A/N: The name of my muse, apparently, is Procrastination. These fits of inspiration only come about when I have something else vitally important I need to be doing. Luckily, I'm not a real adult so the fanfic gets written.

This chapter is scarcely edited at all, in comparison to the last one. I've been just about killing myself over the latest chapter of Tithe (what's new), so I thought I'd try just writing something and posting it. Plz forgive the errors.

Soundtrack: The chorus to "Welcome Home, Son" by Radical Face, sung a capella very loudly and very drunkenly, out of key. When you get sick of that, the "shoes" song (remember 2007 you guyz? Don't actually watch that video, it is terrifying and did not age well).


Chapter 2: In which Sarah meets an old friend and Jareth receives a comprehensive education in goblin sporting practices.


Jareth was loath at first to deal with Sarah's wayward roommate, given the pleasing way Sarah was clinging to him in her anxiety. Unfortunately, that anxiety quickly blossomed into full-blown hysteria.

"You don't know Carlie like I do," she gabbled, clutching desperately at his cape. "She's not just a narc, she's like… the narciest. Narcina, Queen of the Narcs. You know what I'm saying?"

Jareth carefully unhooked her fingers from his garments, gently probing at the material to check for damage. Nothing a little pressing couldn't fix, but still

"She'll call the cops on me, man. I can't get busted, what'll I tell my parents, you gotta help me!" She flung herself at him, one foot scraping along the side of his boots.

He pushed her away, quite gently, given the circumstances—those boots were brand new.

"Very well. You remain here. I will go return your obnoxious little friend to her proper domicile."

It was the work of a minute, but very unpleasant work at that. Jareth loathed visiting the bog for any reason as it was. But the moment the wretched girl saw him she began shrieking and pointing and wading towards him, bits of bog muck flying off her higgledy-piggledy as she charged.

A snap of his fingers and the girl vanished. He took a moment to fastidiously check his cloak, armor, and boots for signs of contamination. Satisfied that there were none, he transported himself back to the Labyrinth.

Sarah was deep in conversation with a worm, paranoia apparently forgotten. It could, he supposed, be a sign of her trust in him, but he couldn't shake the unpleasant suspicion that in the time it took to rid them both of that meddlesome co-ed, she'd simply forgotten about him.

He cleared his throat.

Sarah looked up from where she was crouching, and shot him a dazzling smile.

"Hey, this guy's invited us in for tea! Isn't that nice?"

"We have tea up at the castle," Jareth informed her testily. "Come along. It's further than it looks and the hour grows late."

After taking an agonizingly protracted farewell from her new friend, Sarah followed him.

"Never accept tea from an invertebrate," he informed her loftily as they turned the corner. "They invariably oversteep it."

The journey took them through several of the more striking areas of the Labyrinth. He could, of course, have poofed them all the way to the castle by magic, but he felt the scenic route was rather more impressive.

Sarah certainly seemed struck by it, given by the way she kept darting off into odd corners and side passageways. He'd already had to rescue her from two separate enchanted pools and one rheumatic manticore, and they'd scarcely been walking for a quarter of an hour. Still, he soon found that Sarah could be reliably corralled by the promise of food. How such a slender girl could possess such an enormous appetite was quite beyond him.

"The castle's this way," he called over his shoulder.

"You say you got snacks up at the castle, man?" Sarah asked for what was, by his count, at least the eleventh time.

"Do we have snacks." The Goblin King gave a delicate snort and shook his head. "Every delicacy the Underground has to offer, Sarah, shall be laid before you. Mushroom wine and phoenix fritters. Hen's teeth soufflé. Unéclairs and bakewell tart. Unicorn cheese—"

"You got Doritos?"

"—the golden apple pie of Discord, the golden apple crumble of Eternal Youth, chocolate lava cakes with real lava, ambrosia martinis... And the fruits, Sarah, the fruits." He began, in spite of himself, to grow truly enthusiastic. "Plums like you've never seen on the earth. Oranges that taste like pineapples. Pineapples that know how to samba. Apples and quinces, plump unpecked cherries, dream-down-cheeked peaches, apricots, strawberries—"

He stopped his recital and turned around to look at Sarah, a lascivious smile spreading across his face. "Pomegranates," he purred.

Sarah appeared to consider this. "You got Funions?"


A quarter of an hour later, they had reached the castle.

Now they stood together in an open doorway. The King of the Goblins, his—what? quarry? nemesis? chosen consort? involuntary house-guest?—at his side, surveyed his throne room, the seat of his imperial power and dignity.

The King of the Goblins was not pleased by what he saw.

It wasn't the chaos. He liked the chaos. It kept things lively, unpredictable. Interesting. It wasn't the drinking or the general debauchery. Jareth was never one to turn his nose up at a bit of carousing or revelry, and if goblin revels lacked a certain elegance, they more than compensated in enthusiasm. It wasn't even the mess. After a few thousand years as the ruler of the Goblin Kingdom, you hardly noticed the mess at all.

But this. This was going too far.

His only consolation was that Sarah didn't appear to notice anything wrong.

"Oh, man, sweet chicken, dude!" she said earnestly. "I'm really digging this whole barnyard throne room vibe. So, how about those snacks?"

Jareth spared a glance for the chicken—one of several dozen, pecking desultorily at the stone floor. It looked like one of his servants had mistaken the throne room for the chicken coop. Again. There were downsides to ruling over a perpetually inebriated populace.

The chickens were the least of the problem.

Jareth took a deep breath.

"Quiet!"

His voice cracked through the room like a whip. He was especially proud of that trick. It had taken him several centuries to perfect.

The throne room instantly fell silent, except for the chickens, which continued to cluck listlessly.

Jareth decided he could live with that.

Slowly, taking his time about it, he picked his way across the room and up the steps to the dais.

Placing one foot on the dais, and one hand on his knee, he leaned forward until he was almost eye-to-eye with the tiny, frog-faced goblin which cowered deep in the depths of his throne.

"You're in my seat," he said, gently.

The goblin squeaked.

Jareth pointed to the floor.

Slowly, the goblin slid off the throne and onto the ground, a slide made considerably easier by the fact that both it and the throne had only moments before been bathing in a shower of goblin ale.

The goblin cowered on the floor in a sticky puddle, tucking its head under its arm.

Pathetic. Hardly worth the effort.

Still, standards must be maintained.

Daintily, Jareth drew back his foot and booted the miscreant through the open window.

Silence.

"Well?" he said impatiently, glancing around the room.

The goblins burst into a belated chorus of cheers and whistles.

Jareth turned back to his throne, where two more goblins were attempting to hide empty barrels of ale behind their backs, a task complicated by the fact that the barrels were both wider and taller than they were themselves.

He plucked them up by their collars, one in each hand, and held them up to eye level.

"I trust you know what you did wrong?"

"Don't take baths on king's chair," mumbled the one that looked like a foxhound with dropsy.

"And?"

"Don't pour ale on king's chair," burbled the one that resembled like a stunted crocodile.

"And?"

The two goblins exchanged glances. Then the foxhound looking one muttered, all in a rush. "Don't sit in king's chair or put fings onna king's chair or take fings orf king's chair or touch king's chair or lookit king's chair too long or in'eract wiv king's chair in any way."

Jareth smiled. That was almost word perfect this time.

"You'll go far," he told the foxhound, and dropkicked him out the window.

The throne room exploded into thunderous applause.

Jareth accepted this adulation with a smile and a regal wave of his now empty hand. It had after all been an excellent pun.


Sarah watched the king exact his justice from where she sat crouched by the doorway, absentmindedly petting a rather bedraggled-looking chicken.

"Harsh," she remarked to no one in particular as Jareth drew back his arm and sent the second goblin sailing through the air after its fellow.

"Not really," said a familiar voice from behind her. "Kicking's about the only thing what gets to 'em these days."

Sarah fell backward, her butt hitting the stone floor hard. Pushing with her hands and feet, she managed to swivel around, crabstyle.

"Hoggle!" she cried. "Holy shit, it's so good to see you man!"

"Not man," Hoggle said peevishly. "Dwar—oof."

Sarah had flung herself forward, wrapping herself around him in an enormous hug.

"Careful there, missy!" came his voice, somewhat muffled, from around the area of her kidneys.

"Whoops, sorry, dude," she said, releasing him.

"Good thing I'm sturdier than I look," he said, grumpily, smoothing the wrinkles from his...frock?

"That's a…new look," Sarah said cautiously, eyeing the somewhat tatty French maid's uniform that had replaced her friend's shirt and jerkin.

"Hmph," said Hoggle, fastidiously adjusting the lace cap perched atop his bald spot. "I'm on castle duty now. This is the official uniform."

"I...haven't seen any of the goblins wearing it," she ventured.

Hoggle snorted. "Yeah, well. They're not official, are they? Got to wear the uniform. Keeps morale up."

"Whose?" asked Sarah, fascinated.

Hoggle rolled his eyes. "Jareth's, of course."

Sarah didn't doubt it.

"And you're okay with that? You don't think he's maybe…fucking with you?"

"'Course he is, the rat. Still, to tell you the truth—" Hoggle lowered his voice. "I kind of like it."

"It suits you," Sarah said positively. The cut was quite conservative, with a high neckline and long sleeves, and with the stark contrast of black and white, somehow, the effect was rather…dashing.

"Yeah, well," said Hoggle, blushing and ducking his head. "Watch this."

He did a clumsy pirouette. The skirt and petticoats fanned out like a top.

Sarah was impressed. "Duuuuuddde. Do it again."

He repeated the motion.

"Man, you're right, you've got some sick twirling action on that thing. Wish I had a dress like that."

Hoggle glanced around surreptitiously. All eyes were still on the king.

"Reckon I know where I can find one your size," he said in a grating whisper.

"That sounds awesome! But first—you know where I can find some snacks? I've got munchies something awful."

Hoggle jerked a thumb at the door. "Kitchen's this way. C'mon."

Tiptoeing past the still raging Goblin King, they made their way into the castle.


The goblins had cheered with even more gusto as he tossed the alligator-like miscreant out the window.

"Nice throw!" one of them called.

"Yes," said Jareth. "I rather think it was. You, with the horns and the droopy nose. And you, with the face like a constipated hedgehog."

The two goblins in question stumble to something vaguely approaching attention.

"Clean off my throne."

Scattered applause.

"What about the rules?" asked the one with the droopy nose. It really was a monster of an appendage. The goblin appeared to be having trouble enunciating around it.

"No sitting onna kingchair," piped up the other. "No farting, no cuddling, no interpretive dancing and no touching."

Jareth put up his eyebrows, impressed. That lecture had been almost three months ago. "I lift that ban for an hour, only for the two of you and only for the purposes of cleaning the chair. If that chair is not sparkling clean within the hour, and I do mean sparkling, I'll chain your hands together and bury the two of you neck-deep in the Quicksand of Eternal Itching, is that clear?"

One lone goblin gave a whoop and was rapidly hushed.

"Yessir," said the goblins.

"Get to it then."

Droopy nose ambled off towards the supply cupboard. The hedgehog stayed where it was, gazing at its king with a speculative look in its eye, or at least, as close to speculative as any goblin could reasonably be expected to manage.

"No farting?" it asked, a somewhat plaintive note in its voice.

"Certainly not," said Jareth coldly.

The goblin hung its head and began to trudge mournfully across the floor.

"Now, the rest of you."

An instant hush.

"What," Jareth made a gesture encompassing the area which had formerly been the entire western side of the throne room and much of the corridor beyond, "is this?"

The goblins exchanged glances.

"Slime?" offered one of them.

"Slime, innit," said another, with more confidence.

"Def'nitely slime."

"Slime, yeah."

"Know it anywhere."

"Raspberry custard?"

"No, you idiot, sli—"

"Quiet!"

The room fell silent once again.

"Why," asked Jareth, "is it in my throne room?"

"Slimeball?"

Jareth passed a hand across his face. "What," he asked through splayed fingers, "is slimeball?"

The goblins looked at each other again.

"Well?"

One goblin, with a head like a lightning struck broom, cleared its throat. "'S like, a game, yeah?"

"A game," Jareth repeated flatly.

The goblin hooked two thumbs in its belt loops and leaned back. "You takes a ball an' you kicks it back 'n forth until everyone is pissed an' then you wins." It stopped and thought for a moment. "Also there's chickens."

"And the slime was necessary because…?"

The goblin blinked, bowled over by such a deep metaphysical question. "A'cuz," it said, casting desperately around for an answer. "A'cuz…"

It jerked its head up suddenly, a grin of pure inspiration spreading across its homely face.

Jareth winced. "Nevermind." He could guess the answer.

The goblin was not to be put off. "A'cuz," it said, slowly and deliberately, "if it din' 'ave slime… it wouldn' be slimeball!"

Goblins surged forward en masse to pat the speaker on the back, knocking him face first into the sticky green mass. Others raised their voices in a chorus of agreement.

"Slime!"

"Slime for slimeball!"

"Gotta have slime."

"Innit."

"Wot kinda king doesn' know about sli—"

"Silence!"

Without looking, Jareth thrust a finger in the direction of the last speaker.

"Bog."

The offending goblin vanished with a pop.

"So," he said into the silence. "You covered my throne room in slime so that you could play slimeball?"

A few nods.

"An' slime hockey," added one goblin conscientiously.

More nods.

"An' slime sledding, an' slime tennis, an' slime polo, an' slime—"

"Quiet!" Jareth roared, lacing his voice with every ounce of magical compulsion he could summon.

Silence fell once more. Then from the back of the crowd came the sound of a loud, lengthy burp.

The room erupted into cheers.

It was going to be a long evening.


Sarah and Hoggle had been walking for a good twenty minutes before Hoggle stopped them.

"Door on the right," he said.

He opened it, peered inside, and shut it hastily, almost catching a corner of his skirt in the door.

"Plain of Melting Clocks," he muttered. "I hate that place. It's a bugger to clean."

Sarah shook her head. "Man, the staircase room, the melting clocks. You guys have a bit of a security problem, don't you? Or at least a plagiarism problem."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. So if that's not the kitchen, where is it then?"

Hoggle squinted down the corridor. "Could be two doors on the left, up the spiral staircase and under the floating lake. Or back the way we came, then two lefts, then a right. Or—"

"Are you sure you work here?"

"It's not me," said Hoggle indignantly. "It's the Labyrinth. It keeps messing around with things!" He shook his head, sighing glumly. "I don't think it likes me…"

"Hey," said Sarah. "Don't sweat it. Let's just park here for a moment, smoke a quick bowl, then we'll go check out the kitchens."

"Smoke a what?"

"A bowl. You know, like a pipe? Of hash?"

Hoggle looked blank.

"Cannabis? Marijuana?"

"Are those friends of yours?" Hoggle asked, failing to keep the jealousy from his voice.

"Are those—" Sarah stopped. "Do you not have weed down here?"

"We have weeds," Hoggle said cautiously. "In the gardens. I could get you some if you like..."

Sarah shook her head, an enormous smile splitting her face. "Oh man, oh man—"

"Dwarf."

"Hoggle, my friend, I am going to blow your fucking mind."


Twenty minutes later.

"Snacks," Sarah moaned, from where she lay sprawled across the hallway floor. "I neeeeeeeddddd—" She stopped and flipped over onto her stomach, pressing her cheek against the rough stone floor. "Omigod, Hoggle you have to try this."

"Gnur." Hoggle snorted and snuffled his way to a sitting position. "Wha?"

"This is the most intense thing I ever— Hoggle, man, you are missing out."

"What? What is it?"

"This floor." Sarah raised an arm and slapped it down limply onto the surface in question. "This is without question the greatest floor ever known to man. It's like… the Beethoven of pavement."

"Dwarf," Hoggle corrected automatically. "Ever known to dwarf." He scowled. Even through the warm and tingly haze of wellbeing, he hated to see Sarah fawning like that over anything belonging to that rat bastard of a Goblin King. Even his flooring. "Wha'sso great about it?"

"It's just so… cold," Sarah sighed, turning her head slightly and exposing a blissfully smiling face. "And stoney."

She started to giggle, and nudged him with an outstretched foot.

"Which is perfect, you know, 'cause we're so…"

She giggled harder.

"So…"

She curled on her side, shaking and snorting with laughter.

"So what?"

"So stoned," she shrieked.

Hoggle looked at her, convulsing on the floor, and began to chortle as well.

Soon the two of them were rolling about on the floor together in paroxysms of mirth.

"Stoney," Sarah gasped. "Stoned. I'm a genius, dude, I'm telling you. I'm a fucking genius."

"I…" Hoggle struggled to get the words out. "I don't… I don't understand… what we're laughing about!"

Sarah let out an earsplitting shriek. "Me… neither!"

"Shocking," came a voice from high, high above them.


The dwarf looked up at Jareth, then groaned and turned his face away, wrapping his arms over his head.

"It's Jareth," he moaned. "I hate him, he's so mean to me. Sarah, make him go away."

Jareth scowled. Forty minutes spent trying to instill some sense of discipline in a bunch of deformed, debauched hobgoblins with the collective brainpower of a pickled turnip, all to make his throne pleasant and tidy for Sarah's homecoming, and this was the welcome he got?

Sarah propped herself on one elbow, squinting up at the Goblin King. She flicked her fingers out at him. "Poof!"

Jareth's scowl deepened.

"What happened?" asked the dwarf, voice muffled. "Did it work?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"Aw, rats."

"If you're quite finished," Jareth said cuttingly.

With what appeared to be great effort, Sarah pushed herself into a sitting position. She blew out a breath, ran a hand through her hair, and gave Jareth a charming if unfocused smile.

"Hi," she said.

Jareth raised a brow. "Have you been enjoying my corridor?"

For some reason, this set them both off again.

"It's… a really… really good corridor," Sarah choked out between fits of giggles.

Jareth waited them out, tapping his foot impatiently.

Blast it all, he'd forgotten about the damned dwarf. And just when he thought he had Sarah all to himself! What under the earth had possessed him to give the creature a job in the palace? Certainly it was meant as a punishment, but which of them was suffering now?

He eyed the creature—Huxley? Snuggle?—with profound dislike, noting how the skirt of his official palace uniform—and hadn't that seemed an excellent joke at the time—had hiked up around his waist. Luckily, the dwarf had seen fit to wear his breeches under his uniform. The alternative—Jareth shuddered—was simply too horrifying to contemplate.

Perhaps he could send the treacherous little scab away again. Send him off to do some weeding around the Bog of Eternal Stench. But then Sarah would be cross with him. Damn and blast.

Finally, the laughter subsided.

"Finished?" Jareth asked sourly.

"I think so," Sarah said. "Hey, we were wondering. Where are the kitchens?"

"Down the corridor, two doors on the left, up the spiral staircase and under the floating lake—"

"Told you," grunted the dwarf. Twinkle? Hollystone?

Jareth continued doggedly, "—past the dream garden, and through whichever door has the red-rimmed knocker this week."

"Forgot that bit," the dwarf said, sheepishly.

Humbert? Snaggle? Oh, what did it matter?

"Thanks, man," said Sarah gratefully.

Jareth felt himself begin to soften a little. It had been a long day, assuredly, but here was Sarah, smiling up at him and looking as lovely as ever, if a bit disheveled. Perhaps now they could—

"Hey," grunted the dwarf. "What's that on your shoes?"

Jareth looked at Sarah's feet. Her shoes were rather dirty. Well, he could soon fix that. Nothing like a brand new wardrobe to—

But Sarah's gaze wasn't on her unsavory footwear. Instead, she was looking in front of her, at a spot on the ground just where Jareth was standing.

Jareth felt a sudden spike of horror.

"Looks like some kind of… green slime," she said, squinting.

Not his boots. Not the tooled wyvern skin with silver inlay and hand-bewitched heels, costing a staggering sum of money, new just this season.

He looked down.

Throughout the castle, mirrors cracked, puddings spoiled.

"Whoa," said Sarah. "Calm down, dude. They're just shoes."

Just… shoes…?

"Can't you just like, magic them clean or something?"

"Magic them—" Jareth stopped, and took a deep breath. He'd gone to so much trouble to bring her here. It would most assuredly be a waste to turn her into a goat to the desert wilderness now, no matter how hurtful and ignorant she was being. "I realize your Aboveground education has been deficient in many areas, magic and fashion notable among them—"

Sarah snorted. "Hey dude, at least I know what century it is."

"But to answer your question, no, I can't just magic them clean," Jareth concluded on a snarl.

He chose to ignore the manifest injustice of her remark. He was perfectly well aware of what century it was. It was… something beginning with a two. Or maybe a one. Did Aboveground centuries come in negative numbers? Definitely a two in there somewhere.

Or maybe a seven.

He mustered what dignity he could and drew himself up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some high matters of state to attend to."

He turned his back and walked away with light, mincing steps. If he was really careful, perhaps he could keep more slime from being worked into the leather than had been already…

"More like matters of stilt," murmured Sarah from behind him. There was a pause. "Get it? Because stilts… shoes…"

Jareth grit his teeth.

"Don't let him get to you. It's just the shoes," the dwarf said in a deafening whisper. "He's funny about the shoes. This one time, when the Champion of Underland was visiting…"

Bugger this for a game of soldiers.

Jareth snapped his fingers.


Sarah and Hoggle stared at the blank spot of corridor which had contained the Goblin King just seconds before.

"Man, someone really needs to take a chill pill," Sarah commented. "Is he always like this?"

"Not always," Hoggle admitted grudgingly. "It's the goblins, see? They're always up to something, that lot. Running around, messing things up. They never stop. And I'm the one who has to clean it all up." He gave a martyred sigh, then slid a glance over towards Sarah to see if she'd noticed.

Sarah was staring pensively into the middle distance. "You know? I bet I know something that could help with that. Where did you say those kitchens were?"


A/N: High people are terrible at puns. Apparently.

I've devoted a lot of time to thinking about this, and I genuinely think a French's maid's uniform would be a good look for Hoggle. Not one of those sexy Halloween ones though, like, a proper Downton Abbey one.

This chapter was supposed to be "Sarah gets all the goblins in Goblin City stoned," but then it was like, why would she do that, and then everything ran away with me. So now that's next chapter . Which is in much more the same vein as the first: everyone is incredibly high and misunderstandings abound. Also, a lot more flirting.

Jareth's recital of fruit is adapted from Rossetti's "Goblin Market."

My portrayal of the goblins I owe to…virtually everyone. The incomparable Lixxle comes to mind as the most obvious source though, since I'm pretty sure everyone else followed her. At first I worried it was too derivative, but then I was like, ah fuck it. 'Sjust for fun.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, and/or PMed me encouragement to write more. It's so nice to know one that I'm not the only lunatic out there. If this chapter made you giggle, please do leave a review and let me know!

Special thanks to Sazzle76 for her prompt-spirations, none of which found themselves in this chapter but which certainly served to jumpstart my creativity and which will turn up soon. If you're not reading "The Goblinerette," you should be. It's Labyrinth meets Rock of Love. Don't even pretend you don't need it in your life. Also to kittyspike08536, in conversation with whom the idea that the Labyrinth is constantly being infiltrated and plagiarized by unscrupulous surrealists came about.