Coke in Glass Bottles
by: Stephanie L. Watson (watson_stephanie@yahoo.com)

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"Talk to me, baby!"

The Writer looked at the bird with a faint grin. She remembered where the bird came from -- not too terribly long ago, in a pet store, her sister had managed to charm three parrots into falling for her. Now, although they could never afford the bird in the store, his likeness graced Subreality. "What should I talk about?"

"Haikeeba!" The bird answered, bobbing his head up and down a few times, then added, "Mike! MikeMikeMikeMikeMike!"

"Hey, that's pretty good," she chuckled, reaching over to stroke a hand down the brightly feathered chest. "Miss him, do you?"

The parrot squawked, but didn't actually say anything. He paced the bar a few times, long feathers trailing behind him, and she watched him between sips of Coke from the glass bottle. Servo had given up trying to start a conversation, and had gone into the back to hang out with a few other versions of himself that had shown up from God knows where. Occasionally a beautiful near-choir of rich voices floated out into the main room, but for the most part, it was just the Writer and the bird her Main Character had brought into the setting.

Another sip of the glass-bottled Coke offered no answers. She chuckled wryly, holding the greenish bottle up to regard it. She remembered a time when they were easier to get... a much simpler time in life. Back before work, before marriage, and before she lost her mind. Coke in glass bottles; such a simple thing that gave so much joy, and so many memories.

The parrot made his way back down, stopping to get some peanuts, and she smiled. Leave it to Mike to befriend the massive bird. He could probably befriend rabid pittbulls, that man. There was just something about him; some sort of aura of light and decency that had drawn her attention in the first place.

She stopped there, muttering quietly and admiringly, "Damn you, Bodger, you're good at hitting the nail on the head." And she was... right now, this particular Writer was taking the plot concept waaaay too seriously. She was eating herself up inside over something that she couldn't control. Over something that she had to just sit back and live with.

And it was killing her. Normally she never went into Subreality... she preferred to keep some distance from it, only for the sake of not getting too comfortable there. This place was for her fictives and her almost muse, not for her. But now, mind reeling and heart aching, she found herself here. It was a refuge, a bomb shelter, and someplace where no one would judge or point fingers. She could find some peace.

Now, wracked with not only knowledge she had hoped to avoid, and questions of her mental integrity, she sought shelter in Bogder's most recent creation. Nothing could really get her here, and although rules on Writers being there were never established, she hoped she wouldn't have to wait long for her answer.

"Talk to me, baby," the parrot said, standing in front of her. He eyed the bottle, then eyed her.

"Yea? Ever come across something that just totally ripped your heart out and shoved it, still spurting blood, in front of your face?" The Writer grinned, sardonically, but regretted it before the words were even out of her mouth.

The bird didn't dignify that with a reply, just stood there.

The Writer sighed, softly, "I don't understand. I mean, it's all just words on screen, and I should take a hint from the Brains... I really should just relax. But I can't! I've tried and tried, and written more fics this year than I even know what to do with, and this is still eating at me." She picked her bottle up, holding onto it with both hands, and rested her forehead against it. "I've never been that good at brushing things off. But when you sit there, and it's all messed up because of some words on a screen, then what's the matter with this picture?"

"Haikeeba," the parrot replied, solemnly.

"Yea, that." She smiled slightly. "I think I'm losing it, pal. I think I'm losing my mind."

"You sure you haven't lost it already?"

She knew that voice. Groaning inwardly, she turned on the stool to face the one person she had been desperately hoping to avoid. "No, not really, Mike."

The tall farmboy shook his head, a somewhat serious look on his face. He didn't really understand what was so bad that would cause her to come here to vent, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the center of it. And it bothered him. Even though he rebelled, teased mercilessly, and generally insulted his Writer, he still didn't care for the sight of her miserable. It was one thing when they argued about something, because there was never any real hate or darkness there, but a whole other when she didn't snap back some sarcastic (though not always witty) remark to something he said. It was worrisome. "Try writing... doesn't that help?"

"I don't know if I can... I mean, I've been snapping out fics right and left, but now I just feel..." her voice trailed off and she took a deep breath, "...empty. Cold, bitter, tired, and empty."

He still didn't understand, but a good bit of instinct told him that he didn't want to. "Maybe you have an anti-muse or whatever running around."

"More like an anti-Christ," she muttered, sullenly, turning back around and picking up the bottle.

Mike rolled his eyes, walking over and taking it. "This stuff'll kill you, you know."

The Writer couldn't help but laugh. That was just... absurd. "Yea, well, gotta drown your sorrows somehow, eh? What about you and your Guinness?"

"Acquired taste, and I'm legally allowed to have it," Mike retorted, quickly. He set the bottle back down on the bar and picked up his bird, who immediately crawled up and perched on his shoulder.

"Give me a few months, smartass, and I will be too."

"Like you could handle it."

"Smeg off, Nelson."

Mike chuckled, reaching a hand up to pet the massive creature that so happily sat on the shoulder of his black jumpsuit. Idly he wondered if he should sit down and get a brew for himself, but decided against it. Couldn't skip realities while under the influence... the Subreality PD might stop him or something, and he'd have to spend the night in jail.

"What're you doing here, anyway?" she asked, sipping on her Coke. "And without the other half of the gestalt?"

"Eh. Felt like visiting my bird, and I wanted to kick you back into writing. Maybe at the end of my boot." Mike finally sat down, leaning on the bar on his elbows, and smiling when he caught a snippet of Servo's choir in the back.

"Should have never given you free will."

"You didn't have a choice."

"Good point. Then, I shoulda never given you any sort of authority. You're dangerous."

"You're the one who can change everything with a pen-stroke, and you're calling me dangerous?" Mike smirked. "That's a serious trap you just walked into. Think I should get some cable cutters?"

"Someday, Mike, I'm gonna--" she stopped abruptly, getting a haunted look. After a deep breath, she rushed headlong into the next sentence, "Um, I think maybe you'd be better off outside of ShadowKnight, and maybe someplace--"

"Whoa!" Mike gave her a wide-eyed look. "No, I wouldn't be better outside of ShadowKnight, and no, I don't want to be anywhere else."

"But... it's dangerous, and..."

He shook his head, adamantly. "I *like* my life. Yea, I get bruised up, and I don't know how many more times I'll walk away from fights with the ultimate evil completely unscathed, but I wouldn't trade that for a perfectly safe life someplace else. That's my home, and those people are my *family*."

"Shoulda never drug you into this." She stared into the bottle, frowning. It was nearly empty.

"Maybe not, but then what? I wouldn't be here, and Joel and Kitty, and the 'bots, and Lorna, and Clay and Adrie wouldn't be there... or at least, not like they are now." Mike frowned as well, not liking where this conversation was going. "I like making a difference. It sure beats watching bad movies." He stood, careful not to jar his somewhat snoozing bird, and walked behind the bar. "It's too late to worry about that now. You know that." Opening up a cooler, he pulled out a fresh bottle of Coke and cracked the top off with a *phsst*, setting it on the counter, then grabbed a Dr. Pepper for himself.

"Is it? I mean, I can always make it like it never happened," she tried, feebly, picking the fresh bottle up. "Thanks, by the way."

"Eh." He crossed back around and sat back down. "And you know you couldn't. It just doesn't work that way."

"What if something bad happens...?"

"That's life." Mike smiled, picking up his Dr. Pepper and sipping on it. "I make my own decisions, remember? I could have always walked away from ShadowKnight or the X-Men, and I don't know how many times I thought about it, but when it comes back to square one, this is my life. My choice. Remember what happened when Aerin tried to interfere with that?"

"The Not So Civil War, yes." Oh, did she remember that. Up until that point, she had only ever seen the completely naive side of her character. But when Aerin tried to take his life out of his own hands, he had fought back with a passion that had raised several eyebrows. Even she hadn't expected that; she was used to gullible tolerance, not raging passion. It didn't take long for the entire troop to learn that no one controlled Mike Nelson without his consent. He hadn't been vicious or cruel, but he sure as heck stood his ground.

"Bingo. I'm not leaving -- there's a world ta save, doncha know," Mike chuckled, slipping into a Minnesota accent for effect.

She frowned again. God, he was more stubborn than an old mule. "Maybe just dream up some body guards, instead..."

Mike sighed. She was more stubborn than a dog in a trap... willing to gnaw her own leg off to escape. Not a pretty mental picture, that. "Oh, come on! Whatever it is eating at you, and whatever it is that's driving you to try'n take me away from my home and team, then *let it go*."

"I don't know if I can..." The Writer held onto her Coke, forlornly, staring at the oak bar.

"Look, you don't let it go, and I will personally kick your ass," Mike ordered, calling on a voice he very rarely used. It wasn't often he swore, and even less often that he threatened anyone, but he knew that it was the only way he listened when obsessing or angry, and he imagined that she wasn't too far different. Inside, he laughed about it -- sure, he was stubborn on his own, but he knew without a doubt that she had notched it up somewhat. "I mean, whatever it is can't hurt you if you don't let it," he offered a beat later, not apologetically, but sympathetically.

The Writer looked over, mildly surprised at the honest threat. She knew he wouldn't literally kick her ass, but he sure wouldn't hold back from mentally doing it. Particularly if he was sure he was right. "I didn't know characters could beat up on their Writers."

"Neither did I, but then, I'm kinda Muse too, so..." He half-shrugged, still keeping in mind the bird.

"Think the ion cannon will agree?" She smirked, feeling a little better. Sometimes a good threat of not-quite-but-almost-harm went a long way.

"All it'll do is embarrass the heck out of me, and I can add another thing to the list of reasons why I want vengeance," Mike answered with a grin. He could sense the shift, and he knew that the immediate crisis was over. In the back of his mind, he said to a man who wouldn't hear, "Crisis averted, Scott. Damn this job is tough sometimes."

The Writer stood, picking up her bottle of Coke. "You're one of the most difficult characters I've ever had, you know that? Remind me to ask Scott why he decided to plant the seeds of rebellion so deep."

"They were already there," Mike answered, staying put on his stool, "he just gave me a willing target."

"That I am," she chuckled, wryly, heading for the door. "'Course, leave it to a git like you to exploit the fact and threaten, and cause all kinds of mischief and mayhem." She opened the door, which she knew would lead back to Reality for her. "You're a pain... but a worthwhile pain." Shaking her head, she looked at the bottle, fondly. "Coke in glass bottles... great stuff, that." And with that odd remark, she walked out.

Mike looked up and over at his parrot, smiling warmly. "Hey, you any good at damage control? I think this is gonna take more'n one of us."

"Haikeeba..." the bird answered, sleepily, stretching it's neck and resting it's head sideways on Mike's.

"Thought so." The farmboy grinned, leaning on the bar. "Good answer, by the way."

"Bite me."

"Cr-- hmmph!" He just laughed. It was all that he could do.

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Disclaimers: Subreality belongs to Kielle. The TTPCTS Club is Bodger's idea. The parrot belongs to Karen Walker, and Mike in an indirect way. Any Marvel character mentioned belong to Marvel, the Subreality PD belongs to Rossi, and SK and any reference therein belongs to IP&S.