Very Bad Things

Rating: M. Seriously bad language, the easily offended should take their leave.

Summary: Tommy needs some help getting over his mistakes and moving on. He needs help getting the girl whether he wants to admit it or not. And now, he has found himself plagued with help. Help that he never really asked for but always needed.

Thank You's: PlzLukePlz, strawberrigashes, NotAContrivance, foxyroxystar, flowersinmyhair, amrod23, and starfan88. You guys are absolutely wonderful! Thank you times a million! I also must thank anyone else who's reading, I love you too.

Disclaimers: I don't own Instant Star, any of the subsequent characters, Draco Malfoy, Dr. O'Malley, Thank You for Smoking, or anything else previously patented.

Author's Note: Ok here is the second installement, chapter 1. Sorry it took so long, life caught up with me. The beginning sets the stage for the fic and the rest goes on to follow Tommy. I figure he's pretty vulgar, so you'll find the chapter behave accordingly. This chapter is also longer tan I intended, so if you like the length let me know. If it's too much to handle or swallow, let me know also. So leave me a little love at the end and tell me what you think :o)

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Chapter 1: Of Knights and Malfoys

"My job requires a certain…moral flexibility." Nick Naylor, Thank You for Smoking

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Do you guys know about the angel and the devil that hang around inside you like those weird skater kids who loiter around the Piggly Wiggly? They float somewhere inside your body, or maybe they aren't inside you and they watch from their respective homes, waiting for that perfect moment to pop up and give you an ultimatum? The miniature devil is usually decked out in some red garb with a freaky-ass pitch fork, a mean streak three miles long and a nastiness that just radiates off of him. And the tiny angel goes the whole nine yards too: the white toga, the faint heavenly glow, the halo, and the harp –the damn harp that he doesn't actually know how to play. The two that give you that one final choice between good and bad? (And also make it a habit to start fighting with each other and make you skid off the road right in front of a cop because you were too busy trying to pacify them to fucking drive.)Like fucking Regis Philban, but no Kelly Ripa to counteract them. They're like a 'Mind the Gap' sign, you stand there reading it and laughing because, come on it's a little funny, but you don't realize there really was a gap between the ground you're walking on and the Earth's core. Then you trip. And then you're dead.

They're some kind of celestial kick in the pants, sent by the wrath of an overpowering god who feels the need to inflict levels of anguish, that are beyond all understanding, on men in the form two little bickering assholes for constant companions.

Or maybe fucking Oprah sent them to me, so I could fucking get in touch with my feelings. Stupid bitch. No really. Think about it. While she's making a mockery and an example of me, I feel like I'm sitting on my fucking couch in my underwear and scratching my balls while the whole fucking world watches. This experience could be potentially traumatizing and I really doubt Oprah will buy the extensive therapy I will need. I mean, maybe she would apologize and then exploit the hell out of my story. But who the fuck needs that? I would have to speak at her fucking Legends' Balls. I'll give her Legend Balls. Fuck, that didn't even make sense. But still her apology would be for a big fat nothing. No thing. For nothing.

Like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, when Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey spend the whole damn movie trying to preserve their memories about laying down on cracked ice together, so she hides all over his brain. And then it turns out that their freaky attempts basically failed because Mark Ruffalo is too busy getting naked and stupid with Kirsten Dunst, who it turns out was fucking the doctor who created the whole mess, and then Elijah Wood jerks off into Kate's underwear. And after that fucking emotionally draining twohours, he's still a pussy-whipped loser and she's still a crazy whore. Sorry. I never liked that movie. Jude did though. So I pretended to like it for her. Please don't tell her I said 'pussy'.

Anyway, if you didn't know, the pair makes up your cosmic duo that sometimes pops in 'just to say hullo' and other times to offer their unsolicited opinion on an array of subjects: your un-matching socks, your choice of coffee in the morning, the amount of gel in your hair, your love making abilities, and so on until the end of time. And after their due opinion on the matter has been rendered, they hang around on your shoulders and don't go away. And suddenly it feels like you're caught in a tennis match while they go back and forth, debating the worth of your soul and morals. –And not even a real tennis match with that hot Russian blonde and those two Williams sisters– Sometimes it feels like a constant crotch-wedgie. You know, when you sit the wrong way for too long and then your boxers are wedged between…yea. It sucks. They both suck.

If you didn't know, the angel and the devil are two little beings that represent the two polar extremities of your subconscious and conscience, sent down by some blathering idiot who can laugh at your cosmic misfortune. Stupid fucker. They're two reminders of every choice you can make: the deciding factors, the 'outside temptations', the consequences. They're right and wrong, yin and yang, Mother Teresa and Charles Manson. I'm sure you know them. They've gotten some great publicity since every sitcom of the 90's had at least one episode where the two fuckers pop up and bug the shit out of the main character while everyone has a nice laugh at his expense.

Well the next time I watch old episodes of Growing Pains, or Sabrina the Teenage Witch or Boy Meets World or Step by Step,I'm really not going to be laughing at the poor schmuck because for the last few years I have been flanked by these two douche bags. And while I'm guessing my angel wouldn't really appreciate me calling him a douche bag, I don't care. Because he's not only a douche bag, but he's British too. I generally don't have anything against the British, except for Prince William, but everything he says to me sounds infinitely smarter, and I feel like the fucking teacher for Charlie Brown and just sit there and make weird muffled sounds back at him.

And he is often condemning me on my own stupidity, but he's too nice to call it that. "I fancy that you are just misguided in the academic verse. I would happily oblige to be your guide and take you through the vast and awe-inspiring halls of learning in this world." It also happens that the mini devil counterpart is Irish and often cuts in with a sharp-tongued, "Shut the hell up, you twat". I don't know what a twat is, but the angel takes great offense. I would rather have been sent a damn dog. There are hundreds of reasons why, other than the fact that I could teach him to bring me my slippers… But then I would have to go buy some slippers.

One rationale being, I'm fairly sure that Fido wouldn't carry out a death warrant on my family if I don't call him but his proper Christian name. Did you know that the little angel and devil have actual names that their tiny parents gave them at their equally tiny births? (Yea. Think about that. Then shove it in your pipe and smoke it.) And they become overtly disgruntled if I don't use them properly. They're especially not big on nicknames either. If I had a nickel for every time I heard, "For the last time, Thomas, my name is Victor. V-I-C-T-O-R. Not 'little angel', not 'fuzzy wings', not 'Vicky', and not 'Mother Teresa.' " I would be able to pay off all my various hair-product debts.

And the little devil has a more foul mouth than a sailor, so his insistences that I use his name are laced with obscenities that make Victor's toes curl and have, on occasion, made me blush. It usually comes out along the lines of, "Listen you pompous prick, I'll hang your balls from your ears next time you call me anything but my name. It's Julian. I won't fucking spell it out for you because you're not a total piss-brain. But next time I hear you call me 'Julian Caesar', 'Charles Manson', 'Little Lucifer', or 'Satan's penis' I'll drag your brains out through your nose and eat 'em. Dumb fuck…"

Another reason I wish that Oprah had sent me a dog is that Victor and Julian don't look like me. Seriously, those misleading fuckers in television totally and completely lied. Not even a fib. They fucking lied! On TV, the angel and the devil are always exact replicas of whichever stupid fuck that got stuck with them. But Julian and Victor look nothing like my mini-twins. They have their own looks, and their own personalities that go on for days, and would probably be offended if they heard me bitching. But still. They don't look like me. Hence my foul mood that I don't get to look at little miniature me's all day. If I did, I wouldn't nag half as much as I do because I would get to look at myself all day. In fact, two of myself. And because, if they looked like me I would know that I was only doing the best for myself, and not listening to two weirdos that may not have my best intentions at heart. So if Julian and Victor were replicas of me I would be more inclined to listen to them. Because they would essentially be me by looking like me.

But they don't. Julian has, ironically, platinum gilded hair that blinds me to death every time he's in the sun. (Victor likes to tease that his mother spun Julian's locks from gold when he was still a good angel. Then Julian says something foul about Victor's mother.) I feel like it has a personal vendetta against me, and I'm wise enough not to shrug it off. His hair may render me blind while I'm driving or having sex or something. He has a sharp jaw, that clenches deeply whenever Victor speaks, and a build that would intimate me if he weren't just shy of two feet. His skin is pristinely pale and honestly…it's just too goddamn paradoxical to even think about. I mean really, he's supposed to do the devil's bidding but he looks like a damn cherub. But I suppose his angelic appearance is completely canceled out by his offensive mouth. Anyway he kinda looks, and acts, like a conglomeration of Draco Malfoy, his weird dad with long girl-hair, and Lewis Black.

And Victor looks like… a skinny Elton John, minus the costumes. No I take that back. Every time he's been in my car, he insists on wearing these ridiculous pink-rimmed sunglasses. He says his wife told him they compliment his high cheek bones. The high cheek bones that he doesn't have. He has a jovial face that is usually red with indignation or fury at the things Julian or I say. But when he's serene and telling me what to do, his face is unearthly calm. He reminds me of George O'Malley sometimes, with the perpetually messy hair and the almost endearing innocence and naivety. I say 'almost' because he's so stupid sometimes that it pisses me off. I guess he would be kind of like the bastard offspring of Elton John and Dr. O'Malley. Oh…I guess that's probably sacrilegious. But I would sort of like to see the look on Victor's face if I ever said that to him. He would probably wet himself with indignation. Ha ha.

I guess I shouldn't bitch though, Julian and Victor haven't been a life-long affliction. In fact, I can tell you just how long these two fools have been hanging around me –and not to mention getting so angry with each other at every turn, that the force of their yelling causes spit to fly from their tiny mouths and onto the collar of my shirts. They came around, almost to the exact moment, that I fell for Jude Harrison. They immediately started flinging me warnings to heed and telling me what to do. Victor with a more romantic and righteous inclination and Julian with a more…sexually forward and aggressive inclination.

But isn't it sad that a girl rouses something of a conscience in me and my own mother can't, even with all the spiritual help she sought from our local priest that one time? And how pathetic is it that they show up to instruct me on my life love. It's not like I'm some kind of slouch in that department or that I do ugly girls. But whatever, they showed up right after that day at the lake and haven't left me the hell alone since.

'Do this, Thomas.' 'Fuck off, Tom.'

'Can you tune the strings on my harp, Thomas?' 'Can I have a look at your stash, Tom?'

'I really wouldn't do that, Thomas.' '…Neither would I, Tom.'

I should charge them rent but a few reasons have impeded this: 1) I really don't think they're heavenly and demonic currencies will float with the plebeians here on Earth and I don't think I can exchange it for real money at the bank and 2) I would sort of be selling my body and therefore technically making me a prostitute. So that's a no-go. And while I can't charge them for their lodgings, whenever they offer their advice I just don't take it.

This usually results in me making no decision but I'm ok with that, as long as there's one furious angel who really had his heart set on a Carmel Macchiato and one irate devil who would have loved nothing more than an extra strong brew of Verona with a splash from his hip-flask. And while I drink my fruity, in every sense of the word, Pomegranate Juice-Blend no one wins. Especially not me because I recently found out that juice blends don't have any caffeine in them. It's all juice and really tart. So while I'm making weird faces at my straw, hot joggers run by and looking at me like I'm a dumb fuck. Which I am.

But I don't want to sound ungrateful, even though I am. There have been a few advantages to their indefinite residence. Now I don't have to figure out the waiter's tip at restaurants anymore because Victor is a math genius and does it for me. And I don't have to check the weather because Victor and Julian have a heads-up on that kind of things with their whole extra-terrestrial nature and stuff. (But they're not aliens. I've asked.) I never have to restock my liquor cabinet either, because Julian has this covered. (Once I asked why he shamelessly plays into an inaccurate and stereotypical demographic and he says he drinks because he is a 'bad ass motherfucker' not because he's Irish.) And I don't have to sleep with my cell phone glued to me anymore because Victor and Julian take turns waking me up. Like this morning in particular.

"Do you want me to get naked and start a revolution?" A maniacal laugh follows.

I feel like reaching out and choking him, I happened to be in the middle of a good dream. A dream I would have loved to continue. But I stretch my arms tiredly, grumble incoherently and somewhat stupidly, and look down to make sure I'm safely tucked in my boxers. Victor has a tendency to become extreme offended at any peeks of morning wood. Like he never gets it. Oh…maybe angels aren't allowed.

"I have a question." I tell them both, looking down at my nightstand to see them looking primp, proper, and ready to harass me. –Sometimes they sit on my shoulders, but I've taken to flicking them off of me with so much relish that they find that anywhere not actually on me, but near me, is safer.

Victor is still spinning over Julian's threat of nudity so the latter looks up at me disinterestedly. "Why Lenny Kravitz was ever popular?" I ignore the obvious butchering of the man's name, even though Lhannie Khravhitzs is a perfectly acceptable name.

"Honestly, do you fancy yourself Captain Jack Sparrow?" Victor poses but is decisively ignored by both Julian and I. Victor promptly sends himself into a huffy fit.

"Do you guys have anything better do?" I ask, still ignoring Victor, raking a hand over my haggard face. I feel stubble meet my knuckles and stretch again for a moment before heading to my bathroom.

Elton John Jr. seems to have gotten over his ire and looks up at me with a pitying expression because he thinks my skull is thick as a shag carpet. "I've told you Thomas, because we are you spiritual guides. Instructors, if you will-"

"I will not."

"-Once you find your moral compass and do not stray for its righteous path, we'll leave."

"Why the fuck am I still around, then?" Julian demands. He smells like grain alcohol this morning.

"Because you represent the reality of temptation in the world and the need for Thomas to resist it. You are merely my foil."

I wasn't really asking why I was cursed with their constant presence -I have a feeling there's some karma from a past life that I need to make up for.

I was asking why they are so constantly around me, they have to have miniature families to go home to now and then. But they're off, fighting over who the main character of this nonexistent story is. I really feel the need to point out that I am the protagonist, and if this were a movie or a book the audience would be riveted on my life and cheering for my success (or whatever people who read books do). Not their lives. But I keep my mouth shut because I'm not as stupid as I make myself look.

The two continue to fight while an uncomfortable tug from a full night of sleep makes me wince. I look over at my toilet but suddenly their tiff escalates and the tiny men in my bathroom are shouting at each other. I look between them and the toilet, and I seriously consider…relieving myself on them. But that would be wrong, so I shrug away from them and ease the deep pull at my bladder.

They're still fighting, not drowned out by the flush of the toilet. I walk over, checking my watch that is sitting too near to the sink and wondering if Jude wants a ride this morning, turning the hot water faucet and wait for it to collect.

They're still fighting, not drowned out by the rushing tap water. I grab a towel and do with the same with the hot water faucet in my shower.

They're still fighting, not drowned out by the beating rhythm of the shower. But I effectively tune them out, returning myself to my dream. I'm not even ashamed of how reminiscent it is of my horny teenage years because it just makes me so damn happy.

The morning had started out normally enough.

I pull up in the Viper, hoping Jude will notice that I got in back it from the shop last night. I park next to Spied's 'love van' and watch it rock back and forth on its frame and look at my watch. 9:13. Wow, he's getting an earlier start than usual. Or maybe they still think its last night and are making the most of their youth. I've taught him so well, I think, and make a mental note to check my secret stash of Grey Goose that I accidentally showed to Spied one time. Walking towards the entrance, I pretend like I have too much in my hands to help Karma with the door when we happen to walk in together. She gives me a smile like she doesn't notice what an asshole I am, so I smile back and take off down opposite direction. I uncap my coffee, letting the steam billow in my eyes and make them water while the heavy aroma of the coffee fills my nose. I can't walk straight for a moment. I wonder what Jude is wearing this morning, hoping that it's blue. Blue is my favorite on her.

I walk through G-Major, bid my good morning to my low friends in high places, mentally ticking off all the favors they owed me or who's wives I'd slept with, then make me way towards the kitchens. I pass Darius' secretary, who is hard at work on her computer. She spares me a small smile, cupping her hand over the end the receiver. She whispers to me while someone continues to chat on the other line, 'Darius says to come see him later this afternoon. I think it's something good.' She adds a small wink.

I stall for a moment, feeling the water beat down, realizing it's too hot. But I smile despite my discomfort, wondering if Darius will ever have something good to tell me. My bet is no. I turn the heat down, feeling the water chill against me. Suddenly it's not hot enough any more and I miss the scalding pressure on my back. I pause for a moment before turning the water even hotter than it was before. The steam and heady scent of morning swirl in front of my eyes, making me dizzy.I stumble slightly in the shower but catch myself on the sliding handle. Then thank my lucky stars that I didn't accidentally open the shower door like the last time I got dizzy and reached for the first available thing to steady myself. Victor blushed for a week and Julian still makes 'hung' jokes that aren't funny. I right myself, close my eyes, and smile contentedly.

I see a vibrant bowl sitting before her as I flash a smile. I give a small bob my head towards the bowl and she nods nicely before turning back to her phone call. I listen in with innocent curiosity. "I'm sorry Liam, we just can't have you here any more." My curiosity is no longer innocent. "We heard about your…pastimes and we just can't have someone like that on board at G-Major." I have to tell Jude. "Maybe Epic Records will want you. Please don't call anymore." I indulge myself in a wide grin. Liam was such a sly bastard that it was only a matter of time before karma wrapped its vindictive hands around his throat. And not karma like the person, Karma.

I look down at small bowl of cherries and raspberries lying idly before me, and spot that the balance between the two is slightly uneven. I hunch over and see that the cherries are so shiny that I can see my reflection. I smile and wink to myself, because I really do deserve it. The raspberries tumble over, making a mountain in the small bowl. I know that Jude has been here when I notice there are far fewer cherries. I pluck the last two out of the bowl and take my leave to find her. Cherries are her favorite.

-- I actually have a few end notes that I forgot to mention. If anyone was wondering about the title of the chapter, Elton John was named a Knight in England and I am green with envy. Also, I attempted to edit so if anyone would like to beta me this and beta me that, I would love you forever. For real. That's all, just leave me something. I'm shameless, but you already knew that.