He flicks the lighter open and shut, watching the sparks ignite the flame, over and over. His long fingers are dry and cool, rough with callouses. He flicks the lighter, smooth and silver and rounded rectangular, watching the flicker of the flame reflect off its own surface. He bites down on the toothpick between his teeth, switches side, nibbles off the bent end, feels the tiny snap. He spits out the wood shard, the rest of the toothpick clenched hard between his molars.

He lights the end of the wood.

He watches the dim flame with crossed eyes, just for a moment, and before it starts to grow, he spits the toothpick to the ground and steps on it as he walks over it, leaning off the jagged brick wall behind him.

God, he misses smoking.

E-cigs or vapes or whatever people have nowadays are all shit. Percentages of nicotine, or no nicotine at all. And the smoke isn't even smoke, it's just water. What's the point, unless it's a fuckton of chemicals that can kill? It's not nearly as satisfying.

But he promised his mother he'd quit. So he has.

…Doesn't mean he can't gripe about it, though.

With a sigh, he runs his hand through his hair and steps out of the alley, into the grimy night while he tucks his lighter and his hands into his leather jacket pockets. The air has an edge of humidity to it, happily riding that border between summer and autumn. With the promise of morning fog and the buzz of the neon outside of the bar, it almost reminds him of home.

He shoves open the door and enters the smoky indoors.

The bar is dimly lit, the main source of light at the bar itself, mostly for the bartender's benefit. He stalks over and slips behind the counter, nodding in the current 'tender's direction on his way to the kitchen door, and they smile at him in return.

Inside, he washes his hands, not bothering to get under the nails. The surface is enough. He dons an apron and gets to work.

Now, he didn't always prep and cook the food here. He was a bartender once, too, but learned quickly that he hasn't the temper to deal with the drunkards at his bar. So, instead, he opts to work behind the scenes, cooking and unloading the delivery trucks and checking inventory and running just about every damn thing besides the front counter. And he has every right to; his father passed the deed on to him, so this is his place now. He can work wherever he wants to in it, this is his domain, his castle.

"Bog," one of his oldest employees, Brutus, grunts in greeting. He grins. "You look like Hell."

He grunts back, "I live there. It's hardly anything new. What's your excuse? You wish you looked half as pretty." And he pulls an especially gruesome expression.

Brutus barks a curt laugh and shakes his head. He turns to the sink beside his boss and picks up a few spatulas, starting to wash them with massive, meaty hands in sudsy, grey water. "So, what did you decide? About the whole going-back-to-school thing. The deadline to register is tomorrow, isn't it?"

Bog sighs heavily and adds more oil to the pan. He shakes it against the stovetop before turning to mince some garlic. "It is. And I just made it, by the skin of me chipped teeth. Had to defer the loan to make sure I don't lose the classes I signed up for at the last minute there." He grits his teeth. "I'm not happy about it, but if I want to keep this place from going to those mongrels who want to steal it from me, I need to finish that damn degree. What is with this country and degrees? It's's though nobody can have a business anymore 'less they prove via a teeny scrap of paper that they can handle it, or else someone'll come along and snatch it up 'cause their degree earns them a higher paycheck."

"Amen," the dishwasher agrees sadly. "Well, good luck to ya. You can at least start where you left off, yeah?"

Bog cracks his neck and sighs again, gruffer this time. "Yeah… but I dropped out early in the race. I have a good three semesters' worth of credits to go. Two if I really cram the hours in, but you know I can't. I need to be here. The best I can do is four classes at most, squeezed onto two days a week."

"Tough break," the stocky man sympathizes with a shake of his head. He heaves a sigh as he says, "Well, as long as you can be here for the rest of the week. We can manage."

Bog groans and tosses down the garlic, vaguely enjoying the sizzle it makes in the oil. "Where are those two bumbling idiots, Stuff an' Thang? They should have been in here by now."

Brutus chuckles and waves a hand. "Bahh, those newbies. Dunno why you hired 'em. They're probably off making a mess somewhere."

"I hired them because I needed extra hands, and brainless idiots who don't ask, jus' follow orders."

"You could fire them."

"I prefer not to go through the hiring process again. I can't stand to see another freshly-turned-twenty-one asshat come in and try to bugger me into a job just so they can drink their shift away," Bog retorts.

Brutus snorts. "That's not why. That's one tiny reason, but truth is, Boss, you have a soft spot for those idiots. You keep 'em around 'cause you feel sorry for 'em, since they're shit workers no one else'd hire. And 'cause they remind you of when you were young 'n' struggling. Am I right?"

Bog reaches over and smacks the back of Brutus' head. "Shut up and keep working, ye big louse!"

But Brutus smiles to himself, because he knows he's right. He hides it and pretends to raise his soapy hands in surrender before returning to his washing.

Bog scoffs and tries to clear his head. He doesn't want to be thinking about uni or his failed attempts at being schooled in the past. He tries, instead, to think of a song. Anything will do. Anything at all…

He finds one, shuts his eyes for the shortest of seconds, and when he opens them, he starts to hum it, and then all he can think about is his work.

James McBoggart refuses to be bogged down by grueling prospect of reentering a college setting at the ripe age of twenty-nine. He's going to hate every second of every day he's stuffed into a classroom with a range of mostly-eighteen-to-early-twenty-year-olds-with-a few-stray-forty-somethings twice a week, but at least he doesn't have to waste the energy hating it before it's begun.

She revs the bike and feels its thrum under her fingertips, the vibrations of the engine beneath her. A puff of air escapes her lips, not quite visible in the weather yet, but rest assured, by scent alone, she can tell that the cold is on its way. She tucks her brown hair under her helmet, feels the foam brush the fuzz of her undercut, pressure against the industrial piercing just below; a golden arrow with a dangling metal feather in the center of the bar, like the arrow clipped the wing of a bird, but the bird keeps right on soaring.

She tosses her head back and lets out a whoop, revving the engine again and kicking it off its stand. Settling into the mount, she takes off, burning a little rubber and letting off a little smoke as she goes. God, she loves that smell; that oily burn, thick with heat and tar in the air as she takes a year off her wheel in one fell swoop.

The early night is the best time to ride.

She remembers the stigmatism of motorcycles before, the look her father gave her when she saved up and actually followed through on buying her pretty dark purple Yamaha. Sure, it's no Harley or Indian, and sure, it's kind of small, but it suits her just well. It's wicked fast, and gets good gas to the mile, and it's all hers and loves every inch of it.

Her fingers clench through the leather gloves as she makes a turn, taking it a bit fast, maybe a bit wide, but straightening out once she's on the next road.

Where will her bike take her tonight?

The brunette recalls a time when motorcycles frightened her, when she bought into the stigmatism. She hated anything harder than the plush insides of her upper-class home, didn't understand anything beyond getting good grades, winning soccer games, and buying pretty dresses with her sister.

But that life is behind her now.

There were always signs of something more. Even as a child, she would get twigs and brambles in her hair, come home with grass stains on the sparkly jeans her mother helped pick out, and always muddied her shoes. She liked to play rough, even on the field. She always, kicked the furthest and hit the hardest goals. She was never one to be content with only playing jump-rope and sitting on the swing set. She's always competed, and always aimed for more.

But for a while, she might have gotten caught up in the daydreams, in the soft and tender femininity expected of a budding woman.

But the second reality caught up with her…

Her breath hitches. She slows her bike and comes to a red light. The engine chugs idly, her thick black boots tip-toeing to maintain balance. No, she won't dwell on that now. She went for a ride to clear her head, not cloud it with the past.

The light changes, and as soon as the other car is far enough, she blazes ahead. Weaving through traffic perhaps a bit carelessly, her golden-brown eyes narrowed and determined, she takes a right downtown. Neon starts to greet her vision, a line of bars and strip-clubs and joints for dancing and meeting people and offering the temptations of illegal substances. It reeks of dumpsters and the vomit of drunks and the stale city air.

She breathes it in as she parks her bike and removes her helmet, carrying it under one arm while the other hand tosses her hair to shake it as much as possible from its confined helmet shape.

King's Castle is some cheesy Scottish pub in town modeled vaguely after some real castle, but probably features more generally-what-Americans-understand-as-Scottish things, like little carved wooden plaques about Loch Ness and its monster, or varying clan crests over tartan and plaid, whatever the difference is, and little cartoons of ginger-bearded men in kilts with bagpipes. The music they play isn't even Celtic; it's all modern rock and metal and punk, like any other bar that a biker might stumble in to.

It's her favorite place.

She can't come every weekend, she can't afford it, but when she has the money for a wee drink and maybe a bite to eat, she goes. And she chats with the bartender, hits any guy who tries to pick her up, and tips well.

She has friends there, she likes to think. People who understand her. People who get that sure, she doesn't have tattoos, she doesn't pierce more than her ears, and sure, she wears dark makeup on her lids and eyes but doesn't overdo it beyond just that, and yeah, she has a bike, but she isn't a "hardcore biker," and she carries a tiny knife, but not a gun, and that's okay. They get that she has her own way of doing things. They respect that she isn't a poser because she isn't a stereotype, and she doesn't have to be a stereotype to know who her people are. And it's all good.

She saddles up to the bar and sets her helmet down. She smiles warmly at the bartender. The bartender turns to her and grins, greeting her by name.

"Marianne Du Fae. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes! When's the last time you've been here?"

She shrugs. "Maybe a couple of weeks, maybe more. Sorry, had to fix something on my bike, so money was tight for a little while. But I'm back."

"Welcome back!" the 'tender chuckles, setting down a clean glass. She leans one arm against the counter and gestures. "What should I fill it up with, dearie?"

Marianne smiles, slipping off her charcoal denim jacket and placing it along the back of the stool. She strips off her gloves and sticks them into one pocket. Tapping the glass with a fingernail, she answers, "Something thick and heavy and double the dose, because I've missed double the visits," and she laughs. "You know better than I what does the trick, Griselda."

The older woman cackles again and nods knowingly, turning around and mixing a nasty concoction. She turns back, then slides it to Marianne and winks. "I call that one, 'Grissy's Thing For Wild Things.' Careful, it has some bite to it."

Marianne takes a sniff and reels back, grinning, but huffing a, "Whoa-ooh-oh!" and pretending to wave the air above it to banish the smell. "That's wild, all right! Let's see how it tastes."

After a swig, Griselda quirking a brow in curiosity, Marianne takes a breath and sets the glass down, her face turning a tad pink. "So, what's the verdict? Is it too strong for a lass like yourself?"

"Certainly not!" the other replies as if taking on a challenge. "I'll eat it up, I love it so!" And they both laugh before Marianne takes another sip.

"That's my girl. I've missed your spunk! It's been a bore without you, love," Griselda sighs dramatically as she waves a hand and walks down the bar to get someone else's order.

Marianne hums in agreement and takes out her phone while she continues sipping on her monstrous abomination of hard liquor and stout. It's bitter and sweet, thick and strong. Perfect. She can almost make a moustache with the foam, and her throat feels warm all the way down from whatever shots Griselda put into it. She already decides it might be best to order some food to go with this, lest she be on her ass within the hour.

"Oh, Griselda? Could I get an order of your famous fish 'n' chips? This chewy Wild Thing makes me want to bite down on something real."

The graying woman acknowledges her order with a thumbs up. "On the way, dearie!"

The brunette settle into her bar stool and places her chin in her palm. On an empty stomach with half her drink downed, she can already feel the oncoming haze just creeping around the corners of her brain. She closes her eyes, feels the weight of the eyeshadow and eyeliner, the feather-softness of lashes without mascara. She sighs through her nose contentedly.

Finally, she can forget for a while, and simply be.

A/N: Here I am? Back to writing fanfic again? Because of a stupid fairy movie with a really fucking cute ship? And I don't know what's going on, somebody stop me. or encourage me. Whichever will work out best, considering the fact that I started this and have full-time work and full-time classes to attend to, askjsadfshd