Griselda weaves through the kitchen. Goddammit, it's not very large! Where the fuck is her son when she needs him? These other thugs back here are too gelatinous and sluggish to be of much help. Like Brutus; he's bulky, but he's good at eating, not fighting. She growls and grabs Thomas – the fellas call him Thang – by the scruff of his collar, demanding, "Where's m'boy!"

"H-he's around back, ma'am," he replies shakily, and she releases him.

Griselda isn't as fast as she used to be. She waddles as quickly as her legs can carry her, her hip shouting its protest. But fuck her arthritis, there's a girl who needs help.

She comes bursting out the back metal door, into the alleyway. Bog is there, loading the trash and sneaking a cigarette. She comes right up to him, reaching up to snatch his cig away.

"Mum!" he jerks, startled. She stomps out the cancer stick and shakes her fist at him. He starts to say, "Hey, look, that was my first one since I quit. I was just –"

"I dinnae give a flying crap" – and she rolls her R into nearly an L, she's so furious – "aboot your habits! You march into the bar right nao and stop a fight!"

"Aw, Mum," Bog gripes, shoving his hands into his pocket, fingering the lighter within. He's jonesing so bad right now, he barely had half, and he wants to smoke the rest. "Just yell at 'em to take it outside, they always do. They're just dumb and drunk."

"This isn't some normal bar scrap, boy!" She snaps. "Some fucker came in and is harassing one of me favorite girls! Kick his ass!"

"What d'I care about some girl? Call the police, let them handle it," Bog mutters. He doesn't have time to play hero. His break is almost over.

Griselda slaps him across the face. It smarts, but it's more to knock sense into him than to hurt him. "You stubborn, selfish man. Since when did I raise such apathy? I've always taught you right, to treat women well and protect them. Now you git yer arse in there right now and save poor Marianne!"

A wave of ice washes down from the top of his head to pool in his stomach. It stiffens his joints, stills his idly movements. "…Marianne…?"

"Yes! What are ye, deaf? Marianne! She's the regular I'm always tellin' you about, thae you ne'er list–" she fumes. She doesn't even finish the sentence when Bog suddenly takes off. He shoves past his mother and rushes around front, not time to unlock the back door. Griselda watches him go, baffled, and tries her best to limp-jog after him.

Bog bursts in through the front entrance and sees them there. He kicks something, stoops, and scoops it up. A knife, with a small purple can of spray. He doesn't even ask to have to know who this belongs to; he's seen it on Marianne's bike keys. He tightens his grip on it and storms over to the group of men restraining Marianne.

One of them starts to protest mutilation, right as the blond in front of him raises a broken bottle in the air, its uneven edges catching in the dim light.

With a roar, Bog swoops in between the blond and Marianne and stops the blond's hand by the wrist with an iron grip.

"Eugh!" Roland grimaces, staring right up into Bog's face. "Who brought life to this gargoyle?"

"Don't you dare lay a finger on her!" Bog shouts crossly at Roland with all the venom of a thousand Egyptian asps.

Roland fully intends to give a reply, but it's extinguished before it can flare up as Bog delivers a swift blow to Roland's stomach with his bony knee, crippling Roland to a limp noodle in his grip. He drops Roland to the ground, the bottle rolling from Roland's fingers. One of the men holding Marianne lets her go in favor of attacking Bog to avenge his fraternity brother.

Bog swings his leg 'round and kicks him, but is soon tackled to the ground after a brief stumble backward. He struggles beneath the man's weight while Marianne flares into high gear, still shocked she never felt the blow, still shocked Bog is here, having come to her rescue somehow, and still too disoriented to notice Griselda walking in, yelping and hurrying to a phone to get the police like her son suggested.

There is chaos on the floor; some of the other people at the bar started to file out the other entrance, some gathering around in a circle to cheer on the violence.

Bog flicks open Marianne's knife and slashes at the stocky man's shirt. It grazes his skin, certainly tears open his shirt. He backs off to inspect for blood. There's some, but no torn tissue.

Marianne is fending better for herself with only two men on her. She elbows one, kicks the other, Loosens the grip of one of her arms. She goes for the eyes of the closest of her captors, clawing with her fingernails, digging deep enough to scratch his eye and rake some of the top layers of his skin under her nails. He howls and covers his face with his hands, backing off to stumble into a chair and knock it over, seated on the ground, writhing in pain.

The other guy is now vulnerable to Marianne's attacks, and she calls out, "Bog! Spray!" and he doesn't think twice, just tosses it to her.

She magically manages to catch it, just barely, by the knife. She hisses, it slicing between her thumb and forefinger, but she turns it around with messy, bloody fingers and opens the cap to spray the pepper at the third thug's face. He raises up his arms and tries to hide from it, but she's too fast, turning to his side and aiming it just right.

He's screaming now, too, and Bog has the cut one down for the count, the guy pleading to be let go.

Then Roland crops up, coming up behind Bog and twisting his arm around his back, pinning it there. The broken bottle is back in Roland's hand, and he has it pointed to Bog's throat. Bog goes still.

"Whoa there, Marianne. You want me to spill blood in your name that isn't yours?" Roland says, sounding like he's cracking, getting a bit desperate, crazed.

Marianne slowly turns with wide eyes.

"Get somewhere safe, Marianne!" Bog yells to her, his Adam's apple bobbing against the spark points of the glass. One pokes him, a thin trail of blood trickling down his neck to touch his collarbone. It feels itchy and warm, like a bad nick while shaving.

"Are you joking? I would never just leave you here!" the brunette tosses back, and she holds out her knife with her wounded hand. "Roland, you let him go, or I swear to God…"

"Oh, so you two know each other? Augh, and the way you're declaring for the other to be safe –disgusting… you actually have feelings for this cattail weed?" He cackles, pushing the bottle a tad deeper into Bog's throat. It makes a second dribble of blood follow the path of the first from the same wound, stretching it. "Interesting, but come on, sweetheart. You could do loads better."

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Marianne threatens as she takes a step closer, and Roland retreats back one to match. She's trembling with rage. "Bog is loads better. Compared to your psychotic ass, Bog is everything a good partner should be. He's got my back. He gets my humor. He rides like me and spars with me and listens to the same kind of music I do. He likes the same movies, he thinks of the same costume and tattoos, he is the best friend I've ever made and kept, and you only wish you were an eight as good a person as he is!"

The small remaining crowd Oooohs at the insulting speech.

Roland is visibly shaken. Panicked, hurt. He lowers the bottle from Bog's neck, gaping at her.

Then he tosses the bottle down and charges for it, his arms outstretched, fingers headed directly for her thin throat.

Bog tears after him, yanking him back to sprawl down on his back before he can reach and potentially strangle Marianne. His head hits the floor with a heavy thud.

Sirens and flashing blues and reds suddenly pull in to the bar parking lot, shining through the blinds in the windows up front.

The three frat boys huddle together and kick their wounds, and Roland lies unconscious at Bog's feet.

Bog steps over him to Marianne. "Are you all right?"

She's holding her hand, finally feeling the full burning brunt of the pain. "I'll live. Are you okay?" she asks more softly, peering at his throat, and a bump on his head he picked up somewhere along the way.

He touches the tender spot on his brow, already beginning to swell, and then touches a fingertip to the cut in his neck. It's still bleeding. He shrugs one shoulder. "…I'll live. Want to leave before the authorities come rushing in?"

"Shouldn't we stay and tell them it was self-defense? Because it was."

"My mother can handle it. She's the one who called. She can tell them I took you to the hospital. Which I am," he insists, and holds out his unbloodied hand.

She takes it in her own unbloodied one, tucking her knife and spray away. "Lead the way."


Bog's jeep is as rugged as he is, and just as reliable. He opens her door for her, lets her scoot inside while she holds a handkerchief from Bog's pocket to her hand. He has a scarf of hers wrapped around his neck. He piles in, starts the engine, lets it heat up a second.

Music starts up from his CD player, and he turns it down to nearly mute levels.

"…What was that all about?" Bog wants to know.

"You work at the bar?" Marianne deflects clumsily.

He sighs, knowing she won't tell him until she's ready. He runs a hand through his hair, then turns the knob up for the heater. "Aye. That chef job I mentioned before… this is where it is. I used to 'tend, but my temper wasn't, ah, conducive to customer service."

"Wait… From what Griselda's told me, are you -?"

"She's me mum, yeah," he confirms.

"Oh, wow," she huffs a laugh, "First Plum, and now Grissy. Ha, haha… this is too much… hahahahahaa," and she starts to hyperventilate.

Bog panics for a moment, turning and hesitating to touch her. He places his hand on her back and gently leans her forward, rubbing in small circles. She starts to hiccup, then fall into relieved sobs.

"I… really thought… he might… kill me," she breathes out between inhales, and presses her forehead to her wrists. Bog tries to twist toward her, but is hindered by the vehicle. He grunts, his seat already back as far as it will go on its track. He gets out of the car and comes around the front, opening Marianne's door and wrapping his arms around her.

She slowly calms her breath, her tears ceasing in increments. She brings her uninjured hand up to reciprocate the embrace as best she can by touching Bog's forearm.

"…I knew Roland could be… one-track-minded… but I never thought he would go this far," Marianne says quietly. "I got as letter a couple months back… but I didn't think… I didn't know…" She heaves a shaky sigh. "God, I feel so unprepared and weak, all over again."

"You aren't weak," Bog answers softly. "You're the strongest person I know, next to my mother." He presses his mouth and cheek against her hair, but doesn't kiss her. He pulls his lips up to speak. "What did the letter say?"

"Not much," Marianne whispers, "Just that he's back in town and knows where to find me, and couldn't wait to see me. And after that, nothing was different. I got paranoid after a while, bought the pepper spray to go with my knife, afraid he might be stalking me and would come out of an alley somewhere – but he never did."

"…Have you been traveling alone these past few months?"

She lifts her head, considers it. She blinks. "Only to school, and when I got my tattoo. Every other time I had Dawn or Sunny with me, they just went into a different shop and let me do my thing elsewhere."

"So you still had a traveling companion. But tonight, they weren't with you," Bog clarifies, and his tone is grave.

Her eyes widen. "He… he was waiting for the right moment? All this time? W… watching me?"

"He must have been. And tonight, how did you get here?"

"…I took a taxi. Dawn and Sunny both work late tonight, since it's the day after Black Friday, and the store is a mess," she utters, and blinks hard, looking Bog in the eye. "I was lucky to get the night off. I wanted to get drunk."

"The perfect time to pounce. You're utterly alone, with no one to come to your aid, and possibly plastered by the time he shows his face."

Marianne feels sick. She feels really, truly sick. It doesn't help that she hasn't eaten anything. "Move… move…"

She weakly shoves him back by the chest, and places her hands on her knees as she bends forward and dry-heaves out the jeep door, toward the pavement. Not much comes out, and she covers her mouth. The handkerchief falls.

Bog picks it up, rubs her back again. She inhales and exhales shallowly, then as she sits back up, her inhale is long and her exhale is slow and measured. She's done crying, and the nausea has passed. She looks up at Bog, whom looks out of his element, and bless him, he's really trying his best to be here for her.

She gives him a lopsided smile. "I'm sorry I'm being so pathetic. I'm usually got it pretty together, and then I go and act like this."

"Oh, Tough Girl," he consoles, "You're not pathetic. You're acting human."

She sniffs, looks away. She dabs at her moist eyes. "…Can we head to the hospital, now? My hand is killing me."


All bandaged and stitched up on both ends, and Marianne's insurance still under her father until she's twenty-four, thank God, almost entirely pays for the emergency room visit. They ask Marianne if she would like to stay, concerned looks on their faces from her demeanor. But she waves it away and says it's better if she goes home and rests.

Exiting the hospital, Bog takes a call he missed form his mother.

…Make that fourteen calls from his mother.

His tone is exasperated as he responds to every question. "Yes, Mum, we're all right. Yes, yes, we're just leaving the hospital now. –No, I'm not driving and on the phone at the same time! –Yes, sorry, I'm sorry you had to deal with the police – yeah, I'll answer their questions tomorrow. Huh? Oh, Marianne? She's… holding up okay, yeah. You want – want to speak to her? Really? Hn… okay," he sighs. He holds the phone out across the cup holders between the front seats. "Reassure her, please. She won't stop squawking in my ear."

Marianne smiles meekly and takes the phone. "Hello, Grissy."

"Marianne! Oh, sweetie, it's so good to hear your voice again. I was so scared for you, and I'm so glad you're all right. Is my son treating you well? He damn better be. I know you only know him from what I've complained about, but –"

"No, Griselda, he's actually my friend. He's… the guy from school I was talking about, actually," she admits, and if she weren't so exhausted, she might have felt embarrassed. As it stands, she doesn't. "Heh… I'm surprised you didn't hear what I was saying to Roland about him."

"I was phoning the police, and the bar was chaos. You expect me to have heard?" Griselda puzzles, then starts laughing; more with relief than making fun. "Oh, Lord… All this time, you two knew each other. I can't believe it. I'm just so glad you're both all right." She sounds tearful; after all the adrenaline and madness of tonight, it's no wonder everyone's emotions seem to be on the fritz; including Marianne's own. Bog seems to be the only one keeping it together, but the brunette senses it's all a ruse. "Well, I'll let you go. The sooner I do, the sooner we can all be in one place again. Goodbye, dearie. And give my love to my son. See you soon."

The call ended, and Marianne handed the phone back.

"Your mother sends her love."

"She always does," Bog says, and there's a hint of a smile in his tone.


Silence fills most of the ride back into downtown. Marianne isn't wearing her seatbelt; she has her hands linked under her knees, both legs drawn up as close to her chest as they will go. She looks so small and frail in her current position, and between stop lights, Bog glances at her.

"You know, I've had my fair share of bad relationships," Bog begins. He's reluctant to tell the story, but by the looks of it, Marianne needs this one. He clears his throat. "I didn't have anyone throughout high school here. The few chums I had I lost quickly, and no girl looked my way. Lotta girls avoided me, pretended I wasn't there. I never went to any of the dances; there was no point. Who would I go for? Not my friends; they were shallow at best, only good'fer talking to at school. People'd joke about my accent, some'd claim it wasn't real, and nobody liked how tall an' awkward I was. Am.

"And… come my first try 'round at uni, I met a girl. She was maybe a bit heavyset, but she was sweet. She didn't avoid me, acknowledged I was there." He swallows. "She… was very lovely. She always smelled fresh and floral, always wore her hair in low pigtails. She had the smallest feet and hands, compared to the rest of her. She said she liked me. She asked me to a party, and we went out for a bit. Then she broke it off, and I was heartbroken. I couldn't figure why. I took her out, bought her things, and answered her calls and texts, made a few to her myself. I remembered our one-month, got her flowers that matched the scent she always wore. Took me a little while to get over it enough to ask her why she didn't want me. She… s-she said, 'I only agreed t-to go out with you b-because I felt bad for you.'"

Marianne look at him then, feels the hurt in his voice, doesn't miss the sounds he stutters. She drops one knee, foot back on the floor of the car. She grips the remaining lifted knee with both hands. Not knowing what to say, she manages, "That bitch."

Bog rums his fingers on the steering wheel. He refuses to look anywhere but the road while he tells his stories.

"There was one other woman after her. In me mid-twenties, I met the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen upta that point. She had flaming red hair and freckles all over her skin, and her eyes were pools of the sky. I can't believe she'd even look my way, let alone speak to me. But she laughed at my jokes and let me buy her coffee, and we go on well. She humored me for three months. Then she came to me with her eyes big and watery and took me by the hand and told me in her sweet voice, 'James, I'm sorry, but I've fallen in love with someone else. I've been cheating on you for over a month. I'm so sorry.' And I realized then that she never loved me to begin with, if it was that easy. I was just a placeholder, and that's all I'd ever be. Just a stepping stone. And I swore from then on to never be someone's stepping stone again."

Marianne drops the other leg, turns in her seat. She reaches out and touches his shoulder, lightly, then gives it a squeeze. "I never wanted to be tricked and used and cheated on again. That's why I hate love. People say it too carelessly, and use our feelings against us. I know we talked about how stupid Valentine's Day is before, during one of our spars, but… That's why, for me. Roland… damaged me."

"Well, I'm damaged, too," Bog says, and she can't figure out his tone. She runs her hand down his arm, laces her fingers between his on the steering wheel. He removes his hand, steering single-handed, and turns his palm over to hold her hand properly.

"I can't believe those girls. I want to give them dental records like Canadian hockey players," she hisses, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "They don't deserve you, anyway. You're too good for filth like that. How could someone do that to a person?"

"How, indeed? I don't know what Roland did to you before – and you never have to tell me if you dinnae want to – but from what I saw tonight… You should have never even been exposed to such bottom-feeding scum of the world like him."

They fall quiet. Their hands remind laced together all the way back to an apartment building. It isn't until Bog takes his hand back to put the jeep into park and shuts off the engine that Marianne looks up. "…Where are we?"

"…Oh," Bog murmurs absentmindedly. "I… just automatically drove home, I-I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry," he says, starting the car back up again. "Buckle up, and I'll drive you home, if you be my GPS."

"No, I…" she stops. Should she? Is it wrong is she does? But… she doesn't want to be alone tonight. Dawn and Sunny should be back from work by now, if not soon, but – it's a different kind of loneliness she feels. Only someone who just went through the bar fight she did could understand. "C-can I… stay here tonight?"

Bog does a double-take. "A-are you sure? I really can drive you home, it's no trouble – a-and it's not like… I wasn't planning to – I just sort of…"

"No, I know," she says, smiling to reassure him. "You're not the type of person to pull a manipulation like that. Only Roland would stoop so low, and use it to try and sleep with me. I trust you. And I just – need a friend right now. Someone who gets it, 'cause… 'cause they were there."

"Oh," Bog says, relieved. "Good. I mean, I get it. I… Me, too. Aye, I can do that. Let's…" He shuts off the engine once more, unbuckles. "Let's go inside."

He gets out of the car, and Marianne follows suit. He locks it, and she follows him up to his floor, waits for him to unlock the door.

Inside, his flat is small, merely a studio. There is a partial wall dividing the bedroom from the living room/kitchen area, and little furniture, some of it clearly cheap, something easy to put together. A long-haired black cat comes traipsing in, going up to Bog and rubbing its head against his leg, meowing.

"Yeah, yeah, Bones, I know you're hungry. Sorry I'm late, but you won't believe the shit I've been through."

He picks up the cat and flips him over onto his back, cradling him like an infant in his arm, rubbing his belly and chest with his free hand. The cat closes its eyes, craning its neck back for scratches. Marianne giggles.

"I completely forgot you bought cat food that day I saw you at my work. And all the alcohol, in retrospect, was probably for the bar?"

"Yes'm," he mumbles, tired, and sets his cat down. He shuts the door, locks the apartment. Then he goes about getting a cat of food out and popping it out onto a plate, mushing it to spread it around before setting it on the floor for his pet. "I'd offer you me bed, but I don't know when I last cleaned the sheets," he says sheepishly. "I have clean blankets in a closet, though. I can make up the couch for you."

"Thanks," Marianne says, and jerks her thumb. "Is your bathroom connected to the bedroom?"

He nods. "Just go 'round the wall and you'll see it across from the bed."

His bed lies under the window, and sure enough, there's a tiny bathroom with a shower stall, sink, and toilet all crammed into one barely-rectangular space. It's cleaner than she thought it would be for a bachelor, and his toothbrush, she notes, is green.

Because of some of their discussions in art class, she recalls that his favorite color is green, although more within the mossy and olive hues than this mint-leaf color, but it makes her smile nonetheless.

She splashes her face with cold water, and uses a folded wad of toilet paper and some hand soap to remove what little she has left on her face of her makeup. It's time for raccoon eyes, and she does her best to make it at least marginally darker than her natural skin color, as opposed to the smudged purple and blue it was before.

All clean and feeling a bit more refreshed, she sips some of the water from the sink before she turns it off. She wishes she had a change of clothes; she can feel the bar and hospital grime. Not to mention the blood – her blood – spattered on her jeans.

There's a knock at the door.

"Uh, Marianne?"

"Hmm?"

"If… if you want me to wash your clothes, you can wear some of mine. They'd be big, but – but clean."

She opens the door, and he's holding up some basketball shorts and a white cotton tee. Despite his thin frame, the shirt is large – most likely for his shoulders and the length – and the shorts are mediums. But they'll do.

"Thank you. And… you have in-unit laundry?" she frowns, surprised. This place doesn't look big enough for that…

"No, but I have a small portable washer I bought online that, uh, y-you hook up to the sink for water, and- and press the pedal to work it, and I usually hang everything up to dry."

He seems nervous. What is the last time he's had a woman in his apartment? Has it really been since the ginger girl he mentioned? Or did she ever even come over? Marianne secretly, selfishly wishes she's the first.

"That's great! I can help spot-treat them, see if they're salvageable, or if my blood ruined it all," she says, looking down at herself. She brings her eyes back to his and takes the proffered clothing. "Thank you so much, Bog, really. I'll be back out in a sec, okay?"

He nods, and she shuts the door.

Keeping her bra and underwear on, she changes into his clothes. The shorts rest just fine on her hips, but the shirt is so baggy it makes her wee arms stick out like Popsicle sticks from the swathes of a paper towel. The clothes smell like fresh, airy linen, and vaguely of Bog.

His whole apartment smells like him, really. It doesn't smell like litterbox, despite her having seen it right there in the kitchen, and it doesn't smell as musty or stale as she thought someplace this small in an older building such as this would smell. It's somehow familiar, comfortable.

She yawns.

Emerging from the bathroom with a wad of soiled clothes, she finds Bog in the kitchen with his tiny clothes washer. It's compact and cute, and as he shows her how it works, she marvels at its convenience.

Soon, the couch is made up and she snuggles down into it, and Bog gives her a warm glance and a wave goodnight before he goes into his bedroom. He has no door, just an open cut that isn't quite an archway, and she can vaguely see his feet at the edge of the bed when he's laid down.

She closes her eyes. Normally, falling asleep at a friend's house for the first time makes for restlessness and nightmares and that semi-waking confusion of 'Where am I? This isn't my room,' between dream states, but not tonight.

Tonight, Marianne falls asleep easily and has dim, vaguely peaceful dreams, and she hardly wakes or stirs even once all night.