It was not often that Young Watson smiled, and even rarer that he legitimately enjoyed himself. He spent the great majority of his time mulling over life’s lesser footnotes. “The little things are what make a great novel,” he liked to say.
All the world deserved his attention, but it sighed at his inane observations. For example, take Young Watson’s reaction to the local news: The gypsy caravan was suffering fiscally (Hadn’t they all run over that cliff at some point or another?), there was rumor of a vampire revolt (Total snoozefest), the whack-a-gnome booth had gone out of order (Family emergency), and little green men had invaded the city hall (No profit, no fucks). With so many insignificant thoughts demanding his attention, he never found the time to leave the house-until Julia came along.
He had first been lured from his study by a face so ridiculous even a Marilyn Manson fan would fear replicating it. She offered no explanation but the crossing of her eyes and a sloppy grin across her face. When questioned, she only twisted her face into something resembling a sexually confused flounder and handed him a white sack.
Helplessly intrigued, Young Watson trailed her from his study to the filthy kitchen and finally to the virgin front lawn. They stood a good ten meters away from each other and stared until any reasonable person would have wiped their tears and blinked shamelessly. She wiggled her tongue. Tears streaked down Young Watson’s face. If he didn’t think about the pain, he reasoned, it wasn’t there. Distract yourself! he thought fervently. His fingers tugged open the string at the sack’s top and tossed it to the ground. He was certain his eyes would fall out at any moment. Still, he peeked inside the bag.
He dashed to the side of the house, turned on the hose, and began filling his water balloons as fast as a bicycle racing down a moderately large hill. He allowed himself a rejuvenating blink. Julia, whose pride wouldn’t allow her to blink without reason, still stared at his previous spot, unable to to twist her gaze to his new position. Basking in opportunity, Young Watson stretched his arms, yawned, and scratched his back. After he had reasonably warmed up his stiff muscles, he hurled a water balloon at Julia.
“Wow!” screamed Julia, doubling over. Young Watson was sure that she blinked, and gleaned a small amount of pride from his questionable win. “That was awesome!”
“Didn’t it, er, hurt?” asked Young Watson.
“It was so cold!” she grinned. “I’ve always wanted to be a freezie-haven’t you?”
“You made me try it out once, and I didn’t think it lived up to the hype.” His stomach hurt simply thinking about the experience. Nope, freezies definitely weren’t for him.
“It’s not hype when it’s the truth!” protested Julia. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Damn! I forgot to grab myself some balloons”-she continued menacingly-“then you’d understand how hurt I am by your statement. Why would I lie to you?”
“I only disagreed,” said Young Watson. “I never said you lied.”
“How about an instant payment plan?” asked Julia. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger and smiled seductively. “You can repay me right now and get it over with.”
Young Watson fiddled about in his pockets and brought up a pile of lint and a long lost button. “I’d rather not give up the button,” he said mournfully, “but I suppose if you need it.”
“I don’t want your button!” snapped Julia. She stomped her feet one after the other and cupped her hands around her mouth as if she weren’t already shouting louder than the neighbor’s television. “Do I need to be more clear?”
“Yes, I think you should.”
“Let’s go inside.”
Young Watson sighed. Sometimes he believed she was speaking in morse code. This belief did not go without guilt, however, and there were days when he believed that perhaps he was at fault. Maybe, he thought like his mother had long before him, he should get seduced more often.
They stepped inside, and Young Watson paused to yawn dramatically. One was not truly tired, he secretly believed, unless he stretched his arms to each corner of the ceiling and opened his mouth wide enough to swallow a swarm of locusts. Julia rolled her eyes and nodded towards the bedroom. “You’re not exhausted already, are you?” she sighed.
“Oh, you know,” said Young Watson. “I’ve got a few years in me left.”
“Do you want me to warm you up or something?”
“Some soup would be nice, thank you.”
“Physically,” said Julia. She sighed heavier than a freight train.
Young Watson spread his arms wide. A hug, he thought sadly, would be almost as good as clam chowder. I guess. Being warm on the outside would have to suffice.
His arms never made it around her waist. She threw her hands in front of her and yelped like a cowering puppy. Young Watson froze, a statue caught in mid falling. “What do you think you’re doing?” cried Julia.
“In America, we like to call it a hug,” snapped Young Watson. “All you ever want is sex, but when I want a hug, you push me away. What’s wrong with a hug?”
“I don’t want a hug or whatever that is!”
“I knew fairies have a bad case of ADD,” said Young Watson flatly, “but I didn’t think you’d grow bored of me within a month.”
“Bored of you?” Julia’s eyes widened. “No!”
Young Watson was at a loss for words. He shuffled through his mental filing cabinet at an increasingly frantic speed. New hypothesis, modify to fit the evidence, arrange the observations into a tangible CONCLUSION…
No conclusion. Observations tumbling into confused, mangled mess, mess, mess. Red alert! Wheeoowhheeeooowheeooo. Complete absence of hypothesis. Mind vacuous. Zero purpose, zero ideas. Order self destruct in five, four, three, two…
“Get ahold of yourself!” hissed Young Watson. Close call. Engines cooling, logic returning-catastrophe averted?
Julia licked her lips. Temperature rising! “It’s just that you grabbed me out of context,” she said, and the gears began creaking once more.
She continued. “I’m not comfortable with that sort of thing, you know? Everybody’s got their boundaries.”
“I can see your point,” said Young Watson slowly. Light green. All operations running smoothly. “You dislike hugs, because they aren’t sexual in nature?”
“You could put it like that, yeah.” She stepped closer, fluttering her eyelashes and puckering her lips. “I’m okay with kisses, though. I know where they lead.”
Carelessly, he kissed her. He kissed her through the hallway, pushing her up against the shady walls and running his hands down the insides of her cauliflower thighs. He kissed her against his bedroom door before realizing that the floor was unsanitary, and turned open the knob behind her ruffles. He kissed her as they tumbled to the floor, rolling over one another and becoming entangled in the clothes they were shedding. He kissed her as they painfully stood, only separating to make his way to his side of the bed.
Julia snuggled up beside him, twining her fingers with his and placing his hand on her breast. “Are you ready?” she purred, and Young Watson helplessly nodded.
Across town, Scarlett’s phone buzzed. She flipped it open clumsily, swearing under her breath as she read the sender. “Daisy?” she wondered aloud. Her eyes plodded over the message, widening with each word. “‘Did you take the last package of condoms?'” she repeated the text to herself as a vacuum open inside her stomach. “Fuck.”
Condoms were expensive, figured Scarlett as she flipped through her wallet, and their pocketbook was shrinking rapidly by the day. If Young Watson would ever pick up the goddamn heist instead of sleeping with Julia, they’d be able to buy enough condoms to take them to the moon. She hoped he wasn’t sleeping with Julia right now-a contraceptive run was in order. “They’re better than children,” she muttered to herself. “Condoms didn’t kill Grandpa.”
Scarlett was right. Condoms didn’t kill Bender Belue-Daisy did. All of her childish wailing was simply too much for the mustached man to bear, and he gladly dove into his grave after a night of toddler torture.
Julia snatched up her clothes from the floor, groaning dramatically. Young Watson followed her and eyed her midsection suspiciously. “Leaving already?” he asked.
She glanced at him. “My stomach is killing me.”
“So lay down?”
She pulled her dress over her head and stepped into her panties. An eye roll shot in Young Watson’s direction. “Like I’m-about-to-vomit-so-let-me-go killing me.”
“Oh god,” she put her hand over her mouth and clutched her stomach. Young Watson wasn’t quite sure if it was from nausea or exasperation.
“If you’re going to vomit,” said Young Watson, “please don’t do it on my computer.”
With a bat of her wings and nary a glance backwards, Julia dashed from the room like a small child who has been holding their bladder for too long and has finally been allowed a restroom break.
As she crashed through the bathroom door, Young Watson rebuttoned his shirt, zipped up his jeans, and continued to work on his novel.
Inspector Schwinn had never been so enthralled and so terrified. Blue could crush him harder, faster, and more permanently than Poverty Williams ever could, if she wanted to. She could crush his pocketbooks, crush his pride. She was everything he ever feared. Reason, he repeated to himself each morning, reason and money. Those were more important than fun. More important than sex. More important than deals with a trickster.
And besides, with Gold Digger and Pianist lazing about, he had to regain his focus. Money could buy a new house, a husband for Gold Digger, or the solution to his latest case. Inspector Schwinn didn’t need women-he needed finances. And fast.
He could rip her out of his life life a Band Aid. There was no ring to keep them together, nor any children to chain them to the ground. Inspector Schwinn could be a cold hearted bitch when he needed to be. He learned it from his father, to whom he had little to thank for but his luck with the ladies. His father, it seemed, had given him a gene that made him irresistible to odd women, and repulsive to everyone else.
Inspector Schwinn was never sure whether it was a blessing or a curse, but he did have a damn good time.
Play time was over, though. Poverty Williams had a son, and in a burst of incredible originality, named him Poverty II. Most simply referred to him as “Junior.” Like his father, Junior was a sick son of a bitch, and uglier than both his father and his Uncle Ted, a relative of the dinosaurs, combined.
Inspector Schwinn would stop at nothing to bring them down. They were why he got into private investigating, after all.
Julia flushed the toilet. Her stomach heaved in patriotic fervor, but had nothing left to offer. Satisfied, she stood. The biological shift had begun, as it usually did, over an uninviting toilet. It smelled a bit funny and had an odd stain near the rim, but Julia supposed that if she had to suffer for her country, there were worse ways to go about doing so. She patted her stomach and ignoring the smell, whirled into a shapeless purple dress.
“WHY THE HELL DID IT HAVE TO BE PURPLE?!” she screamed. She would do nearly anything to save the fae, but when it came to having to wear a color that so terribly disagreed with her hormones, Julia would rather kill for the other team. Perhaps, she thought tentatively, she was just crazier than your average pregnant woman. “Crazy or not,” she hissed to herself, “I still want to put this dress through the paper shredder.”
A horrible, grinding, guttural growl roared from the room next door. Julia froze.
Suddenly the dress didn’t matter so much.
Violence! Betrayal! Pregnancy! Jazz?
The Blue Van – “Silly Boy“
A/N: I have been so antisocial this week, it’s stupid. Usually I’m very out and about, but I’ve spent each day running straight home from school and just moping about in my bedroom. Well, maybe not moping-more like ravenously reading everything I can get my hands on. Fuck yeah, literature.
Zombie Chester’s at your door, eating your brains.