And then there is this.

This should physically be my biggest story ever. It's essentially based off of a story that I won't publish that I attempted to make for the holiday contest back in December. The story was, to be frank, a trainwreck, but I loved the dynamics between the two characters, so I carried it over to a new setting. It's essentially an AU of the two main characters. Pretty slice of life while also developing over a short time span of vast change. The story's been written from start to finish but I'm sure you'll not see the version I have now by the end, such is an author's dissatisfaction and impatience.

The main male counterpart has always been Mac, his part's super specific. But the female protagonist was unclear to me. I had a strange sort of interpretation of Duck Hunt going on, but then that was basically an OC. So I pocketed the OC and tried to fit the character to an Advance Wars character similar to Paradigms, thinking it fit the character I always saw as leading the OS troops from the assist trophy, Sam. But then I realized that was a sloppy patch for the character that I realized was a sendup to a character I think I've worked with more than anyone, Samus Aran. Especially considering Samus and Mac is a pairing I've always liked and apparently is popular considering the shortlist of things that pop up when I google Little Mac is "and Samus" (y'all got good motherfuckin' taste), I realize that this is just my latest interpretation of our favorite blonde pillar of badass angst.

My utmost thanks to the magnificent writing goddess Lady Paprika, who helped me edit the original story. I'm sorry that I've exchanged it for this new work, but your hard work has been great in getting me to re-evaluate this. I hope you're proud. You've been amazing.

So I'm hoping this goes over well. I've been editing this for the last six months but now it's time to just wing it. Hope for the best. Here's hoping I don't fall.

Disclaimer: These characters are merely vessels that I borrow for awhile to carry my vision across a world of rampant communication, and I promise to leave them better than I found them. The fic's title is courtesy of a beautiful, beautiful Colin Hay song of the same name.

Let's do this.

Chapter 1

A Leisurely Day

Mac's PoV

I find myself in a locker room six feet under the bar, recovering and reeling from my latest fight. I'm resting against a locker with a boxing glove on the small of my back, keeping the bruise comfortable. I'm dabbling blood off my eyebrow with the rag, knowing I'll have to throw it out soon to avoid arousing suspicion from you. It looks like it was tasked with cleaning up the remains of ten dead bodies. I've got an ace bandage around my arm, and an ice pack on top of my head. I'm in such rough shape that I can't believe I won.

I'm just trying to figure out how I can fake it until I make it, so I never have to make it again.

My opponent, a guy named Ike who's got at least a foot and a half on me and built enough to contain two Little Macs, is recovering across from me. He regards me with a professional veneer beyond that of what I normally expect. He's fixed up faster than I, clearly more practiced at the routine. "Can I help you?" he asks.

I've just beaten his ass and won the cash prize, and here he is trying to help me. I shake my head, used to the routine. It's not a matter of method, but of time. He accepts that answer, packing his bag full of things. Unlike mine, nothing is hidden. He's a boxer through and through- imperfect and untrained, true, but most of these underground folk are. I'm just amazed that I've still kept enough skill to avoid being swept under the rug like a long forgotten novelty act deserves to be.

After a few silent, awkward minutes, I finally am rested enough to put my first aid kit away. There's a bandage on my cheek that I know I can't keep on forever because it's a dead giveaway. There's a reason I do late morning matches for the drunks that don't know when to leave a bar, an all too familiar sight. I need the rest of the day to heal so I can pretend to be normal when I'm home, like I'm completely fine, so I don't worry you and instead lie to you like it's the better alternative. Considering how much anxiety you put yourself through, it often does seem like the logical alternative. I take the books out of my bag, place the supplies underneath in perfect order, and then put my books back on top of them.

Ike notices. "Moonlighter?" he asks.

"Not exactly moonlight, but basically."

Ike sits up, nodding politely. "What do you study?"

"Eh…" Good question, but I bullshit it. "Hoping to work up to sports journalism."

"Better up there than down here for some people, I suppose." He finally addresses the elephant in the room after a little bit of hesitation. "You trying to work your way back up?"

I shake my head. "I know my prime has pretty much passed, but I still don't mind a match every now and again. This is just what I know."

"I can respect that," he responds. "Just take care of yourself. If you want to work your way out of this, you need to make it out in one piece."

I smirk. "I think I can handle myself."

Ike laughs. "True enough. A match at a time, at least. Enough matches can wear you down, though." I lift my bag up, getting ready to go. As I prepare to leave, Ike says, "If you and yours are ever up for a drink sometime, meet up here. It's not half-bad."

I shake my head. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm beyond drinking."

Ike nods understandingly. It takes him a second to realize his faux-pas. "Oh. My apologies, it hadn't crossed my mind." And yet, sadly, it did. "Regardless, hope to see you around. Take care."

I walk away with a forced smile, still finding his behavior to be entirely too bizarre. It's not like he was a slouch in the ring- he had the build of some of the old nemesi I used to face- but he's so relaxed and at peace with himself, despite working in a place I could go the rest of my life without seeing again. Even as I hit the bus stop, he doesn't quite leave my mind. I pop some aspirin to help ease my throbbing head, wondering how the hell I'm going to write a half-decent book review now. It's crazy how even when I'm on the right track I'm still going nowhere fast.

I count the minutes until I'm due home, and check my reflection in a puddle in front of me. I look mostly presentable, and I'm back in my day clothes. I think you said you had therapy today, so I know I'm going to need to be home. I just hope that you'll be okay. If it's as it usually is, I'll need to be in decent shape. Some fights last forever, after all.

~MoD~

Samus' PoV

"Well," my perfectly coordinated therapist says, scrunching up her perfect nose in her attempts to appear perfectly cool in front of today's hatred for the world from her favorite patient. "We've certainly covered a lot today."

I suck the snot back into my nose and nod. "Suuuuuure did," I drawl with the utmost sarcasm, because I don't feel like I've gone anywhere. I check the clock again like a student waiting for the class to end. Thankfully the second hand has only half a cycle to go until fifty after, when my appointment ends.

"I apologize that we've been short on time today," she says, even though she gave me a fucking miracle by letting me stretch out the time with my rambling. "I think it'd be best if you returned tomorrow. We certainly have a lot to finish."

Fuck. Serves me right for stalling for time. I nod and offer a half-interested "Sure, sure." I know I probably should, though. I mean, I've gotta be high risk if she's asking to see me tomorrow. Most vets I still keep in contact with are lucky to get in twice a month, much less twice in two days. I notice the second's just passed the minute mark and decide it's time to go. I grab my bag and bid a quick farewell. "Later, Zel."

"Tomorrow, same time." Her perfectly musical voice chases after me as I walk out before I'm pressed into further conversation. As I weave out of the VA Hospital, I don't make eye contact with anyone. All I can think of is how many drinks I can buy with five bucks and if it'll be enough to forget. Now it's easy to see how I ended up in therapy.

It's weird how much my drinking habits correlate to my therapy appointments. Kind of like clockwork, or something. I can't imagine what it is about spilling a war and a half of secrets that could drive me to drink two beers minimum every Tuesday evening. Forgetting, that shit's easy. I thought therapy would be an easy cure. That talking through my issues would fix everything. Maybe I just really wanted an easy fix. I think I'm realizing that there's not an easy fix for this. You'd think after six years and unfixable injuries I'd realize this for myself.

The one-sided conversations I barreled through today bleed out my brain as I ride today's old, creaky, begging-for-death bus, but I'll fix that. I compared enlistment to being led to a white van under the promise of candy. You're expecting an awesome time- being a hero, saving the world, being in an action movie with all kinds of awesome people- but not long after you ended up in there you realize you just stepped into the worst experience of your life that doesn't benefit you at all. Zelda always seems to get a stifled chuckle or a choked gasp at my poetic analysis of my demons that she's too perfect to make too noticeable. I count the times a session I can make her squirm.

Today it was just two, but she really got a kick when I said that I'd tell everyone if I could to never enlist and to draft all the politicians instead, make them fight their own battles. I love whenever I can even get a chip in her perfectly robotic composure with my vitriol. I mean, she's gotta talk to how many jaded vets in a day, and it's me who almost gets her to lose her shit. I'm just that fucking good. Today was definitely a listen-to-Sam-ramble-and-hate-the-fucking-universe day.

Now I just hope it's a drink-so-Sam-doesn't-remember-this-misery-by-morning night.

Five bucks won't buy anything nice, but it'll buy two of something at the bodega. I hop off the bus and creep into the liquor aisle of the store and try and find something. Already I feel guilty, because I know you don't want this for me. Not because you don't think I can handle it, but because you're afraid of any possibility that I can't. And the smell. I don't remember what you mentioned as tempting symptoms that crawl in the back of your mind, but I know smell is second to taste. Ugh. I hate myself as I buy them but I resolve to get the shittiest kind possible so it doesn't remotely tempt you. I don't really need the taste. I need the effects. Something to knock me out and actually make me giggly for a little bit.

I slam the two bottles on the counter. The owner, who I don't think has said a single word in the five months I've lived here, rings me up and takes my cash in the familiar process. I take the dollar in change and think for a second. No, I'm not gonna be a total jackass about it. I tell him to hold up. There's no line, and he doesn't really care, so I walk to the drink isle and get you a big bottle of Gatorade. Like a true athlete, you drink the stuff. You say you used to be sponsored by them at your peak, which is impressive on paper but, like with me, parts of the past you like to pretend don't matter anymore. But hopefully this communicates that even when I'm not, I'm looking out for you. Hopefully you are too.

I try not to think of old Mac getting his face busted in the ring for the sake of the sport. More things I drink to forget. I buy your Gatorade and walk the extra block home, but even by then I've already popped open the first beer. Things already get a little lighter when I climb downstairs to our apartment, first drink taken, preparing frenetic apologies when you open the door, looking both happy to see me and disappointed to see me this way. Sorry, Mac, but you're getting the altered version of Sam tonight. It's for the best for both of us, really.

Depending on the length of the passages, which can vary dramatically, you might get one chapter just of Mac or Samus, or one of both. It all depends. Like I said, this is a work in progress.

If you're interested, follow. If you're enthusiastic for better or worse, drop a review. If you've got faith, favorite. If you don't altogether care, then you can go your own way.

Take care, my readers, and thank you for indulging me with your presence.