Disclaimer: I don't own Labyrinth or any of the characters associated with the Labyrinth.
AN: Nuclear holocaust, here we come. And why TF has Toblerone become so skinny. World's gone bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.
Warning: This story has [somewhat elitist] characters that have opinions. Strong opinions. They do not necessarily reflect the author's opinions, but hey, author is warning you to read at your own risk.
Chapter 9: Salad for the Depressed Elitist Soul
"Well, well, well. What have we here? By all means, let him in, Sarah."
She hesitates—trying to think of something to make Marc go away. But he is persistent, "Sarah, I'm dialing 911 if you don't answer me."
Sighing in aggravation, she buzzes him in, her eyes on the Goblin King. "You said you won't harm him," she reminds the smirking monarch.
The Goblin King's smile widens wolfishly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Me? I'd never even think of it, my dear," he flops down on the sofa, legs stretched comfortably.
Rolling her eyes, she opens the door. "Marc—Do. Not. Freak out," she says, emphasizing each word slowly. "The Goblin King is here."
"Sarah, you're delusional, we need to get to a hospital. NOW," Marc says, hurriedly walking in through the door. He pauses, seeing Jareth sprawled out languidly on the sofa. He notices how different the man looks—sharper. Wilder perhaps. He seems to be wearing some kind of Game of Thrones costume and a shiny star headband that should look ridiculous…but instead, it exudes power.
"Hello, Sarah's precious Marc," The Goblin King says, not moving a muscle. "I try so hard to keep myself from harming you, yet you seem to enjoy trying your luck." A razor sharp smile, "Perhaps I'll have to take back my word, hmm, Sarah?"
"NO," she says quickly, ushering Marc to the arm chair.
Getting over his initial shock, Marc glares angrily at strange man. "Have you drugged her? Are you some kind of freak who gets his kicks by fucking with someone's mind?"
Sarah goes white. The Goblin King only smiles wider.
Marc isn't finished. "You've clearly done something to her—I'm calling the cops this fucking second-"
"MARC," she interrupts, "You need to shut up for a second." She turns to Jareth, who now sports a dangerous gleam in his eyes, "Tell him."
Huffing exaggeratedly, Jareth sits upright and plants his boot clad feet flat on the floor. "Marc," he states authoritatively, "Humor Sarah for a while."
Marc wonders whether he's the one who's hallucinating, but he decides to go along with the general bizarreness of the situation. "Alright," he concedes. Of course, he doesn't realize that the Goblin King has used just a tiny bit of compulsion to keep him compliant.
Forcibly clenching her hands so she doesn't grab the floor lamp, Sarah glares at the Goblin King. "Marc and I wrote a…contract for…us."
Jareth raises a brow and his lips quiver. "A contract, precious creature, whatever for?"
"If you want anything, anything, from me, you'll have to sign the contract," she says, trying to sound assertive. She hands him the ten page document that she and Marc worked on the night before. "Marc helped me with it so he'll help answer any questions you might have... and he's a witness."
A slow, deep laugh. "Of course. Marc is a witness, is he?"" he asks softly, taking the document and flipping through the pages. He fixates his piercing gaze on her. "Very well, precious creature, I will allow it."
Marc turns his head back and forth between Jareth and Sarah, wondering if they're experiencing shared psychosis. He also wonders if he should be afraid.
Sarah seethes in anger. "Allow it?" Fire blazes in her eyes. "You better fucking allow it."
Jareth tsks, his lips curl into a sneer. "Emotional outbursts are so…crass, Sarah, really. But I suppose you are human…"
Sarah's temper resembles a volcanic eruption—as per her character, she turns extremely blunt when angry. "Jareth, do you want to date me or not?"
Jareth's condescending smile evaporates from his face, leaving it neutral. "I do."
"Then read and sign the fucking contract," she snaps. There's only so much patience Sarah Williams can spare and the Goblin King has had his share for the day.
(30 mins later)…
Marc cannot believe he's sat for half an hour with Sarah and this strange man—answering all of his questions. He should be calling 911, shouldn't he? Or the police? Or those people in charge of Area 51?
Jareth frowns. "How, in all the seven realms, is a serious relationship different from dating?" It's taken the Goblin King every ounce of willpower to stop himself from tearing up Sarah's ridiculous contract. For beings with such short lifespans, humans, it seems, have become far too complicated.
Sarah rolls her eyes—she's explained the concept of dating at least three times already. "A serious relationship is when we decide to take it to the next level. Until then either party is free to date other people."
Jareth's eyes flash darkly. "Is that what you want?" His eyes drift to Marc and his lips thin into a straight line.
Sighing for the umpteenth time, Sarah replies harshly, "Yes. Don't look at Marc like that, we've broken up. And didn't you say you have three girlfriends?"
A slow smirk. "I would never use the term 'girlfriends,' precious—that was your assumption. I would call them…acquaintances."
"You said you were dating three individuals," she says angrily. The bastard is tricky with his words.
Jareth laughs deeply, his voice echoing around the small apartment, "Once again, precious, 'dating' was your term, not mine."
Sarah hisses. "Fine. Whatever it is that you're doing with these three individuals, you're free to continue doing it until we become serious, if we ever become serious. And I am free to do the same."
Giving her a sharp, calculating look, Jareth stands up abruptly. "Very well. I shall study this," he looks at the document in contempt, "most detailed contract you've provided before I sign it." Saying that, he disappears from the room.
(A few seconds of stunned silence follows)…
"What. The. Fuck." A very confused Marc looks visibly shaken. "I'm hallucinating. Fuck. I've got to get back to work—how can I fucking work on the fucking derivatives model if I'm fucking hallucinating?" he babbles.
Rolling her eyes, Sarah grabs a can of iced green tea from the fridge. Trust Marc to think about work even when hysterical. "I told you he was the Goblin King," she says in her 'I told you so' voice. "Drink this and count to ten."
After doing just that, Marc calms down and looks at Sarah with concern. "You're going to date that thing? Have you gone insane?"
She wonders the same thing. "It's something I have to do… It's like dating a starving artist—not something serious—you only do it to get it out of your system…you know?"
Marc stares mutely. He doesn't know what she means at all.
(3 weeks later at a popular salad place, Thursday, during lunch hour)…
"That's twelve chapters in three fucking weeks, in addition to your usual work load. I'm beginning to get concerned," Sanjay says, digging into his chickpea and baby spinach salad.
Sarah shrugs. "My social life's taken a pause, I guess," she states—and it's true. She hasn't heard from the Goblin King, and Elle, after much convincing on Sarah's part, has started going out with Marc.
"Keep going at this pace and you should be done with this book in a few months." Sanjay is impressed.
Smiling grimly, Sarah nods. "That's the plan. There are times I feel physically sick writing this shit."
Sanj gives her a look to say 'don't be so dramatic.' "Don't start on your usual Bessie May rant."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, we're in deep, deep shit because of Bessie Mays and Jimmy Bobs. I feel like by writing this book, I'm becoming part of the problem. Spare me if I can't help myself from ranting."
"Jimmy Bobs?" Sanjay can't help but laugh. "They're in deeper shit, Sarah. We're far better off than they will ever be-isn't it smarter for you to let nature take its course, instead of ranting?"
"Really?" she asks disbelievingly, "My reproductive rights are in danger. You may not be allowed to get legally married. How am I better off—how are you better off for that matter?"
Sanj doesn't miss a beat. "For one, I'm rich, I'm educated, and tax breaks are going to benefit me, not them. Should the economy tank, I've got my options open. And so do you, for that matter. Bessie Mays and Jimmy Bobs on the other hand, will only get poorer, more illiterate, and have shorter lifespans because they've just denied themselves the opportunity to have decent healthcare."
She frowns—it sounds so cold when he puts it like that. "That's not fair," she says. "You're the one who said people can't help where they're born and how they're raised—that we may have had the same views were we in their place."
"It isn't fair—but life isn't fair, is it?" Shrugging, Sanj says, "Darling, I'm brown and I'm gay—far be it for me to feel any sympathy for racist homophobes who vote against their own self interests. Let them get poorer and ply themselves with crystal meth and cheap alcohol." He smiles a slightly evil smile, "As I've told you previously, all we're concerned about is whether they buy the crap we're selling them."
Sarah's about to reply when Michael joins them, salad bowl in hand.
"Ah, we're talking about that," Michael says, sitting next to Sarah after kissing his fiancé. "Let's not. I've never understood why people vote against their own self-interests, and now, I've come to terms with the fact that it's not my problem."
Having attended a socially liberal university that advocates class integration, Sarah is uncomfortable with that line of thought. "Shouldn't we educate these people instead?" she asks, frowning when she sees the two older men grin at her naïveté.
Sanj replies, "That hasn't worked across the pond and it hasn't worked here—but, if that's what you'd like to do, you should join the social sector. You're in the private sector, Sarah—and as I've explained, books are commodities to be sold. Our job is to keep those numbers up."
"You're such a capitalist," she scoffs, her tone accusatory.
Both the men laugh at that. Michael responds, "As are all humans, Sarah. 'Capitalist' isn't an insult."
(Saturday, after lunch)…
With Elle quite busy dating Marc, Sarah has quite a lot of time to herself. She opens a fresh page on a notebook and sets out to 'define her goals' as per the instructions in the new self-help book she's read.
She writes down 'consider changing careers' as the first point—publishing isn't remotely what she thought it would be. 'Use Waggle' she write as the second point—it's a new dating app that she's read about, that apparently is amazing for people in their mid-20s. 'Volunteer for a good cause,' she cringes at her wording—but it's about time she started doing something that resonates with her beliefs.
Just as she's thinking about the many different volunteer opportunities available, the Goblin King's deep, melodic voice interrupts her thought. "You seem to be lost."
Sarah jumps, staring at the smirking monarch in disbelief. Here he is—standing in her living room, as if he hasn't disappeared for three weeks. He's wearing form fitting dark jeans and a pale pink (seriously, pink), tailored shirt. His hair is wild around his angled face, and his eyes gleam amusedly. A small smile plays on his bow shaped lips, as if he's cherishing her reaction.
After her initial surprise, Sarah gets angry. Blazing inferno of rage angry. "Where, the fuck, have you been?" she asks, her voice calm but shaky—as if the dam of volcanic lava is ready to overflow any second.
The Goblin King remains unfazed, his smile deepening. "I was reading your…contract, sweet Sarah. After all, I am a King—I don't sign documents unless my council reads through every line and deems it safe."
Just as she's about to blow up, Sarah takes a second to calm herself down. "I can't take this," she mutters, heading to the fridge and pulling out two light beers. "Here," she says, handing him one, "It's a twist cap."
"Based on your reaction, I'm going to assume you missed my presence in your life," Jareth teases, tentatively taking a sip from the bottle she's given him.
She looks at him warily. "You're really unpredictable, Jareth. I don't think dating you is going to be very smart, on my part." Not that dating someone from Waggle is going to be any better—but hey, at least he wouldn't be a powerful magical being who'd disappear for weeks on end.
"Too late, precious," Jareth says, tone salacious, "You provided me with an agreement, an oath—I intend to hold you accountable." He sits next to her, handing over her contract, signed. "I have agreed to most of your terms…however, there are some alterations and amendments."
She growls. Only he would have the audacity to disappear for weeks and show up suddenly, demanding that she date him. "Such as?"
Jareth smiles toothily, "For one, neither party will 'date' other individuals during our courtship, no matter how…not-serious it is."
"Okay," she says, grudgingly. Waggle could wait.
Looking pleased with her quick reply, Jareth continues, "We will 'date' in my realm." Jareth continues quickly before she can disagree, "To know me as I am, you will have to spend time with me in my realm, precious."
She frowns. The bastard actually makes sense. "Only for dates," she agrees warningly.
Jareth looks strangely excited. "Then we have an agreement," he says, holding out his hand.
Breath catching in her throat, Sarah marvels at how damn cute he looks. Almost like a child opening a Christmas present. "We do," she says, extending her hand to shake his—she feels a pulling sensation on her limbs and a flash of cool breeze on her skin.
When she opens her eyes, she finds herself in a room with stone walls decorated with intricately woven tapestries.
"Welcome to my realm, precious."
AN—so this became a bit longer than I'd anticipated. Maybe two chapters (three tops) more and an epilogue.
Next chapter—J throws a party.
