A/N: Writing this now before the AM and MD plot bunnies attack further. This is yet another oneshot that owes itself to a conversation between Gleefully Wicked and I. Also my love for putting our dear protagonists in uncomfortable situations.
Also, don't stop in the middle of the sidewalk in New York City. Locals and college students from Massachusetts will curse your name.
What is fear?
Most people would characterize it as a sort of racing-heart, sweaty-palms feeling, a desire to be anywhere else. In the clutches of fear, one often feels as if eating gum off the pavement would be preferable to whatever it is one's trying to do. Then again, everyone feels fear differently. And everyone fears different things. For some, it's spiders. For some, heights, fire, death, or clowns.
For still others, it's the prospect of articulating opinions regarding their personal appearance to a complete stranger.
And that was why Lucas Beineke found himself, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in early November, dragging his girlfriend down a crowded Manhattan sidewalk. Which was not an easy proposition when the inhumanly strong girl seemed determined to fight him.
"Lucas!"
"Yes?"
"People are staring," she hissed between her teeth. Even from behind, she could practically feel him rolling his eyes.
"They wouldn't be staring if you weren't trying to dig your heels into the concrete," he said wearily. "Anyway, I thought you didn't care if people looked at you funny."
"I don't, but this is embarrassing!"
"It would be less embarrassing if you stopped freaking out," he replied. A moment later, to his surprise, the tension on his right arm vanished and she took a few jogging steps forward to walk beside him.
"There. Happy?" Staring at the sidewalk, she grimaced. "Anyway, I don't see why we even have to do this."
Lucas sighed. "Because you've been complaining for the last two days and I want you to be happy. And," he added as an afterthought, "you'd never have gotten up the courage on your own."
Her eyes snapped up to his. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked tightly, and Lucas knew he was skating on thin ice. Another man might have backed down. Then again, another man wouldn't have a garnet ring waiting for this girl in his sock drawer back home.
His voice remained level. "It means that different people get…overwhelmed by different things. Yours is human interaction."
"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Lucas smiled at her and rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.
"Yeah, but you're also madly in love with me."
In spite of herself, Wednesday felt the corners of her mouth rise. "Okay, you have a point there."
"But," she went on, "you're right. I wasn't going to do this on my own. Not because I'm 'overwhelmed' -" and here she shot him a pointed glance –"but because it would be easier to just let my hair grow out again."
"Are you saying you like it like this? After two days of texting me to complain?" Lucas asked dubiously. Wednesday sighed.
"No. I don't." One hand rose almost unconsciously to fiddle with the shoulder-length strands. Lucas couldn't lie- the style was boring and childish and didn't suit her at all. He would always think she was beautiful, but love didn't make you quite as blind as other poets liked to say. Besides, 48 hours of messages like, "Oh god, I look 12 years old" had made it clear that she agreed.
"With mother constantly going on about how she can't wait until it's long again and short hair has no romance, it just seemed like there'd be less hassle all around if I played along."
He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling her to a halt with him. Other pedestrians jostled around them; a few swore at the couple loudly. Wednesday, looking mortified, yanked her boyfriend closer to the brick wall of an office building and out of the flow of people.
"What are you doing? Could you be more Midwestern?" she said. "Besides, I thought you were in a hurry-"
"Do you actually want to grow your hair out, or is that your mother's decision?" he interrupted. "Because, and I could be wrong, you don't seem like the type to just roll over and do what she wants."
Wednesday's teeth worried her bottom lip slightly. For a few seconds, the only sounds were the traffic and pedestrian noise around them. Then, she took his hand again and started pulling him down the street.
"So you do want to do this?"
"Let's just say I'm curious," she called back.
"Just go put the damn lipstick on your face," was not a sentence Lucas had ever planned on saying. Much less to his girlfriend. But now, sitting on an uncomfortable but eco-friendly reed chair in the stucco lobby of an upscale hair salon, it had become apparent that there was a first time for everything.
Wednesday, for her part, stood in front of him with her face rapidly turning the same pink as the lipstick clutched in her fist. "No. This is stupid."
"It's the best way to determine your face shape," he protested. "You asked for my help, and I'm telling you that's the first step."
"Where did you even get this, anyway?" she said, brandishing the tube of Covergirl. "I don't wear lipstick."
"No," he said evenly, "you wear lip stain, that you put on with a brush and pretend isn't just lipstick you got at CVS and melted down to fit in those little pots."
"Hey!"
"Love, you're always beautiful, but I've seen you without makeup and your lips are not that dark naturally." He paused to scan another page of the Sophisticate's Hairstyle Guide open on his lap. "That tube was left over from high school; I brought it with me in case I did any shows in college."
Rolling her eyes, she sat down heavily in the chair beside him. "Well, I'm not drawing on myself with it. You'll just have to give input without knowing my face shape."
Lucas heaved a sigh, but continued rifling through the magazine. After a while, the young woman picked up one of the other issues artfully arranged on the low teak table and began idly turning the pages. As both of them leafed through image after image of smiling celebrities and models with dramatic pouts, quiet Pan pipe music played over the salon's sound system and Lucas began to relax. Maybe this would be completely uneventful, and they could go out to lunch afterwards; maybe browse that bizarre antique store Wednesday loved. Maybe-
"Ahem." There it was again. That faint throat-clearing cough from the reception desk. Lucas looked up to see the receptionist, a tall, attractive blond man, smile and give an almost imperceptible jerk of the head. After a moment's pause, he set down his magazine and walked over.
"Sorry, were you trying to get my attention?"
The receptionist smiled. "Yeah. Listen, I just think it's really sweet that you're helping your friend. I mean…she seems kind of uptight."
"Sometimes, I guess. And she's my girlfriend," Lucas said, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. Fortunately, the man seemed to understand.
"Oh right. Girlfriend. Got it," he replied. And then gave a discreet wink before picking up the phone and beginning to dial.
Frowning, Lucas wandered back over to his chair. He sat down slowly, trying to figure out what about the man's demeanor had seemed odd. The wink had been out of place, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was making him uncomfortable. This train of thought carried him through at least five minutes, during which he was dimly aware of Wednesday's voice, but not really paying enough attention to make out the words. Until,
"You know, this picture is interesting. Maybe I should get a pixie cut."
"What?" he said, a bit louder than intended. Wednesday smirked, flipping past a picture of Ginnifer Goodwin on the red carpet.
"Oh good; you're alive. I was starting to wonder," she said calmly. Lucas blinked.
"I mean, it's your choice, but I just don't think that-"
"Lucas," she interrupted. "I don't actually want to go that short. I was just trying to shock you. End of story." With that, she thumbed through the magazine to a page with a dog-eared corner. Then, leaving a finger between the pages to mark her place, she found another page, similarly marked.
She handed the magazine to him, pointing to specific pictures on each page. "I was thinking something like that or that. But I can't decide which."
Lucas looked at the pictures, then at her. Then back at the pictures. After repeating this process a few times, he finally shrugged.
"Personally, I think either one would look good. So it's really up to you." When she tried to smack him on the shoulder, he dodged expertly.
"You're not being very helpful."
"I know. I'm terrible like that," he said, waggling his eyebrows. Wednesday shook her head, smiling in spite of herself.
"I-"
But whatever she was going to say died as a middle-aged woman with a silver sweater and impeccable makeup emerged from behind a curtain. She glanced down at her clipboard. "Miss Addams?"
Wednesday stood, still clutching the magazine, and followed her back into the depths of the salon. And in the future, Lucas would always remember her departure as the moment when things got strange.
It started when he headed back to his chair, to wait and read Sartre for one of his classes. As he reached the waiting area, he heard a familiar, polite cough from behind him. Turning around, he saw the receptionist smiling.
"Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"
Lucas blinked. "Um. I don't think so. Unless- do you go to NYU?"
"No," the blond replied. "But you do? That's really cool. What's your major?"
And so, Lucas found himself standing at the shabby-chic desk (painstakingly distressed and probably more expensive than most of his living room furniture put together), chatting with the receptionist. Whose name, as it turned out, was Luke.
"Damn," Luke had laughed, "what a coincidence, huh?"
The conversation meandered through literature, Broadway musicals, and how Lucas liked living in New York. Luke seemed nice enough, but strangely eager. About an hour later, something clicked in Lucas' mind.
"Listen," he began, "I really hope I haven't given you the wrong idea, but-"
"Oh my god, Luke, there is some goth chick back there who desperately needs a personal shopper." A heavyset black man maybe ten years older than Lucas, emerged from behind the gold chiffon curtain, rubbing some kind of lotion into his hands. "I mean, she's pretty, but the girl's wearing a feed sack or- oh." He glanced up and noticed Lucas.
Luke shot him a pointed glance. "Maurice, this is Lucas. He's waiting for his…girlfriend."
"Hi," Lucas said, after a pause just long enough to be awkward. He gave Maurice a stiff wave.
"Girlfriend, huh?" The older man looked Lucas over a bit too slowly for comfort. A sly smile crept across his face.
"Um. Yeah. The, uh, goth chick." Wednesday would have hit him for using the g-word, but he had to admit it was accurate. Maurice looked worried.
"Oh, wow, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean- look, there's nothing wrong with the way your friend dresses," he said, sounding rather frantic.
"No, it's fine," Lucas said, running a hand through his hair. "You're allowed to have an opinion." But Maurice's next question made his mouth drop open.
"So, why are you pretending she's your girlfriend? Beard for your parents, or what?"
As he stood there, stammering, trying to find an acceptable response, the older man smiled broadly. "Come on, you can be honest. It's not like anyone here has anything to hide."
"Look," Lucas said, trying to look at anything but the man he was addressing, "I'm not gay. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but Wednesday really is my girlfriend. Honestly."
Luke stared at him. And kept staring. Time passed, and cold sweat began to break out on Lucas' neck. Finally, just when he was ready to bolt for the door and text Wednesday to meet him at the library, the receptionist spoke up.
"Not gay? You know the lipstick trick, man. You actually had lipstick in your pocket-"
"I brought that for her! It's old!" Lucas spluttered.
"-plus that scarf-"
"This?" The young poet tugged at the tastefully-patterned navy scarf around his neck. "It's cold outside!"
Luke raised an eyebrow. "Right. And a straight guy would have grabbed the first thing on the sale rack if he wanted a scarf."
"So I care how I look! That doesn't make me gay!"
"And finally, you were encouraging that girl to cut her hair," Luke concluded in a self-satisfied tone.
Lucas closed his eyes for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please," he finally said, "explain why that means I'm gay?"
"Oh, come on." Across the room, Maurice checked the drape of his shirt in a mosaic-lined mirror. "Straight men have this obsession with long hair. It's been scientifically proven."
Throwing up his hands, Lucas exclaimed, "I don't care! Honestly, I think she'd be gorgeous either way! It's her decision, and I respect that!"
When Luke and Maurice went quiet, he thought he'd finally gotten through to them. The lobby was, at last, silent except for the gentle bubbling of a small fountain. What he didn't see, as he sat back down, was the two salon employees exchanging a significant glance.
"Gay."
"So gay."
"No way a straight guy would ever say anything like that."
"What?!" Lucas shouted, slamming his book down. "What kind of asshole straight guys have you met?"
Luke ignored him, and leaned across the front desk with a smirk. "So, are you free on Saturday?"
He had tried, really. But it seemed being nice had failed, and his temper began to stir. This was turning into the time an ex-girlfriend had run into him at Schmackary's and refused to take no for an answer. He stood and started for the door.
"No, he's not," came a familiar voice from behind him. With a silent prayer of thanks, he turned, strode quickly towards the curtain, and grabbed Wednesday's hand.
"Come on; let's get out of here." He went for the door- only to stop as he found himself tugging on what might have been a block of granite.
"Lucas," Wednesday said with the air of one talking to a very small child, "I still have to pay."
"Oh. Right." He turned, face flushing.
"Well?" She spread her hands in front of her in a mock theatrical gesture. "What do you think?"
Her black hair was now chin-length and subtly angled, with sideswept bangs. It was obviously different from the long braids he'd grown used to over the two years they'd been together, but still very…well, Wednesday. Maybe even more so. And miles better than the immediate aftermath of her eighteenth birthday.
"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he said, and meant every word of it. Then, pulling her close, he pressed his lips to hers.
A few seconds later, she gently pushed him away. "Not complaining, but once again, I still have to pay."
"Right."
As she handed a credit card to Luke (who was still looking past her at Lucas with a slightly disappointed expression), he grabbed his coat from a peg on the wall. He did up the toggles on the front while trying to work out the best way to explain to her his bizarre encounter with Luke and Maurice. Finally, she walked over and slipped her arm through his.
"Ready to go?"
"Nah, I wanted to browse the organic, eco-friendly conditioner some more," he said. This elicited a rare laugh, and they headed out the door. As they walked down the street, Lucas stuck his hands in his pockets.
"So," he asked, "want to get something to eat? Or we could stop by that- oh, shit."
"What?" Wednesday's brow furrowed. "Lucas, what's wrong?"
He mutely pulled two slips of paper out of his pocket, handed them to her, and kept walking. She noticed with some alarm that he was shaking his head and muttering under his breath. And that the paper contained what looked like phone numbers.
Lucas calmly turned his face to the sky and shouted, "I'M NOT GAY!"
A/N: Well, he's not.