sleeping giant.

p.s i’m adding a jr bourne muse who is in a gang along with my boy jacky and let’s just say it’s about to get Wild. Message Me For Details 

one of the unspoken rules of the bartend -- when someone’s got troubles, you lend an ear. there’s even a seminar; they teach you to recognize the signs, teach you how to be a friend to your clientele. the trouble with jack isn’t that he can’t notice say, the weight of the world, on someone’s shoulders but rather that he’s a neat kind of guy himself. wordlessly, he slides the man his order and then props himself up on the back counter but it’s at that exact moment he catches the evil eye from his boss -- talk to him. reluctantly, jack looks to his customer and fights the urge to grimace. it doesn’t work. “ you good? ”

jack doesn’t need taking care of and he’ll say it ‘til the day he dies -- scream it in your face if he’s got to -- but tonight, he’s found himself in a compromised position and his most trusted friend ( and really, as close to a little sister he’ll ever have ) happens to be nearby; how’s he going to tell her she’s not allowed to help? not if he wants to keep his legs, and he does, thank you very much. sat next to her on the couch, he can practically feel the energy seeping out of him through the cut in his lip and his head topples over, resting on her shoulder. he lets out a sigh of defeat. “ put me out of my misery. come on, cas. it’ll be a mercy kill. ”

             “ how can i make you what you already are? come on. we wests might be dysfunctional at best, but... you gotta admit, ” they sigh out, straightening their legs to stand atop the bed and give a little bounce on the mattress before they hop over his head ( not before dunking it down like a basketball, of course, they’re not a savage ) and in front of him onto the floor. “ we’re born studs, excluding the previous generation. not that i can’t upgrade you to stud muffin, though. get ready for transformation phase a,” they tell him as they retrieve their little kit and sit in front of him, but the make-up gets set aside: between his habit of running his hands through his hair and their dunking, he’s got a mop thing going on and the brush has a little more work to do. smiling at him softly, they return to combing his hair and hum a little tune, eyes sparkling when they meet his again. “ i can’t remember the last time we did this, actually. but i have a feeling you can, if i was under age ten. what did i call it? come on, fletch. hit me with the stories of old.  ” they might not remember it, but Mr. Harley’s Beauty Parlor used to be quite the phenomenon between ages 3 and 7. accidental haircuts and horrific amounts of makeup ( though, oddly well coordinated colors ) were just the highlights of it. 

it’s been a rough day here in the west household -- as most days were between these walls -- for all, but particularly for harley’s older brother, fletch. their instinct is to sew a couple of new knots in the back of the voodoo doll they’ve got going for dicky west himself, but harley contains themselves for now: witchcraft comes but after sibling comfort. sitting on the edge of their childhood bed with fletcher on the ground in front of them, they brush his hair back slowly and smile down at him, albeit a bit pained. “ hey... bubba, any chance a makeover will make you feel better, huh? i am the best in l.a. or i could whip out the voodoo dolls... whichever, i guess. ”