with heat and her eyes smudged with the dark make up around her eyes. Strands of hair stick to her cheekbones and her forehead and she glistens flatly in the glare of the sun that beats even their dirty windows.

Lazy hands are twirling the drum-sticks Gripps had methodically carved and whittled for her, needing something to do that would beat boredom without tilting her into either one of her attacks or a heatstroke.

Neither of them has probably had enough to drink now that he thinks about it.

Universe will hopefully be thinking about that.

A hum from the Drummer indicates a change in the air – something crisp and, dare he say it, fresh cackles in the cabin as she leans for the dash with a gleam in her eyes.

The Van echoes his appreciative growl at the rapid drum beat she hammers into the weathered plastic and rocking gently with the stomps she hammers into the floorboards. A discarded can of coke becomes her cymbal and Martin breathes easier with at least some outlet of the manic energy that’s been cooking under the dark roof of The Van this entire day.

Under her breath she hum-sing-whistles the squeal of a guitar, and a breathtakingly fast solo that he’s not certain she isn’t making up on the spot.

In the back one of the Rowdies seems to recognize the tune – humming a soft ‘Oh yeah’ under their breath as they take over the guitar part, Drummer focusses her anger on the dashboard.

The Van growls in relief.

The cackle of the radio becomes more intent – Martin, smiling behind his bottle of water, can tell that something is happening.

And then suddenly the stereo cracks and Drummer’s efforts translate to actual music and Cross’ air-guitar becomes the scratch of an actual electric guitar and Martin chokes as Drummer throws her head back, baring her throat and howling a throaty: “I’m hot for Teacher!”

Cross, from the back yowls back something unintelligible that smooths into a lewd: “I brought my—pencil! Gimme someth’n to write on, man!”

And they’re off again moaning and yowling in tandem, keeping pace with the lyrics and rocking The Van with renewed energy.

Cars are already honking at them.

Vogel whoops in the back before he yelps and Martin is still trying to squeeze any excess water out of his beard and mop up the wet mess of his bare front body.

In the rearview-window, Gripps’ knuckles are seconding as bass against Vogel’s side-cut and when he turns back front, their half-naked Drummer is keeping perfect time with the last notes, sweat running down her spine, smudging the darkness around her bright eyes as she catches him off-guard with a knowing smirk.

Some Karen stares at them from behind her wheel.

And then Martin doesn’t even get a moment of respite before the radio segues into Pour Some Sugar On Me and the entire Van howls in debauched delight as the Rowdies throw their entire pent up energy into screaming along.

Sometime in the middle of Cherry Pie, The Van steers them down an exit ramp and Martin has to lower his middle finger to drive.

His throat still feels uneasy with the reminder of water in his airways, but at the first store off the high-way, he stops them to trash the entire section of Water Bottles and douses the insides of The Van with refrigerator-cooled-water-from-France.

Drummer twirls under the gallon that Gripps upends over their heads and Martin wonders if he’ll ever learn to breathe again.

It's maybe the longest she's gone without making him Cough Up and Martin won't deny that he's getting… worried.

In a sense.

He'd been playing it safe, going only where the Drummer leads but recently he can't help but notice that Drummer seems to… stall.

Like when his foot is on the clutch but he's meaning to floor the gas. Van's never happy ‘bout that.

Martin can't help but feel a belated sense of commiseration.

He'll find her looking at him, eyes shining and pointy corner teeth winking at him and sometimes he can't even hold his breath with how much he wants to know what they feel like against his carotid. But then she'll look away again, as if these last months of closing in, following her every step of the way had been nothing else, indeed, than a bid to win a dumb game.

The disappointment bites harder than he'd expected it to.

She presses her lips together, pulling them inward and over her teeth as she looks away.

Martin's not interested, she reminds herself.

He's been patient with her. And kind.

Fuck he's been really kind to her about it. It's high time she catches a clue and stops this embarrassing infatuation she's deluded herself into.

Rowdies are touchy.

Any number of occasions she's draped herself over Gripps or Cross, may have been exponentiated when it had come to Martin, but it would still not ring bells with a dude who needed to touch every single one of them every morning as if to make certain that they were all real.

Come to think of it, how high is the probability that none of the Rowdies had ever had the actual opportunity to experience the… tension that's been plaguing her?

What's the chance Martin just isn’t aware of what he’s ‘doing to her’ and this entire mess is on her and her ability to project onto others?

She's not proud to say that her anxiety skyrockets so violently that the boys are getting worried with the rapid recurrences of her attacks.

Well, Vogel hadn't noticed but that really doesn't say much, all things considered.

As Drummer hobbles off towards The Van where she’s stashed a notebook to write down the things she remembers Seeing after their feeding, Martin gives him a sort of ‘Go’ gesture with his head as he turns to light his last cigarette.

Cross knows that he's going to finish it well before he could stand to.

He also knows that there’s gotta be a reason why Martin is sending him after Drummer, instead of going himself.

Cross isn't blind.

Or scent-deaf.

He knows that the Boss and Martin had been cooking up something… spicy-sweet between them for a while. Observing from the sidelines had allowed him to catch a surreptitious snack now and then, parsing the new taste carefully before coming to a conclusion.

It hadn’t taken him long.

While Martin is their eldest, Cross had had the dubious pleasure of being outside the longest.

So he’s aware that while he is not Martin – and thus not entirely the right person to have this conversation with the Drummer – he knows he will at least be emotionally literate enough to help her work through whatever it is that she needs working through.

And if it is what it looks like then she is going to need all the help they can offer and all the patience they can lend her.

Boss has certain… liberties in regard to them even if Cross isn’t always sure she’s aware of them (and how fair is it really, to give them to her when she doesn’t even know what she is holding). But he’s not certain that this could safely be covered by these liberties.

Always given that “this” is actually the not-breakup-break-up it looks like.

Cross has been around long enough to know that the universe likes its riddles.

When Cross lets himself into The Van, he finds her precariously curl-tucked into the passenger seat – bare feet toeing the lining of the Van’s dash, notebook (black, stolen by Martin just for her) resting on her knees.

But by the time he fully shoves into the Van, stretching out perpendicular to her back, Drummer is just staring into nothingness.

“Pin-Penny for that whacky-shit brain-thought,” he offers as quietly as he can.

Outside Gripps is hurling Vogel into the shrubbery that lines their most recent camping grounds. Keeping their youngest from coming to interrupt – as well-meaning as they might be.

Martin is still smoking, tense shoulders racked up by his ears.

“I fucked up,” Drummer responds succinctly.

Cross nods. He’s figured as much.

“Martin?” he offers.

Drummer sighs and leans forward. Her forehead falls to her knees and Cross can see her eyes close as if in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” she moans. “I should’ve noticed earlier that he wasn’t interested. I didn’t even notice I’d made things awkward.”

From her odd position, her eyes open to fall to him. Cross twists his head to give her a curious look. Drummer sighs.

“If I promise to be quiet in the future, will you let me stay?”

This, Cross thinks with a confused sort of clarity, doesn’t sound right at all.

“I'm not keeping up with the whack,” he admits perplexed. “Give me smaller chunks.”

Cross thinks that Drummer could need help. She sounds terribly wrapped up in something that is tugging her away from their reality and he’d really like it if he could help her find her footing and fight that shit straight back. Any further conversation hinges, of course, on her acceptance of his help but he hooks in: “Why would we not let you stay?”

Drummer squirms.

“’cause I’ve been coming on to Martin when he’s not interested and it made things fuck’n awkward,” she moans into the divot between her legs.

Cross— has not expected that.

“This is bad,” he finally says to himself and before he can register Drummer’s answering huff, he is already squirming forward – over the gear shift and into Drummer’s seat. Ignoring her squeak of protest to bundle her up into his arms and his lap until he has a jacket-full of cat-squirmy Drummer, runny eyes and all.

“This is better,” he nods to himself, tucking her head under his chin and pulling her further into his large jacket. He doesn’t know what it is about physical touch that makes Rowdies easier with each other, but he has yet to fail with this tactic.

Drummer relaxes in breath-increments.

One exhale to make herself comfortable.

Another one to ooze more solidly into the crevasse of his gaping jacket.

Another one to drop her forehead into his neck and shudder out the tension he could’ve probably fed from.

He nods, awkward fingers patting against her side. “Way better.”

Drummer huffs a humorous sound. Her hands rise to clutch at him.

“’m so sorry,” she says again. Cross shakes his head.

“Nope,” he denies, fingers tapping a nervous beat against her. “No sorries accepted. All sorry-lorries returned to sender.”

Drummer says nothing to that. Cross hopes he can sit still long enough to tell her the important bits.

“You know we love you,” he says.

It’s a given, really, between them. Drummer is one of them and they love her. She has kept Vogel safe when they couldn’t. She has saved them when there had been no way out. She has failed them never and it is so obvious that they love her that Cross wonders if they’ve ever told her.

Drummer pushes against him. An acknowledgment.

“An’ you know Martin has like… words?”

He asks her this time because if she hasn’t been aware that they love her, then maybe she hasn’t noticed either that Martin has all the good words.

The good speech.

Cross speaks good, but Martin has… a way of speech that Cross doesn’t.

Drummer nods into his neck.

Good.

“Martin really likes words for you,” he says then and curses. He squeezes her, fingers tapping nervously against her shoulder. “Flower-butterfly words,” the tries and groans, his head falling forward.

This is fucking hard.

Drummer’s fingers skim the side of his head. Cross exhales his own tension.

“Vogel made you Boss,” he announces into her hair, squeezing her. “Martin didn’t say No.”

That is a lot. She has to know what it means that Martin hadn’t argued. She needs to know what it means to them that she’d stuck her hands onto a live-wire to pull them through water and out of Blackwing.

The Rowdy 3 are Martin’s.

Martin didn’t argue when Vogel made Drummer Boss.

She needs to know.

“He trusted me,” she says softly. Cross exhales with a nod.

“Trusts,” he corrects. “Follow you into Blackwing.”

Drummer tenses at the mention and it’s a good thing, he thinks, that she recognizes the significance of that. It’s the least she needs to know.

She groans. “And I fucked that up,” she whines, drawing into herself. Cross drums against her shoulder.

“No fuck-ups here, Drummer,” he chides. Well… “Five fuck-ups,” he concedes. “Four hobos and a Drummer.”

She snorts. “Not what I meant Cross.”

Cross waits. Talking is hard when it has to come from him. It’s easier to follow the clearer lines of her sentences. Drummer sighs.

“I didn’t want to make you guys uncomfortable,” she sighs dejectedly into his skin. “And I like Martin—“

“Martin likes you,” he jumps at the chance.

Drummer snorts.

“Cross,” she chides “I like-like him.”

He knows what it means that she’s using the double-emphasis. But his mouth-brain can’t help it.

“Martin like-like like-likes you,” he insists. “Flower-butterfly words,” he reminds, squeezing her. “Chewing-gum-sweet-soft.”

It’s really pungent too sometimes. Especially when Drummer gets butter-sugar-sweet at the same time that Martin goes bubble-gum.

Vogel has been craving Candy forever.

For a few moments, Drummer says nothing. Cross lets her have the silence.

Silence is difficult for Rowdies but they do know that Drummer sometimes needs quiet.

“If he likes me,” Drummer finally starts, “and hasn’t been… active, that’s because—“

Cross nods. “Goes where the Drummer goes and not a step further.”

That, too, is obvious to them: Drummer leads the way.

Martin is bubble-gum ready for chewing when it comes to her, risks being spit out at every turn, but if she doesn’t pick him up from the aisles in the first place, then Bubble-Gum-Martin is going nowhere.

A deep heave of air that breaks against his skin.

“I thought--”, she stops herself.

Cross waits, fingers rap-tap-tapping against her.

She sags in his hold like a petulant potato sack. “I thought he was just like… holding still and waiting for me to get bored and leave.”

Like curling up and waiting for the bullies to be done kicking.

Not that Martin had curled up in a long time.

“No leaving,” he insists, pulling her closer. “Not even if you don’t like-like Martin anymore.”

That’d be a tough cookie to crack for the five of them, but Cross is mostly confident they’d find a way. Some way to make it work.

Drummer shakes her head.

“Not gonna happen anytime soon, Cross,” she negates to his relief.

He nods, tucking her back under his chin. “Banzai-Drummer.”

Martin doesn’t argue when Gripps leans over the gear-shift mid-drive and points to the left.

“Something’s rotten there,” he howls with wide eyes and Martin is turning before even rolling down the window for some closer inspection.

The first whiff promises something terrible, and his exhale is an uncontrolled growl that startles a giddy giggle from Vogel and a revving yeah-yeah-yeah from Cross.

Drummer, next to him, is already twisting for their bats even as Vogel’s hectic dash for their preferred crowbar rattles the chains over their heads. Drummer’s fingers play over the handle of her bat.

Martin breathes deeply and takes another turn.

Right into a dead-end street.

The Van growls.

“Boys!”

Cross is already jumping for the side-door – whooping as it springs open with the barest touch of his fingers and Gripps comes spilling out of it with Vogel hot on his heels. Drummer’s boots hit the glass-littered tarmac before the skin-heads at the end of the street have even registered the threat that rolls out with her.

A gaggle of women, cowering into a far-end corner, looks worse for wear than any being should ever have to.

Martin’s howl has a deafening echo.

“Get’em!” someone screams – pudgy and red-faced and Drummer is already making for them, ducking under hammer-swings and dancing out of electric-zappers, bat over her shoulder and Martin rams into one face, then two, then three and then loses count as the crunch of bones slates the violence in his blood.

Someone yowls and he looks up just long enough to watch Drummer jump onto an inverted knee – cackling as a bone makes an appearance. The bridge of her nose is decorated with a bright streak of blood and she flashes wolf-canines at an undeserving shaved jackass who is trying to get away from her to no avail.

Martin’s elbow socks back into the trachea of an asshole who tries to ambush him.

He watches Drummer pull the runner away from where they’d tried to scramble up a wall and into the large dumpster, throwing the lid closed on their fingers and unleashing the fury of something divine on the iron monstrosity until Martin is drunk on the permeating scent of fear from within.

The Rowdies howl for their Boss and Drummer, throwing her head back, howls right back for them.

She is alive like a wire when she spins back into their orbit, sweaty, blooded and riled when Martin pulls her under his arm and the Rowdies slowly trundle back to their Van, unsteady on adrenaline-wobbly knees, sated from the anger-pain-fear of their still groaning victims.

He feels her turn her head to the gaggle of women in the one corner, and feels her comfort go out to them, feels her do something and lets her go when The Van growls hungry and intent. Martin steps to open the door before The Van can get any more impatient.

Drummer will know what words the ladies need right now. Martin doesn’t think they’d be too keen on being in the proximity of rowdies right now.

When she plops herself into the passenger seat, Martin hands her a cigarette without even asking. Drummer is lighting it when he pulls away, accepting the beer-can as it flies at her head from the rough-housing back.

He doesn’t expect anything much when he pulls them out into the open back-roads, except, maybe, that whatever had been off between Drummer and him to somehow have found a resolution.

Still he startles when Drummer’s hand reaches for his out of nowhere and she gives him a smile that is oddly bashful-brilliant-careful as she says: “I’m never afraid of you like that.”

It’s his smoke, this time, that betrays him into a small Cough Up and thank the Universe for The Van, because he’s not certain how long he loses himself in the exhilarating vulnerable look she gifts him with – slightly uncertain and ever more willing to be open for it.

When he looks back at the road and just about swerves them out of the way of a bush, he catches her hand in his to squeeze it, hold her slender fingers between his and debate putting it to his chest. Let her know what she does to his heart.

He doesn’t have to.

Drummer smiles at him from the corner of his eyes and he forgets all sort of heartache he’s been fighting with these last few days.

Drummer isn’t exactly careful when she slots herself back into the space that had somehow seemed empty without her.

There is a new quality to their interactions, that much is true. Less guesswork, more intent – catching his eyes as she sidles up, the glass-bottom of a cool beer in his neck before she sits down close enough to push her thigh against his, oddly caressing searches for his cigarette pack or his lighter when the craving hits her and a general willingness to be found in his general vicinity.

Which is nice.

Martin hadn’t been aware that he’d actually liked these things before, though now that he is more aware of these… flirtations – he sometimes feels near-drunk on the terrible rush that it gives him to be so acknowledged by their Drummer.

They haven’t played Cough Up in a while though.

Maybe it’s a conscious choice on her part, separating her proximity and her advances from the game they had started with.

Martin can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he seems to miss it though.

The brazen crack of her statements when she makes him choke. The victorious twinkle in the eyes of the vixen on the other side of a cackling fire as he catches her eyes through tears. The sip of her bottle when he finally gathers his bearings again.

And it makes him antsy, in a fashion.

The new land she’s mapping out here. The path that leads away from secret teases across the fire. The triumphant gallop of his heart whenever she darts into his emotional space only to back up again, leaving him reeling and strangely exultant from it.

He should, perhaps, take time to know his own standpoint better – but Martin knows himself.

Knows that he will accept what the Drummer will offer but that he also – in the deep, winding chambers of his heart – would like to have everything.

Martin, however, is also very aware that he is not… normal. Per se.

At least not normal enough to have experienced this before. Different enough to know that wherever it is she’s leading them – and he wants her to, damn the copper-fear-stone in his throat – it’s going to be terra incognita to him.

Short dalliances he has experiences with.

Smash-and-dash as Cross had sometimes dubbed them.

Quick thrills and curiosity fixes – hunger slating – he knows.

Martin knows what coy looks across a Tequila-sticky bar mean. He knows what it means when a buxom red-head presses herself against him ‘accidentally’ for the third time in a minute. He’s literate enough to know how to make these dalliances satisfying.

Drummer scares him.

What scares him more is that he wants it.

That he wants to lean in rather than step away after a dirty release in some loud cellar where the bass doubles as a heartbeat and no one’s lungs get out unscathed. More, that he wants quiet mornings – wants to know the features of her face in the orange-golden glow of the rising sun, wants to have the time to commit the image to memory.

So it’s a good kind of scare.

Probably.

Martin’s been twistin’ himself into knots over it.

The length of rope currently in his hands is from the Van’s roof. A longer piece of securing rope that usually holds their seatables in place while they rush through the states, chasing Drummer’s visions and the flow of the stream of creation.

It’s something of a secret but before Blackwing, Martin had been a Scout.

Hadn’t stuck for long, but he’d enjoyed the Knots and Lashings. The many hours spent over a length of rope of varying degrees of thickness, tying together long stems to four-footed-tents. Passing the time and the haste of his thoughts by sinking into the many variations of tying knots or building something.

It’s not a conscious decision, but as he sits in his customary chair, blindly staring into this night’s campfire, his hands work their way through the familiar set of motions.

He’s forgotten the names for most of the knots, though he remembers their duty and his forefingers and thumbs are gripping for the opposite length of rope to pull it tight in a Sheepshank when a soft scruff against the loose soil warns him of someone’s proximity.

Drummer’s lower arms press down on his shoulders as he pulls the rope through, tightening his grip on the remaining free ends of rope to make certain he did it right as his back grows warm with her nearness.

"Know any fancy ropework?"

Martin twists wrong, cinching the flesh of his palm in the winding of the rope as the image hits.

Red.

Over the length of her black jeans.

With or without a shirt, who even cares. If he frames her chest right—

“Breathe, Mart,” she teases and he hadn’t noticed but when he sucks in the firewood-warm night-air, he coughs with the needy greed of it. The rope in his hands is somehow aligned well enough – two equal lengths next to each other.

Her warmth is still in his back.

His hands crumple the rope and his mind crumples the image.

This is not the right time.

Yet.

He hangs his head.

“If I do,” he warns, “it’s gonna be entirely your fault, Drummer.”

Drummer snorts into his neck, squirming up the back of his seat to frame his shoulders with her knees as she dangles a fresh beer in front of his nose. It must be the last from the cooler.

Martin takes a long drink and lets it rush to his head.

Martin’s got a feeling The Van is rolling faster than it wants to let him know. Pulled-pulling towards something. 

Or someone. 

“What‘re the odds it's your second favorite snack bar?” Drummer drawls tiredly at some point, squinty eyes staring at the near endless stretch of dark road ahead of them. 

Martin has elected to drive in the night, opting to rest when temperatures make sitting in The Van unbearable. Usually that means a quiet Van – means lonely hours of ferring his chaotic family across the states, stealing glances at the Drummer in the seat next to him.

He takes a pull of his cigarette, musing. 

“’s a possibility,” he finally allows, snipping the butt of the cigarette out the open window. 

Drummer makes a distinct noise in the back of her throat as she shuffles in her seat for more comfort. 

Martin has an odd sense of respect for the British twerp. It takes something to keep doing what Universe needs done even when the Bad Emotions are rampant enough to feed a pack of Rowdies. 

On the other hand, he also isn’t quite as fond of Gently as he could be – all things considered. 

Some Blackwing Dumbo had once described Icarus’ talent as “pulling in those who were meant to be pulled in and towards the exact location they would be needed”. 

Rowdies aren’t, generally speaking, good for a whole lot that could be used to serve society as Universe had allowed it to unfold - except for beating the crap out of shit. And while Martin will be the first to admit that he has enough issues that he likes to deal with by whacking the stuffing out of whatever (or, indeed, whoever) Universe points him at, he is not a great fan of being made to do anything. 

That and he has to think about Drummer.

Drummer ain’t like them. 

Drummer is something else. A witchakookoo-road-sign that somehow seconds as Rowdy-Buffet. She’s strong and she’s different and Martin wants her nowhere close to Blackwing. Especially with Priest out and about. 

Universe doesn’t care where its people have to go to grow and get stronger. It can’t – really – and in a detached sort of objectivity he understands that. But Martin cares about his family. 

And if there is any way to keep them away from harm, he will walk that path with no regrets. 

Maybe even at the cost of Universe. (He’s not sure yet. Cross that bridge if he gets there.) 

Which is exactly why The Van throws them directly into Gently’s path – side-door springing open to trap the orange-jacket-loud-mouth and his two assist-friends on the run from Priest and Martin smokes tires before the man can even properly compute the Rowdies’ presence in town. 

Except, of course, it’s too late. 

Priest is exceptional at his job, and this time is no difference. The presence of the Rowdy 3 doesn’t deter him so much as it entices him, warms his blood to a heady boil that reeks of battle-ready-psychosis until the entire city reeks of it and Martin’s growl reverberates in his chest at all hours. 

It’s a close call – too close for his liking – but at the last possible moment, Blackwing is mowed down by a ratty-haired pouting holistic assassin that presents themselves as Bart through tear-thick lashes. 

“I don’ wanna be an assassin anymore,” they hiccup when Drummer gets closer than Martin thinks she should, pressing a gentle hand on the shoulder of the person who’d just flattened Priest and his Blackwing detachment with a cheese knife and looted weaponry. 

Gently smells like he’s about to wet himself. 

Martin wonders how nicely he has to ask to get the twerp to give up that gourmet panic.

“—and alongside them exists Free-Will,” Drummer soothes, chancing fingertips over the scalp of the once-assassin. “Is there something you want to do?” 

Martin doesn’t hear what they mutter, but it must be good because Drummer’s shoulders relax in a fashion that tells him that Bart is experiencing one of the most beautiful smiles right now. 

“Can I hug you?” 

Bart nods jerkily and cries as Drummer puts her arms around them. They hiccup and snot into Drummer’s shoulder even as she coaxes them into The Van – just to get away from the arriving judicial forces – while she encourages them and listens. Troubleshooting the next few steps for the no-longer-assassin until they’re reasonably calmed down. 

Gently anxiously hovers in a corner of The Van, making the Rowdies hungry. 

“Hello Dirk,” Bart sniffs after a while. 

“Hello Bart,” he greets quietly and anxious-like. “What are you going to do?” 

Drummer nods when Bart looks at her – like asking for permission, except Martin knows that look, and it’s more a search of encouragement. A reassurance that they do have someone at their back. Universe knows Martin has observed it often enough between Vogel and Drummer. 

“I want to work with animals,” Bart answers, wiping their nose. “They’re more honest than people will ever be.” 

Gently nods sagely. “That is very true,” he agrees. “If you want, maybe I can ask Farah to put you up with a contact?” 

Bart’s head swivels back towards Drummer, fawn-footed and insecure now that they’re trying to make their own way in life rather than heeding Universe. Drummer pulls a face. 

“Do you have something in particular in mind?” she asks Gently. 

The orange-clad buffet shrugs. “Lydia has recently come back to the Spring Estate with a vet degree? Says her experience as a dog has opened her eyes and she wants to do better by animals. We’re still a kitten-shark short and she’s been thinking about putting her funds to opening a shelter.” 

Martin nods into nothingness. 

Universe will always provide. 

Drummer looks at Bart – clearly aware of something along the same lines. “Would you feel comfortable with that?” 

Bart shrugs. 

“It’s a start?” they try. Martin can smell Drummer’s encouraging smile. She’s too good for the lot of them, really. 

“It is that,” she agrees, before turning forward to Martin. “Think it’s safe enough to stick around until Bart is settled?” 

Martin should, maybe, have known that this question would come but, still, he finds himself somewhat unprepared for it. Huffing a fake-exasperated sound, he rolls the window down and, as one, the Rowdies in The Van take a deep whiff of the city’s air. 

It smells surprisingly clean. 

“Wet earth after rain,” Gripps sighs. 

“Windex,” Vogel giggles.

“Sea-salt-healed,” Cross agrees. 

Martin takes another whiff, turning a corner. There is something around the streets here, but the pungent pestilence of Blackwing – the aggressive-fear-hunt scent – has blown out of the city.

Taking another turn and allowing The Van to choose its’ stand-still in front of a pink-white bakery in a dead-end-street he nods: “Smells safe enough. Without Priest it’ll take them a while to gather their bearings.” 

For the first time since they’d come to their rescue, Martin looks at Bart. “Much obliged by the way.” 

Bart blinks, but doesn’t comment. Martin understands that. 

Gently shuffles in his corner of The Van, still anxious-adrenaline-fueled-rabbit-hearted – four pairs of eyes settle on him and Drummer clears her throat very carefully. 

“Dirk…” 

“No?” he whimpers, head ducking between his almost-shaking shoulders.

“You have a lot of emotions,” she says easily. “Even I can tell…”

Gently smells like lunch and if Martin and the boys weren’t so hinged on Drummer, they’d have been all over him already. As it is, the mere mention of their feeding on him propels him into another strong emotion – anticipation-anxiety-panic that is sweet like cake in the back of his throat. 

Martin growls and reaches for a cigarette. 

“Isn’t it ever just… easier for you to think after they feed?” she finally asks just as Martin lights the stick and The Van’s side-door jumps open like it doesn’t want the stink to fester in its corners. 

Drummer sounds honestly perplexed and Martin turns just enough to catch the open confusion on her face. “It’s just… I’m always…” 

“Right as rain,” Gripps sings, wiggling his hand for her fingers. She gives them readily for him to play with. 

Gently looks pensive. 

“I don’t mean to cross a boundary with you, Dirk,” she explains. “It’s an honest question because… I just wondered.” 

“You know,” Gently says with something like petulant realization, “I might?” 

Cross snorts and even Martin smirks at the affronted tone of his voice. Drummer tilts her head. 

“Something to think about, huh,” she proposes before she looks out of The Van’s open side-door. “Until then I think you owe us cake.” 

Gently is actually surprisingly excited to get them cake. Honestly exhilarated to switch Bart his piece of Marzipan Torte for their Angel Cake while keeping up a veritable flood of conversation about the history of the small Café that The Van has parked itself in front of. 

Martin would call it a successful end to a near-terrible Universe-idea. 

Somehow, it gets better.

Drummer’s Brother had seized the opportunity to see his sister and Gently had only nodded when Drummer had proposed he show the Rowdies his offices.

Martin hadn’t known what she’d been on about. The rooms are welcoming-white, just shy of sterile and formal in a way that had made his throat crawl until Gently had pulled them into ‘his’ office – filled with papers, documents, three tables and one phone.

Operation Central, he’d called it, before coming to a hovering sort of stand-still in front of a haphazard leather chair positioned oddly away from the tables like it had been forgotten. It’s his finger-twistingly nervous weight-shifting that had made Martin still, attentive and quiet until Gently had, in fact, spoken up.

“I’m-uh… well, Farah calls me three neuroses in a leather jacket and uh,” Gently swallows, looking down. “Maybe she’s not so wrong and uh—Amanda might not be wrong either when she said that she always could think clearer after— after and uh— I’m willing to give it a try?” 

He looks at them when he finally manages to say it. Four painstakingly-quiet Rowdies standing opposite of three-neuroses-in-a-leather-jacket Detective and Martin inhales with quiet gravity. 

“Is this permission to feed from you,” he asks to clarify, fingers clenching into fists rather than leaving them enough room to shake. 

Everything about Gently’s scent says Food and it’s a miracle the Rowdies have managed to pull themselves in by the reins at all. 

“Yes,” Gently swallows. “This is permission.” 

Vogel is first to explode out of his position, startling Gently into toppling down in the square leather-chair opposite of the four of them and Martin is just quick enough to snatch their youngest at the scruff and pull him down into a less aggressive approach. 

“Like with the Drummer,” he instructs – though Drummer had never been quite as panicked as Gently seems to be as the four of them approach, positioning themselves around him. Martin feels like vibrating out of his skin as he catches Gently’s eyes. 

“Last chance to back out.”

Universe knows it’ll leave them high-and-dry and in dire need of a whole ass-load of energy, but he also doesn’t doubt that the Rowdies could do it. 

Gently – Dirk, he might as well start calling the twerp by his name – answers his look. “Let’s do this,” he smiles nervously and Martin doesn’t give him another second to over-think his choice. 

“Boys.” 

Dirk’s energy is… bottomless. Martin is hit with a load of existential angst, a heaping side of crippling self-doubt and diffidence with a tacky-sweet chaser of forlorn place-questioning. 

When the energy dissipates, Martin feels bloated with the feast. 

“Oof,” Gripps stumbles with a quiet burp.

Vogel giggles, patting his flat stomach. “Feel like a planet.” 

Cross nods. 

Gently, in the chair, looks pale – tired. But when Martin catches his eyes again, he swallows. 

“She was right,” his brows furrow as he makes himself a bit more comfortable in his seat – he looks like he’s about to go to sleep. 

“You feel okay?” 

Gently smacks his lips, glassy eyes drifting closed. “I wonder how I never noticed before,” he mumbles, cuddling into the back-rest and Martin can’t help but wonder about that himself. 

“Black will be here in a bit,” he soothes gruffly as the rest of the Rowdies tumble through the glass-door and into the reception room. “We won’t leave the agency ‘til then. Get some rest, Gently.” 

Dirk smacks his lips again, already half-asleep, shoulders slack and easy. 

“How’d you talk him into it?” Farah Black asks quietly, hand securely in Gripps’ hold, coating her nails with precise strokes of black nail-polish. 

Drummer tilts her head carefully. “I didn’t, really,” she finally concedes with a shrug. “I just asked him a question.” 

Farah Black – used to Bullshit – lifts a finely crafted eyebrow that promises vile things if she doesn’t get her answer soon. Martin likes her. 

Drummer squirms in her seat until Gripps makes a clicking noise of chiding that reminds her that her feet as well as her hands are supposed to remain still until the polish on her nails has dried. 

Quiet Rowdies only ever happen when they’re fed, Martin muses, sitting in the window with a cigarette. It’s going to be a while until they’re going to be hungry again. 

“I always think clearer when the guys feed off me,” Drummer finally admits – not comfortably so, but also not ashamed. It’s private, her tone says, but not embarrassing. 

Farah Black hums. A question for more. 

“So I asked him if maybe that didn’t also happen to him and well—“ Drummer shrugs again. 

Dirk Gently does, in fact, think clearer when the anxiety and panic has been eaten off him. Farah Black had sought them out in Toad’s old haunt after finding ‘her Detective’ as universe-trusting and positively obnoxious as he had first been when she’d met him. 

Farah Black sighs – hand back in her own control now that Gripps is done with it. “He has already found a new case,” she ponders softly. “It’s taken us months of… waiting, I suppose, to get the last one but the moment you’re here—“ 

She shakes her head. 

Drummer purses her lips, eyes catching his with something like uncertainty. Martin makes himself look as sturdy and supportive as he can. She looks back to Farah. Gently’s assis-friend has noticed their exchange and meets Drummer’s eyes curiously – expectantly. 

“Mind you this just came to me right now,” Drummer warns. “But has it never occurred to you that maybe there’s a reason the Universe would like… make Dirk Gently anxious like a hamster in a research facility and then put him into the direct line of a pack of… empathivores?” 

Farah mouths the word ‘empathivores’ with a dubious look, but Martin can tell that she’s listening. 

“You mean it’s like a… symbiosis?” 

Drummer nods.

Martin makes a ‘huh’ noise from his perch on the window-sill – shrugging when Farah Black looks towards him. “It makes a weird amount of sense,” he admits. 

A Universe-weird amount of sense. 

Farah Black leans back and doesn’t argue when Gripps reaches for her other hand.

“Look,” she says with an air of finality when The Van halts in front of a Liquor Store. “All I’m saying is that if ‘everything is connected’” she makes the quotes with her fingers, “then maybe there’s more to you being attracted to him food-wise than… I don’t know, you being… aggressive bullies who’ve been frightening him for snacks.” 

Martin’s hand is still on the gear-shift when he mulls her most recent attempt at explaining this afternoon’s spark of inspiration. 

Cross rattles his seat. “Universe is gonna universe,” he insists. “Witchakookoo sees Universe. Makes sense Witchakookoo speaks Universe.” 

Martin sighs. Antsy with the revelation and surprisingly uneasy with being told something new about themselves but he exhales his unease with a look at the Drummer. 

“Didn’t mean to make you uneasy,” she apologizes without looking at him. She smells guilty. 

Which won’t do. 

Martin pulls her into his lap by her arm. “No sorries,” he shakes his head. 

“You know how we feel about sorry-lorries,” Cross chides familiarly from the back and Drummer snorts into his shoulder. 

“I don’t know where the idea came from,” she says softly into his shoulder. “And I don’t think my Rowdies are bad bullies just because you’re loud and angry and tend to beat up cops, assholes or their cars. Or because you’re on an emotional diet.” 

“We’re better at talking with bats and fists,” Cross sings with a bop to her nose. “We can’t all have a golden tongue, Drummer.” 

Martin snorts at the irony and laughs hoarsely at the looks of confusion he gets from the lot in the back of The Van. 

“I call bullshit,” he argues, snickering into the punch Drummer delivers to his shoulder. 

“What’d you mean?” Gripps asks – sounding almost ready to throw down with Martin over Drummer. 

“Yeah!” Vogel interjects – definitely ready to throw down with Martin over Drummer, “What do you mean?!” 

It’s Cross, somehow, who makes a soft noise of understanding. “She’s been making you pay for something?” 

Drummer snorts and Martin shakes his head, rattling her by the shoulder and pushing her out of his lap and through the door he clambers after as the Rowdies spill out of the side-door. 

“We’ve been playin’ Cough Up when you three are snorin’,” he soothes before Vogel can try to see if their courage will let them swipe their crowbar at Martin. 

Gripps relaxes for a second, before an entirely different kind of tension crawls up his shoulders. Cross grins a scheming smirk at the older Rowdy when Gripps looks at him. 

“I’ve been winning Cough Up,” Drummer corrects, oblivious to the understanding that dawns on Gripps.

Vogel howls a triumphant whoop: “Get’im Boss!” 

“What’s the Score?” Cross asks, lifting his mallet over his shoulder and giving the windows of the Liquor Store a considering look. 

“Seven – Nil,” Martin grunts. 

“Dude!” Vogel high-fives Drummer who is prancing ahead of the Rowdies, schlepping her aluminum bat behind her with an odd symphony of asphalt and metal. 

“Told ya,” he shrugs as she holds the door open for the Rowdies, “Y’ain’t gonna believe the shit tha’ comes outta that mouth.” 

She grapples him before they’re even through the door and cackles under his counterattack that swings her into the first shelf and topples two rows of hard drink. 

Someone screams and Drummer is already up and running again, aluminum bat swinging into the surveillance cameras as Martin makes for the cash register. 

“Evening,” he greets with his elbows hooked over the bat behind his neck and smiles into the perfume of fear and confusion.

It is high time, Gripps thinks with something like vindication, that Martin get his ass in gear.

“Equality in relationships,” he grunts argumentatively into the embrace – fingers carding through Cross’ longer strands.

Cross makes a considering noise into his shoulder and shuffles closer. Gripps holds himself just still enough for his friend to get comfortable, before he winds his arm around the other with enough force to be just this shy of violence.

Predictably Cross relaxes into the hold.

“No map, no step,” Cross gives back. It’s Gripps’ turn to make a hum.

He’s not wrong, of course, in that none of the Rowdies really have any idea how to friend with anyone who isn’t a Rowdy.

Which is also, probably, why it’s Drummer that Martin has set his eyes on. Universe knows their driver wouldn’t know how to handle his emotions in regard to any ‘normal’ person.

Drummer isn’t really normal.

Which is a good thing.

She would never have set foot into The Van if she would have been.

Even in her divergence, however, she deserves to know that she is wanted. Wanted with them. But also wanted by Mart’.

“Proof of emotion,” he conveys his latest thought.

“Proof of love,” Cross nods, then sighs. “Drummer does deserve that.”

Gripps untangles another knot in Cross’ hair. “Push-pull Mart’?” he asks quietly.

Cross snorts and shakes his head: “Push-push-Mart’.”

Gripps sighs. Cross is right. Martin will need so many kicks to the backside before he makes a step.

“Van Ting,” he proposes. Cross hums highly, not entirely convinced.

“Drummer?”

He’s right of course.

A Van Ting including Drummer about Mart’s inaction towards her would be… prematurely stupid in regard to the delicate balance that the two of them have going between themselves. Gripps is certain it’ll strengthen over time but pushing their thing into the open like that – forcing it into a Light it might not be strong enough for as of yet – might mean the violent, embarrassed dearth of the softness between their two beloved Rowdies.

Excluding Drummer from a Van Ting, on the other hand, would mean a personal injury to their witchakookoo on a level none of them ever intended.

So a Van Ting was out on pretty much all accounts.

“Push-push-Mart’ then,” he accepts with a beleaguered sigh. Cross giggles into his shoulder. With any luck Cross’ convoluted plans for getting Martin to make a move on their Drummer will be rendered unnecessary because Gripps’ tactic works before Cross needs to bring out the big guns.

Depends on how much drama Universe is up for.

Not much drama, it turns out.

“Boss likes you,” Vogel pouts aggressively at Martin one morning.

Gripps can’t tell if the revelation is a recent one or if they’d simply needed time to get it out in the right moment. Judged by Martin’s rendition of a fish out of water, he doesn’t right know what to do with the confrontation either.

“Yes?” he finally cautions.

Vogel’s brows furrow and their arms cross. “Do you like her?”

Martin looks like he’d be anywhere else than here. Gripps and Cross watch from the safe distance atop The Van. When Martin looks their way, Gripps takes it upon himself to make a face he hopes conveys the ‘Well?’ he’d like to add to Vogel’s question.

Finally Martin sighs.

“Yes,” he grunts and sags into the seat he’d been about to throw up to Gripps and Cross on the roof. His thumb and forefinger rise to the bridge of his nose and he plucks his glasses to better rub at the skin there.

“Yeah,” he says again. “I like her, Vogel.”

“Do you like her best?” Vogel insists.

Cross snorts next to him.

Martin sighs and looks up at their Baby Rowdy, “I don’t measure like in that fashion,” he starts diplomatically.

To their credit, Vogel waits for him to continue before exploding into a fight like the tension in their shoulder says they want to.

“I love you,” Martin says with conviction, catching Vogel’s eyes, then Cross’, then Gripps’. It’s important to Martin that they know this – Gripps thinks he’s always known. “You are my family and nothin’ will get between me an’ you.”

Except the odd Blackwing Operative. But they don’t mention that now.

“I love Drummer in a different fashion, but I don’t lover her any less than I love you,” Martin continues. “Does that make sense?”

Gripps can’t see Vogel’s face from where he’s sitting, but he’d bet Vogel is chewing their lip – it’s a habit they haven’t managed to train them out of even in all the years they’ve been on the road together.

“Like you love twizzlers, but you also love beer?” Vogel tries.

Martin snorts. “Yeah, Vogel, ‘xcactly like that.”

Vogel nods – satisfied. “You gotta tell Boss,” they insist just as Martin makes to stand. He sits right back down.

For the first time since the start of the conversation, Martin seems truly hesitant.

Vogel makes a step towards him.

“You can’t not tell her,” they insist.

Martin huffs, “Vogel,” but he doesn’t follow his admonishment up with anything more substantial than that.

For a while he doesn’t say anything at all. Gripps wonders if maybe they’d pushed too much too early. Wonders if Martin is going to clam up all shell-like and not open up again until in three weeks or something – or implode when, at some point, Drummer does-or-doesn’t make another move in his direction.

Vogel crosses their arms. “Why not,” they insist petulantly.

Martin sinks his face into his hands – glasses and all. He’s going to have fingerprints all over his visual field.

Gripps watches Martin inhale and exhale deeply. Once. Thrice. And then a fifth time before he sits up again and opens the passenger-side-door of The Van to grab his packets of cigarettes and light one.

He sucks at it like he wishes it were a can of beer.

Vogel’s fingers are playing with their zipper.

Martin sits down on the Drummer-Seat and exhales a thick plume of smoke.

“Vogel it ain’t pretty what some men do to women around these parts an’ I don’ wan’ Drummer ta feel like I’m jus’ lookin’ at her because she’s a Rowdy.”

To their credit, Vogel tries to understand. “I don’t get it,” they confess finally though.

Gripps hums, turning to take in their surroundings – it wouldn’t do too much if Universe chose this moment for Drummer to come back to The Van.

Martin takes another drag.

“You know Drummer’s a girl, yes?”

Vogel scowls. Martin smirks and exhales.

“Some groups ain’t family like we are when they run together,” he starts. “Some groups there’s a lotta men and a few who ain’t men. Seen it often that the men will drink, sleep with the women and then leave them the next mornin’,” Vogel makes a face.

Gripps doesn’t know if he should be proud that their Baby Rowdy even understands this much. They’ve learned to not assume with Vogel.

Martin nods. “But see, those women can’t walk away,” he continues. “They’re runnin’ with that group-that-ain’t-family and tha’s another kind of insult-to-injury. I don’ wan’ Drummer to think tha’s what I’m doin’ with her.”

Vogel is silent for a few beats.

“You want her to know that this is family even if you also wanna be gross with her,” they finally try to summarize.

Cross snorts. Gripps slaps the back of his head and isn’t surprised when it doesn’t mince his mirth even the least.

Martin’s eyes are amused when he glances up towards them before turning his attention back to Vogel: “Pretty much, yeah.”

“But isn’t that her decision?”

Oh?

Gripps sees his surprise mirrored on Cross’ face when their Baby Rowdy flings their arms as if to get rid of the surplus energy in their limbs before looking up and then at Martin again.

Their fingers play with the zipper again.

“It’s Boss’ decision if she allows you close to her at all,” they figure slowly. “And Boss is the one who’s been sticky-sweet with you in the first place, hasn’t she?”

From his position on top of The Van, all that Gripps really sees of Martin’s reaction is a plume of smoke and a lot of quiet. He knows Mart’ is thinking about it, but given their Baby Rowdy’s antsiness he’s taking his mighty sweet time about it.

Their driver finally huffs – putting Vogel out of their weight-shifting-finger-twisting misery. “You might be on to something.”

Vogel exhales like their strings have been cut.

“Then can you please let Drummer know that you wanna be sticky-sweet with her too? I don’ think I can keep watching you two and keep my mouth shut.”

Cross snickers.

Gripps hears the raise of Martin’s brow in his next words: “You been watchin’ for how long exactly?”

Vogel groans. “It’s been four days Martin!” Cross howls as Vogel throws their hands up into the air with a general sense of the most ungraceful defeat: “ENTIRE! DAYS!”

Alright so his Boys ain’t the most patient as things go. And Universe knows Vogel is their worst – in a fashion.

But even hours later, sitting at the steering wheel of The Van and guiding it where the stream of creation blows them, Martin can’t help the tug of a smile at his lips whenever he thinks about it.

Days.

He chortles.

Vogel doesn’t know the half of it.

“’so funny?” Drummer grunts from the passenger seat.

She’s all bundled up under a fluffy blanket of fake fur – all polyester and unforgiving to even the slightest heat but somehow it always survives even their rowdiest cruises. He thinks it might like the Drummer.

“Vogel,” he soothes, giving her a gentle side-eye.

Drummer is a rowdy devil like the rest of them – but Universe help him if she doesn’t also make him want to pounce her with the utmost respect and give her make-up a good reason to go smudged.

A foot taps against his thigh – a gentle admonishment in brown eyes that have caught more of his thoughts than he’d have thought. Martin hands her a bottle of water. Drummer drinks – expectantly.

And it’s half the fun, isn’t it, to keep his silence.

Let her think he’s going to try something when, in this reality, he’s keeping his own counsel. Just for now. Just a bit longer.

Just until three days later, when they’re camped in an abandoned saw-mill close enough to the woods to provide a sense of freedom and a source of clear running water somewhere further into the foliage, as well as a general cover for The Van and the Rowdies.

Just until she lifts her bottle of beer to her lips in front of him and Martin takes the distraction the Boys have found to busy themselves with and bends over her shoulder with a quiet inhale and a: “If I ask real nice – can I fuck you stupid and make you coffee in the morning?”

Drummer Coughs Up until she foams at the mouth and then some and Martin won’t deny that there is a certain satisfaction not merely in winning (for once) but in the heated look she throws him over her shoulder as she gathers her wits about her.

When she can finally breathe again, Drummer puts down her beer and stands with an expectant enough air that even Cross – further down the old storage hall – takes notice of her motion when she jerks her head towards the sliver of open door: “What’re we waiting for? I was promised good game.”

He doesn’t hear the triumphant howl of the Boys until they’re well out of the building and her hand is pulling him further into the darkness of the surrounding woods.

He does make her coffee in the morning.

[And when he lights his first cigarette, she bend her lips to his ear: “I can still feel you in me,” to make him Cough Up on nothing but cigarette smoke.]