"In Which Reality is Getting Stuck on Incongruous Nicknames"

(Pt. 2)

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(Still) The Arm Bar (gym), Behind The Garage

8:??PM (How do you expect me to keep track of this?)

"That hardly seems fair," he remarks with a mouth-shrug.

"Join the club. 'Been saying the exact same thing since I met you," I say with a lopsided smirk.

The thought of kicking his divine ass — maybe breaking a few bones as well — and getting my jacket back makes me smile with gleeful anticipation.

He goes back to staring at me, long enough for my facial muscles to screw up in annoyance.

He finally breaks the silence with the words I least expect to hear, "You should do it more often."

I pin him with a questioning brow.

His full kissable lips twitch. "Smile."

I squint my eyes at him, doing just the opposite. "In your dreams."

"Already did," he replies so faintly that I almost couldn't believe my ears.

Was he toying with me right now? "You"—

"Trouble!"

Barely missing a second, I sharply shove him to a reasonable distance (though the result was more of me bouncing back from the inertia) as Pops makes a beeline towards us.

"You lookin' cozy there," he says, eyeing the close proximity between the two of us. "I swear, for a minute there, anyone would think you had a lover's spat"— he stops and breaks into a guffaw — "but that would be impossible since you two just met."

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" I pretend to laugh with him while facing the blonde-haired, jacket-stealing Scottish man.

Don't even think about it, my eyes bulge with an evil-eyed glare, nose flared and lips thinned. Unless you want to kiss your job and your apartment bye-bye, keep your howler* shut.

Without batting an eye, his scarred brow imperiously slides up in response as we unblinkingly aim to out-stare each other again. I would've taken it as a win if it wasn't for the way   his gaze rakes all over my face and lingered on my pinched lips.

I wiggle my lips in disdain, licking at the seams for any signs of dried drool.

"Son?" Pops looks at him expectantly, his tone deceptively casual.

Ciaran finally answers Pops with an evasive shake of his head. "Not at all, sir"— he shoots me a hard knowing look — "she was just about to show me how to spar."

Pops holds up his hand, slinging his other arm around my shoulders. "Uh-puh-pup, it's Pops."

I inaudibly make a gagging face.

"And, don't"— he lowers his arm and clamps my neck with the crook of his elbow, knuckling the top of my head with his free hand—"let this callous foul-mouthed pretty face fool you. Our Avalon here has been teaching beginners' classes for the gym."

Ciaran blinks at me, a passing glint of curiosity loosens the hard set of his jaw almost similar to shock. Almost. "Avalon? "

I arch a brow. Of all the things Pops just said, that one was what caught his attention?

As if something suddenly clicked, a brief shadow passed over his face. It was so fast to the point it was unnoticeable to the casual eye. The subtle tightness around his jaw, the rigid line between his lips, and the glacial hue of his eyes remind me of the frost that gathers on window panes in a wintry day.

SMACK! I slap Pops's noogie-ing* hand away and cross my arms, my clenched fists hidden. "No, Pops just lives* to fabricate new names and confuse other people. Apparently, that's the new trend in people with midlife crises. I call it senility, but what do I know? "

"Wow"— Pops whistles — "I just went from a 60-year-old man to a man in his early 40s,* are you trying to compliment me or insult me with kindness?"

Ugh, of all the things I said that's what he picked up?

Both these guys deserve each other — not. Call me a selfish and spoiled brat, but Pops was mine (and Dax's and Deck's).

I shrug, raising both of my hands. "You know me, Pops. Just feeling a bit charitable to the elderly. Make y'all feel young despite your old age. I think it cancels the chances of dementia?"

"Ynys Witrin," Ciaran mumbles to himself.

My birth name must've been so incredibly unreal, he obviously missed the sarcastic gold I'm serving Pops.

I grin and do a slow clap.* "History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth. Congratulations, you can read. You're not a certified airhead."

He mimics my smile with his own dazzling version, still cutting nonetheless. "What eludes me is for everyone to mistake you for an Avalon."

"Wh"— Pops slaps a hand over his mouth and makes coughing noises, masking a fit of old-man giggles.

It wasn't my fault 'Average' didn't pass my mother's unrealistic name standards for her daughter.

I bend my neck with a CRACK-ing sound, my eyes pointing towards the temporary name tag clipped to his sweat-stained shirt.

I pretend to lean and squint my eyes at the name scrawled in permanent marker. "Fuck off if I'm wrong, it's She-ah-ran, isn't it?"

"It's Kee-ah-rawn," he clarifies, the corner of his mouth hardening. Ooh did I hit a nerve?

I nod with wide patronizing eyes. "Strange, you don't look like a Themysciran.* So I guess we're both stuck with incongruous names."

His lips twitch. "Agreed. You've got too much fire to be an Avalon"— his crystalline blue eyes glitter — "you'd incinerate everyone too quickly."

"If I were, you wouldn't be alive right now," I say with my lips half-curved into a scathing sneer

Out of nowhere, two hands grab my cheeks from behind. "Don't worry," Pops, who had been happily slinking in the background, pops back in the conversation. "She's people-trained. Sometimes, she even smiles on her own!" 

With a playful squeeze, he twists the concentrated scowl on my face into a smile.

'Mostly when I flip your sorry ass,' would've sounded badass and impactful, if my words weren't so garbled out as "Mush-lee huh-wen aye fl-uhp yuhr shu-ree ash."

Pops lets out a robust laugh, happily twisting my cheeks 'til my face resembles a cartoon character. "Sorry, kid. Were you trying to say something?"

I take a deep calm breath then sharply stomp his instep, jab his solar plexus and effectively flip him forward.

CRASH-H! His back is smack-dab on the ground. His face cracks into a grin.

"That's my little girl!" Pops cheerfully exclaims, a proud look on his bearded face as he stares at us from the ground.

"Nobody touches my face," I glower at him in a slow menacing tone. "Unless they want to be eviscerated or neutered."

Pops quickly raises his hands in surrender and rights himself up.

I sorely huff, wiggling my jaw and cheeks to stretch out any stiffness or malformations.

At the corner of my eye, Ciaran silently chuckles.

I throw him an annoyed look. "What are you laughing at?"

"I don't think he's fully convinced until he sees it himself, Georgie," Dax says, propped against the door with his arms crossed.

He makes his way toward us. He cranes his head and looks at Ciaran from head to toe with a speculative gaze. "What are you, a six-five?"

"Six-seven," Pops smugly answers for the leather-jacket-stealing asshole.

I inhale sharply. It really is different when you're drop-dead gorgeous and people just flex your assets for you.

They send me a coy glance as if trying to hide the devious smirks they're donning behind their hands.

Was it just my imagination, or did these two gymheads* suddenly morph into those Regency women gossiping in their puffy-sleeved muslin gowns?

Dax lets out a sharp whistle, theatrically. craning his head towards the blonde giant. "Damn, that's fuckin' hot. Betcha all the girls trying to climb him up"— he winks at me — "right, Ave?"

Ciaran makes no sound beside him. He didn't have to with that all-too-knowing look in his eyes.

A flashback of me hanging on to his chest like a koala, digging my nails into his ass cheeks like he's the last eucalyptus tree in the entire world invades my mind.

I shove that horrifying memory back into a mental pit.

"Nothing turns a girl on than the idea of a dislocated neck," I dead-pan.

Dax stuffs his hands into his pockets, casually circling around Ciaran like a child. "Think about it, you can wear all the high-heels that you wa-a-ant."

"I think I may have heard that before," finally the golden-haired mannequin speaks, his eyes hot on mine in a silent challenge.

Dax stares at him. "Re-a-a-lly?"— he slowly whirls his head in my direction — "'Ya don't say?"

Suddenly, a deep operatic voice echoes throughout the room in a level of extra that would've sent Freddie Mercury rolling from his grave. "He-e-ey-yow! He-he-he-he-yow-oh-ooh!"

Dax turns around and presses his lips together. "Pfft."

Pops facepalms himself.

Ciaran and I are still in the middle of a stare-down.

A lanky man with a shock of brassy orange hair strides into the room in a reverse moonwalk. His bare arms were colorful artworks of inked skin, stretched open for good measure with one hand carrying what seems to be a scruffy ball of fur.

"Hey-oh!"— he points at Pops — "Hey-ohw-ohw"— he points at Dax and turns to me — "He-e-y-y-ho-Whoa! What the fuck happened to your face?!"

SMACK! Pops swats the back of his head with an open palm.

This shuts him up.

Dax slaps his shoulder, swallowing his laughter. "Bruh"— he wheezes — "nobody makes an entrance like you — and I've known Emile"— he wipes a stray teardrop and slickly composes himself under Pops's silent command — "By the way, meet the Ave's new babysitter — I mean buddy!"

Dax pretends to be caught in a series of cough, making his word choice all the more intentional.

Deck arches one ginger brow at me, his milky blue eyes saying, 'Buddy, eh?'

I roll my eyes in exasperation then briefly squint at him, 'I know, right? You know what to do.'

Deck grins slyly, his eyes twinkling. 

At least I can always count on Deck with this. He wasn't exactly a big fan of the 'Skips'.

If there was one thing Declan 'Deck' Rosetti can't live without, it was messing with other people. Screwing any living thing with a skirt comes close second, though.

"Might as well know his name to remember him by before his corpse turns up by the lake. Where's the poor sucker?"

Ciaran uses that time to turn around.

Deck slants his head back and freezes like a block of ice. His eyes bug out, his signature mocking smile gone.

I facepalm, though I did send him a mental sympathetic nod. It was hard not to get swallowed up in the initial 'Smolder Haze' (yup, I'm dropping the 'Bishie Sparkle' and settling to full-on sexual heat effect). I mean, even I had to admit that at this point. 

Lucky for Deck, he quickly recovers — well, mostly. 

He quirks a brow, offering a hand. "Why, howya,* is it too late to be gay?" 

(To be Cont.)

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Looks like Emile has a new contender for flashy entrances!

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Ta-ta for now!

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*[F/N]*

Howler —  (Allusion)  In the Harry Potter series, a Howler was a magical letter in a red envelope that enchanted the written message into the writer's voice, usually at a very high volume, which increased if the recipient didn't open the envelope in a timely manner. Ave refers to Ciarán;s mouth as a howler. 

Noogie(-ing) — (Us Slang) a hard poke or grind with the knuckles, especially on a person's head.

Lives —  (US Slang) means "jumping, full of people, exciting."

Went from a 60-year-old man to a man in his early 40s — (DITCH Episode 7, Pt. 1: Reference) Meant to be a joke, Ave once tried to guess Pops's age and ended around 60.

Slow Clap — an act of clapping your hands slowly, usually to show sarcasm or disapproval.

Themysciran — (Allusion) a group of Amazons living in a fictional island known as Themyscira from the DC comicsverse. Ave uses the reference since the last two syllables sounds (kee-run)  similar to Ciaran's name (kee-uh-rawn).

Gymhead(s) —  A person, typically a male, who is obsessed with going to the gym or working out.

Howya — (Irish Greeting ) roughly means "hey, how you haning?"

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