Disclaimer: I do not own Scott Pilgrim. Those rights belong to Bryan Lee O'Mally.
Author's Note: One-shot! For some reason, every time I try to write Matthew Patel, he ends up sounding very pomp. Anyway, enjoy!
Pairing: Matthew Patel/Kim Pine, subtle mentioning's of Kim/Scott, Ramona/Scott, and Ramona/Matthew
Ding, ding!
The little brass bell (otherwise known as the bane of Kim Pine's working existence) is ringing, which can only mean bad things for her.
Or worse, annoyances.
She scoots further down in her seat behind the counter as the glass door slides shut, pretending to be preoccupied with whatever self-help book her manager has 'conveniently' left behind. Today it's 'Romance and You: A Guide to Healing'.
Apparently, her coworkers are under the assumption that her surly, disillusioned demeanor stems from a deep, spiraling depression over the state of her romantic affairs instead of her general contempt for the world.
What a load of crap.
Of course, their stupidity does have its advantages, the main one being an excuse not to deal with customers. Unfortunately, that only works if other employees are on shift; she mentally curses Tim for calling in sick this morning.
As the footfalls draw in closer, her customer service countdown (much to her horror and chagrin) immediately starts to tick.
3...
2…
1…
"Can I help you?" She asks, not even bothering to look up from her novel (there's no way this bullshit constitutes as non-fiction).
It's more or less the customer-friendly way of saying, hi, please leave before I shove my foot up one of your extremities, if her sunny disposition hasn't already clued them in.
"Do you have Night of the Living Dead?"
Vintage, horror, Romero; a solid choice.
Ordinarily, this is at least worth a nod of acknowledgement for their sterling cinematic preferences but today she's not in the mood. Coincidentally, this is also the day that Scott Pilgrim plans on proposing to Ramona Flowers. Of course, as so often is the case in life, these two events have no relevance to each other.
No relevance whatsoever.
"No." She says flatly, absentmindedly batting a stray strand of hair out of her face before flipping the page.
The next line of questioning is almost a given at this point, a natural response to the circumstances; her eyes skim through the new page of text without really taking anything in as she waits.
"Could you check?"
As soon as they finish speaking, she responds, automatically.
"No."
Generally, this is the moment where they either walk off, muttering something about piss poor management and earning themselves a middle finger salute on their way out, or where they get the smart idea to actually go and look for whatever the hell it is they want.
"Can you assist me in finding an employee that might actually cater to my requests then?"
Apparently, this jackass just can't take a hint.
Closing the book with a snap, she narrows her eyes at the costumer, her lips pressed into a hard line as she surveys them with contempt.
Male, tawny skin, nautical stripes, an overabundance of eyeliner, shaggy bangs; all the makings of one annoying, pirate based trend. Wait a minute…
Pirate… trend?
The no that ordinarily is poised on the tip of her tongue is instead replaced with a healthy dose of incredulity.
"Didn't you burst into coins?"
"Yes." He says stiffly, clearly not wishing to speak further on that evident sore spot, but she barely even registers his reaction.
A thousand little questions pellet her brain, demanding answers. Questions like, 'Well then, why are you alive now?', or, 'Is the league reforming?', or, 'If you want to try the dangling cage-Princess Peach trick, the Katayanagi twins already beat you to the punch.', or ….
"He's proposing." She finally says, her voice level and dull, a stark contrast to her protesting brain.
The worst response imaginable.
Time trickles by as she watches her daunting statement settle in, the scorching indignation that once flowed so freely through the male screeching to a standstill.
He visibly blanches, his lips trembling as he tries to form some verbal response, though no words come out. He just stares blankly at her, as though he can't fully comprehend the meaning behind her statement.
The small part of her that she keeps bound up tightly, possibly with the shredded remnants of that gothic lolita nightmare, hopes she didn't look this bad when Stephen Stills let the news slip.
Second hand again, thanks Scott.
As the minutes tick by, he seems to become aware of the fact that he's gaping at her like some sort of deranged goldfish, because he snaps his jaw shut and glares at her.
She only just manages to resist rolling her eyes at him; really, the only thing stopping her is the fact that she's pretty sure this place doesn't have enough fire insurance to cover batshit insane evil exes and she has to pay her rent somehow.
"Good day." He sneers, looking at her with a completely inaccurate sense of superiority that one of her drumsticks could oh so easily fix, before turning his heel and leaving.
Ding!
She bids farewell to his retreating form by raising one finger up.
Good riddance.
Only while contemplating between watching something Japanese, morbid, and depressing versus something Italian, twisted, and macabre does Kim realize something is wrong.
One. Her boss is definitely going to dock her pay by the end of today.
Two. The League of Evil Exes have possibly returned, namely in the form of one messenger-pirate.
Three. He has mystical powers and a grudge against Scott.
Four. She's the idiot who just told him about Scott and Ramona's engagement.
No amount of cursing can come close to surmising her feelings at the moment.
Part of her swears that Scott deserves this, for all the hell he put her through, for all the hell he keeps putting her through. It's justice, or close to it, something along the lines of just desserts in the form of one rage-induced mauling or maybe karmic retribution for a lifetime of being an idiot.
But then she blinks and images from her dreams swim into view, the broken form of Scott lying in a coffin, frail and bloody, just as he had been all those months ago. All the anger leeches away, self loathing too eager to take its place
Kim's stomach lurches, slamming her uncomfortably back in her own skin and away from her errant thoughts, back into the empty video rental store. She groans and covers her eyes, trying to quell the thudding that is slowly but surely growing in the back of her skull. Even when he's not around, Scott still manages to give her a migraine.
Just freaking peachy.
Without giving herself another moment to think, she rummages through the returns bin and grabs the topmost dvd, quickly stuffing it in a nearby plastic sack.
Ding!
For once, Kim Pine is glad for Toronto's bipolar weather. Even though it's spring, the entire area is covered beneath a fine veil of snow, a dusting of fresh powder encompassing the city; a set of boot-prints mars the otherwise picturesque scenery as she winds around the bend.
Like a dog in pursuit, she follows the tracks weaving in and out of the nearby streets and narrow alleys, darting by as quickly as the snow allows. She makes it half a block before she finally pauses, taking stock of the winding trails.
Either this guy is supremely pissed or completely lost; knowing her luck, probably a mix of both.
Scccccrrrrrrrrrttttttttcccccchhh!
The squeal of metal scraping against brick rings through her ears as she peers around, brushing back the fringe of hair that's fallen in her face. She takes a few cautious steps forward, eyes wide as she traces the sound to a nearby secluded alleyway.
Dark alley; check.
Pissed off villain; check.
Helpless heroine; well, as Meatloaf would say, two out of three ain't bad.
In fact, the only thing differentiating this scenario from a horror movie is the fact that it's missing a few dozen chainsaws and countless heinous remakes.
Gathering up her nerve, she braves the march down the alleyway; when she reaches the end, the sight that greets her is somewhat disarming. At the back of the alley, Matthew Patel is caught in between kicking and cursing a large metal dumpster to the depths oblivion and back, namely on account of his injured little piggies.
Apparently, in antagonist 101, they didn't cover that hitting large objects made of wrought iron in anything less than steel-toed boots can, and will, hurt.
"Hey, Captain Jack!" She yells, vainly trying to stifle the grin that lights up her voice.
He snaps his head over his shoulder, his eyes livid when they catch sight of her, and his reaction only marginally sobers her up.
"My name is Matthew Patel."
"Whatever, you forgot your dvd." She says, outstretching her arm towards him.
The neon smiley face sways in the breeze, the crinkling of the plastic sack somewhat eerie in the silent alleyway. With a frown, he stomps over to her and snatches the bag out of her grasp.
"You're welcome."
She watches with boredom as he rifles through the sack, pausing when his fingers collide with the plastic rectangle and quickly scanning over the object, his brow furrowing with distaste when he reads the title.
"What is this?" He sneers, his voice is a mixture of acid and incredulity as he pulls the dvd out the bag, brandishing it at her as though it's some vile abomination.
Resisting, once again, the urge to roll her eyes, she peers at the small object, her vision adjusting to the dim streetlamps and grimy surroundings, before registering the title with a barking laugh.
Sappy, outdated, corporate, and nauseating; all the makings of one cheesy chick-flick.
"You've Got Mail? Ooo, you've got bad taste Jack."
"It's Matthew Patel!" He screeches, a wave of mystical aura erupting throughout the alleyway, the blast shattering out all nearby windows (and, most likely, the remnants of her eardrums).
"Yeah, you're probably going to have to pay for that…"
She barely has time to blink before a jolt of fire whirls past her shoulder, the dumpster catching ablaze. Within seconds, fire swallows it whole and wisps out of existence, leaving behind nothing but the charred remains.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't maim you where you stand." He snarls, the scent of sulfur catching on the wind, sparks dancing across the tips of his fingers.
"Because I'm in the same boat as you." The response is quick, almost to the point of being flippant, though her words are sharp enough to pierce.
A sudden wave of panic sweeps over her, and for once, she wishes her smart-mouth would know when to shut up; truth and familiar territory aren't something she's keen on sharing with a psychopath, especially not one she just saw flambé half a ton of metal.
The flames begin to flicker, embers fading amongst the swirling snow, before they die out completely; all it takes is a few words to drain what's left of the fight in him.
"Are the others coming back?" She asks quietly, canting her head so that her eyes are now burning holes through the tops of her scuffed sneakers.
The few seconds of silence is terrifying, as she resists the innate urge to fidget; really, the only thing worse than hearing a blood-thirsty mob is chasing after Scott would be hearing it while twiddling her thumbs and shifting her feet.
"I don't know. If they regenerate, it won't be anytime soon."
So at least he's relatively safe for the moment then.
"Right."
Nodding her head, Kim turns her heel and continues down the alleyway. If memory serves her right (and it does), Sneaky Dee's is only about another block from here.
"Where are you going?" He calls out as he lags behind her, slowly fading out of her peripheral view.
"To drown out my sorrows in tequila or piss-poor beer. Whichever's cheaper." Kim snorts, shoving her hands down into the pockets of her track jacket as she strolls along the pathway.
Right now, getting plastered seems like a better way to spend the remaining hours of her evening instead of killing hours at a discount video-store. If she got written up for ditching work, well, she'd deal with that in the morning; it's not like people were lining up at the door for her job.
"May I join you?" His voice is so soft she can barely hear it above the white noise, and immediately understands the question for it is; silent plea to escape from reality, if just for one moment, to know that this isn't as terminal as it feels.
She pauses, rolling her bottom lip in between her teeth; by the time she start walking again, the flesh has grown into a raw, ruddy color, a smear of crimson staining the surface.
"Whatever." The response isn't brilliant, it isn't romantic, it isn't even nice; the only thing it actually is, is Kim.
And as the pain in the ass/messenger pirate/Captain Jack/Matthew Patel jogs up beside her and breaches the distance between them, she can almost feel the curves of her lips upturn. Almost.
"Hey pirate boy, drinks are on you."
.
.
.
"IT'S MATTHEW PATEL!"
.
And even when relationships fade to grey, some things never quite change.