AN: An offhand warning, for those who it makes uncomfortable: this chapter involves gratuitous amounts of alcohol.

Marceline dribbled the basketball against the creaking wood of the side porch, trying to line up the perfect shot. Maybe she'd be better off if she bothered to paint a proper court, but honestly, it was too much work for a hobby she only pursued on occasion. Whatever, she thought. I'm not gonna let it kill my enjoyment.

She jumped, propelling the ball into the air with a flick of the wrist. It smacked the center of the backboard with a resound, satisfying thwack, and now Marceline could only watch in suspense as it danced on the circular rim, tempting success and threatening failure with each teeter.

Swish, it finally decided, falling down into the net and bouncing on the porch. Marceline threw her arms up and whooped in triumph. She briefly debated the merit of asking Crona to play once he got back—would he want to? Well, he didn't have to necessarily play for it to be enjoyable; even if he was just sitting on the sidelines, hanging out, she wouldn't mind at all.

Speak of the Devil, she could faintly hear the sound of slow footsteps rustling in the grass outside the cave. "Evening, Crona!" She stepped out to the side of the house to wave him over, sincerely glad to see him after sleeping off most of daytime.

"G'night, Marceline." He waved back, the door shutting behind him as he walked inside. Something about him seemed off, but it was hard to pin down. Not very eager to converse, but not on edge either. A thumb at her lips, she kicked the ball aside and pursued quietly.

Crona was hanging up a jacket on the coat rack when Marceline floated in through the front door. He didn't so much as glance her way, his gaze blank and forward-facing. Maybe she was just out of his line-of-sight, she reasoned, smart enough not to jump to conclusions early on.

"Yo," she said, moving beside him as he made his way to the living room. "I've been wondering, you ever played basketball before? The court outside's just sitting there and—"

One step away from the couch, Crona collapsed, halfway slumped over it while his legs spread over the floor.

"Crona!" The sight flung her head-first into panic mode, flipping him over and seizing him by the shoulders. He seemed to have fainted, breathing steady, eyelids fluttered shut. "Crona?!"

"Mmm..." His head rocked forward, hoisting up on the couch before saying anything. "Sorry, was I...?"

"Spontaneously passing out? Yes." She gave him some room to breathe, at the same time, taking a long, deep sigh of her own. Crona was obviously tired, and freaking out on him would accomplish nothing. Not another word said, she merely settled beside him on the couch, waiting for an explanation, whether it would come within the next minute or the next day.

In the meantime, Marceline grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, to where she last left off on some movie she'd forgotten the title of. Regardless of whether the film was actually interesting or not, it was in color, which made getting lost in it all the more mesmerizing.

"Oh, mother!" The blonde girl in the movie ran up a fancy set of cement steps, into the arms of an old woman. It wasn't a sight that particularly moved Marceline, but it did remind her of her sole familial connection with her dad. The Nightosphere wasn't exactly comfy, but she pondered paying her old man a visit, or maybe just a call.

Crona's position shifted on the couch, sitting up properly and looking at Marceline half-lucid. "Does it seem bad?" He asked. From a whiff of the air, she picked up a faint, but clearly definable scent of alcohol in Crona's breath. Cheap whiskey, maybe. His emotions were more transparent than ever, cheeks flushed red, eyes dodgy and suggestive, subtly leaning in for some mouth-to-mouth before Marceline stopped his slow advance with her palm.

Before she could say anything she might've regretted, she rubbed a hand down her face, muffling a sigh. "Sleep, Crona. I don't even care if you use my bed, just get some rest."

"I will...I will." It was as though his eyelids were just waiting to close, falling asleep right there in his work clothes. Not long after, he slumped on his side, just beside her. It was a pathetic sight, but she felt she could hardly comment knowing that he'd seen her at her most vulnerable, too.

Marceline was staring at a drunk, pathetic little trash heap. Her drunk, pathetic little trash heap. Quickly, she grabbed a pillow from under the couch, fluffed it more times than necessary, and slipped it beneath Crona's head.

"Congratulations. You made me fluff a pillow, Crona."

The dream Crona dreamt was bad; not a nightmare, just mildly upsetting at worst. Something was hitting his head, poking it, seemingly anything it could do to annoy him.

He supposed it only made sense when he woke up to a throbbing headache. Mildly upsetting. Glancing at the alarm clock beside the couch, he saw it was 4:45—fifteen minutes before his shift began. Majorly upsetting.

Like a whirlwind, he moved from the couch to the coat rack to outside, only stopped by Marceline sitting on the porch with her bass, next to the screen door.

"You seem like you're in a rush." She said, looking up at him with a deceptive innocence in her eyes. As though she'd...planned for this conversation.

Though a chat with her might usually set him at ease, the fear of being late was all-consuming. "Work. I think I overslept..."

"And you'll oversleep some more." Marceline floated up and turned Crona around by the shoulders to face him towards the inside: a movement he was too tired to fight against.

"Marceline, I c-can't. Apparently we're expecting a 'royal audience', so if I don't show, then I'm fired. You're sweet, but..."

"No no no," Marceline stopped him. "I'll call in sick for you. Just sleep it off for tonight, alright?" At first, she seemed to put on a pout, which was already disarming enough, but then, he was physically swept off his feet into a bridal carry so swiftly he couldn't react. He was dropped onto the couch, lying parallel so he stretched from one end to the other.

"This is demeaning." Crona protested, though his hangover preferred the term 'gratifying'.

"Shush." She said, killing the lights as she took the first step outside. "Try to shower—you'll thank me later. As for me, I'm gonna go on a raid."

Crona's head perked up, although it looked like a pain to do so. "You'll...be fine on your own? What about your ax?"

She threw a glance at the sharp-edged weapon leaning against her bedroom door, then back to Crona without the slightest change in expression. "Won't need it. Bye," she waved, aware of how abruptly that ended. For once, she actually bothered to shut the front door behind the screen door; Crona was a capable enough warrior, she knew, but not while he was fighting the aftermath of one too many drinks.

The other reason she was so worried was that Crona had nearly caught her in a lie. Marceline never planned on going on a raid tonight. She kept walking out of the cave, and when the night air grazed her skin, she snapped her fingers.

Shapeshifting came easily to Marceline, but less so with new forms. She put serious thought into it, the end result in her mind's eye. Pink hair. White shirt. Bow tie. Soft, sunken features. Since she couldn't rely on any reflection as a reference point, she had to ensure that her first try was a near-perfect imitation.

Then, the voice. She would have to work on that while she walked. "Hi, I'm Crona Gorgon." She tried it out—no, it was too high-pitched. A hand held at her throat, she tried the line again. The occasional stutter would make it sound more accurate to what she knew of him.

Marceline inhaled, her 'transformation' nearly complete, before practicing another typical line. "What can I get you?" Now that was a spot-on impersonation. She laughed where no one could hear her in the plains, having never felt oh-so mischievous in such a long while.

/

Under Crona's guise, she walked (not floated, a behavior that she took great pains to correct) into the dark alley of the bar, standing before the backdoor leading to the workspace. With a confident grin, she turned the knob, only to find it locked. "Are you kidding me?" Crona must've carried a set of keys on him to get inside, and it's not like she'd be able to guess what it looked like through shapeshifting.

This'll be close, Marceline thought, pressing an ear against the door. Evidently, she'd arrived early; she could hear only three or four sets of footsteps inside, perfect timing for phasing through the door.

"Here goes nothing." Taking in a breath, she went intangible and moved into the bar like a gust of wind—swift and near-silent. No one took note of her sudden entrance as she pretended to tend bar, perhaps not even aware that she'd arrived. By Marceline's standards, it was a successful infiltration, and something she took pride in. Crona was at home, and she could finally see for herself the trouble that surrounded this place on a regular basis.

Marceline tried to imagine what Crona might do to occupy his time, maybe write on the counter or something along those lines, but before she had the chance to brainstorm any further, the door opened to a semi-familiar face: Peppermint Butler, Bonnie's...well, butler, who Marceline had only talked to in brief intervals.

"Crona." He smiled in his approach to the counter. In passing conversation, Crona had described the flunky as an acquaintance, but that seemed to downplay whatever relationship they had based on the amicability of his greeting.

"How are you this...fine night?" Marceline returned the expression, inwardly skeptical of the indescribable, strange air about him.

"Oh, the worst. Dealing among aristocracy makes me want to pay a visit to the Nightosphere." The cheeriness of his tone offset the implications of his words. "You haven't been there before, I assume. A wicked place, really."

Pretty boring, actually, Marceline thought, but feigning surprise to keep the masquerade going. "O-Oh, how so?" She asked.

"Pits of flame, legions of the dead, sights that would make mortal eyes cry! But me, I've got golfing buddies down there. It's fun. Maybe you ought to meet him, Hunson Abad—"

Alarms going off inside her head, Marceline was quick to cut him off. "I'm not that certain if that's the best idea..." Sure, it was her father's job to claim souls, but she dreaded what exactly he would do faced with Crona and Ragnarok right before him. And what a terrifying thought, losing him among a fiery wasteland like that...

"Ah, still, it'd be fun. Souls like us blend right in, you know." He said, and before Marceline could contemplate the meaning of that statement, the door opened to the 'royal audience' alluded to earlier in the night.

"My liege!" Peppermint Butler quickly attended to who else but Bonnibel Bubblegum, flaunting her royal presence without any sort of change to her usual, frilly dress. It was petty to feel a pang of annoyance at something so insignificant, Marceline knew, but perhaps the breakup had made her inclined as such. The other bar patrons noted her entrance with shifty eyes, grumbling something about the state of the kingdom out of her earshot.

"You'll have to forgive the formalities, Crona. If I keep on going incognito within my own walls, the rumors would go flying." She explained, making herself comfortable at the counter, Peppermint Butler rejoining her.

"I guess it's understandable." Marceline spoke quietly to keep the differences from her voice and Crona's undetectable. She stuck to "Can I get you anything?" as a more polite way of saying what do you want, coolly keeping her eyes on the shelves rather than Bonnibel.

She shook her head. "No, no, it would look bad for the image with a drink in my hands."

"Not my image." Peppermint Butler slammed a few coins on the counter, pointing out a bottle on one of the higher shelves and Marceline was happy to oblige him, at least.

Marceline held back a sigh through her nose. The 'royal presence' Crona was worried half-to-death over wasn't even there to offer business. "So, why come here if not for a drink?"

She gave who she assumed to be Crona a look suggesting mild confusion. "I still owe you for the other day, don't I?"

However ridiculous, Marceline's centuries-old heart began to thump in her chest, fearing of an affair between Bonnibel and Crona. "Owe you for...?"

"That monster you killed the other day. I don't imagine the medical expenses are cheap for what you endured."

The tidal wave of relief that swamped her was nothing short of deliverance. Come to think of it, she'd seen him with gauze and bandages the other day, hadn't she? Yes, that was perfectly in-line with Bonnibel's explanation of what happened. "Oh. Right. I'll—" Hold onto it for him, her gut instinct nearly spoke. "Take it now, I suppose."

"Perfect." She dropped a little velvet bag on the counter that was probably worth more than however much money was inside. Her eyes wandered about the place, her mind on other topic staring off into space. "Well, I should be off." She stood up, moving with a hesitance and weight that suggested internal conflict.

Peppermint Butler tugged light on her sleeve, clearly not as antsy to get out of the situation as Bonnibel and Marceline. "Stay awhile, won't you? I can tell you this is the best bar in the kingdom." His smile dropped, adding as an aside, "Because it's the only bar in this kingdom."

For different reasons, both cast an unwelcoming gaze at the butler. "Fine. I guess I can sample the drink here and judge for myself. Crona, get me something suited for lightweights."

"On it." Marceline mumbled, but Bonnibel's guess was as good as hers; it'd be a far easier world for shapeshifters if they carried over the knowledge of their targets as well. She reached for the first unlabeled drink she saw (of which there were many), picking a glass size that wasn't small enough to be mistaken for downing shots.

Bonnibel brought the drink to her lips and nearly spat it out then afterwards. "Strong. Glob, this is strong."

"Water is always an alternative." Peppermint Butler serenely suggested with his own glass in-hand.

That, however, was a pity that she couldn't accept. "No. No, I can handle this." This time, she took another sip, barely at that, to gradually adjust to the bitterness.

Marceline thought seeing Bonnie get shitfaced in public would be pretty funny to watch, but with the interest of not getting Crona fired, thrown out of town, and put on a witch hunt, she had to object while she still borrowed his visage. "L-Let me get you another one, on the house."

She half-glanced at Marceline, staring into the murky brown of her glass. "You underestimate me."

Stubborn as always, Marceline mused. "Right."

Again, Bonnie surveyed the room. She looked disgusted, almost ashamed that a seedy place like this existed under her iron fist. "Crona, be honest. Do you think this part of town is worth spending money on?"

Peppermint Butler raised a finger to interject. "Perhaps you ought to—"

"Shut up, you aren't impartial." She sharply cut him off, turning back to Marceline, expectantly awaiting a response.

Marceline turned away, equal parts unwilling and unknowing to answer the question. "I can't say. Don't you have people to consult for this kind of thing?"

"I do, and I choose not to. Their interests align with high society and high society alone."

"Don't yours?"

"Don't—don't mine?" She repeated, baffled. "Do you have any idea how long I've been at this?"

What ensued was a likely drunken tirade that Marceline found easy enough to ignore by preoccupying herself with menial tasks. She wondered what Crona was up to now—sleeping, she hoped, his mind as far away as possible from the bullshit Marceline had now experienced for herself.

While Bonnie's rant droned on, Marceline's attention gravitated to the back of the bar. A building commotion was on the verge of erupting: two, three buff guys about to go at it. No one armed, but that wouldn't stop it from getting ugly fast. She caught sight of the first punch, when the bar fight had unofficially begun. At first, Marceline was content with watching when a shout from the back room ordered her to 'fix it'.

Marceline muttered something obscene beneath her breath, stepping over the counter the moment some schmoe decided to throw a chair across the room. The target for whom it was intended merely ducked out of the way, and it was bound to hit an oblivious Bonnie next.

Without even realizing it, Marceline had already jumped in front of its course, shattering the wooden chair with her bare fist. The snapped splints fell at Bonnie's feet, experiencing a delayed reaction as she looked back up at Marceline.

"...Hm. Thanks, Crona." It seemed that even intoxicated, she felt the need to compose herself dutifully, shoulders upright and upper lip stiff. Dignified, at least halfway.

Those few words and that body language brought to mind the reason for their breakup so, so long ago. In hindsight, perhaps the ultimatum Marceline had proposed to her one night was rather harsh: me or the kingdom, and Bonnie had to choose the latter. But centuries, later, Marceline had no regrets about the choices she made; their time spent together was beginning to feel infrequent, and when they could steal away, the air between them felt always plagued by the external stress of the separate lives they led. Had it been a more peaceful era, Marceline wondered if it could've worked.

Marceline regarded her old flame with clashing emotions. "Just look after yourself." She sighed.

"That's my job, actually." Peppermint Butler said, sober, but unconcerned.

Before Bonnie could formulate a thought-out reply, she was interrupted by an all-too-close sound of jingling keys, followed by a wooden creak of the door opening from behind the bar. Crona, the real Crona, stepped in and froze to the spot, bewildered. Who wouldn't if they saw their own doppelganger? Eyes wide, he exited as quickly as he came into the building.

Not wanting to give anyone time to draw their own conclusions, a still-disguised Marceline hopped over the counter and opened the door. "E-Excuse me, a minute."

Once outside, she shut the door behind her to ensure their privacy in the alley. "Hey—" she hardly got the word out, before the tip of his sword was pointed under her chin.

"Explain."

She'd never heard Crona's voice so low and so threatening. With her hands up, Marceline assumed her normal appearance, but kept the shapeshifted clothes, having taken a liking to the bartender outfit. "Hey."

His mouth opened softly, and it seemed that in the span of a second, his animosity melted. The killer glean in his eyes disappeared, his features softening to a kind of quiet disbelief. "Marceline?" He let the sword meld back into his bloodstream, looking embarrassed to have brought it out in the first place.

"Shouldn't you be at home right now?" She questioned, though she felt she had no right to be irritated after getting caught like this.

Crona's eyebrows sunk. "I showered, like you said. Shouldn't you be on a raid?"

"I took a few liberties with wording."

"Also known as lying."

Marceline was officially out of witty retorts. She sucked in a breath. "...For a good cause?"

Whether it was his beautiful naivety or he was genuinely able to judge her true intentions, Crona seemed to believe her claim, giving her room to breathe. "Why?"

She couldn't answer the question immediately, reduced to many a verbal fumbling that didn't result in a single coherent sentence.

A few seconds in, Crona tried to interject. "Marceline, I—"

"I was worried!" She finally spat out. "It's not hard to see why, when you work in a place as shitty as this. Is it that hard to wrap your head around?" Marceline refused to look his way; god, she felt like a fool, blushing and shying like some lovestruck kid. The thought that mortified her most was falling under Crona's scrutiny, imagining a few choice words: controlling, obsessive, invasive...

It all vanished when Marceline felt a hand of hesitant touch run through her hair. She drew silent breath, looking up to meet gazes with Crona's expression. Melancholic. Warm. Forgiving. In a romantic context, this was a new sensation to her—feeling submissive, and enjoying it, when she usually kept the high ground in positions like this.

"You didn't have to." He said. His hand fell out of her hair, moving to hold her left hand by the wrist. The same hand she'd used to break the chair, four little cuts lining her knuckles. "You're hurt." There was an audible strain in his hushed tone, choked up.

"Nonono, it's fine! Really." She was quick to cover it up with her other hand, drifting close to him. Words began to spill out her mouth that she could hardly control, surprising Crona just as much as herself. "Crona, let's just go! Run around for awhile, get lost somewhere, find our way home under the moonlight. Just...anywhere, fuck it."

A slight smile broke through his stoic exterior. "No."

"What?"

"I still have a paycheck to earn here. Rent to pay in the house that you let me live in." He wiped a hand over his face, taking a long breath. "Let me be strong for once. Have faith. Please."

Marceline's fingers entwined around his, a last, feeble attempt to get him to reconsider. "Crona..."

They embraced in that shady alley, and perhaps neither would've minded staying there forever, but eventually, Crona slipped away from her. "I'll see you later tonight, Marceline."

She nodded. "Damn right you will."

Have faith, he said. Marceline walked away from the bar with that stuck in her mind. Even if she occasionally glanced back at that miserable place, she kept walking. Perhaps the most bizarre thing she remembered about human life was that for all the brevity of their lives, they matured even faster.