Season 3 oneshot. Related to The Poet (chapter 11 in the shorts) and The Raven (chapter 24 in the shorts)

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The living room was in shambles. A controlled chaos of pages, empty glasses, bottles, and an acoustic guitar marred what once had been a perfectly respectable living room. The comfy couch was currently occupied by a pale woman in tight leather pants and a midriff tank top, the floor by a bald man who seemed to have given up on the half-empty glass in front of him as he took a pull of bourbon directly from the bottle.

"Hey, Poet, gimme some of that."

Lancer blinked up at the fuzzy, burning form of his collaborator. Ember held out one black-gloved hand, gesturing for the bottle in his hands. Lancer pouted and handed her the bottle, realizing as he did that he wasn't going to get it back. Experience had taught him that as they existed without livers ghosts had no upper limit to their tolerances. Or at least she didn't.

His pout continued as she upended the bottle, guzzling the contents like it was water.

Ember sighed in contentment as she sucked down the last of the bourbon. She fixed glowing green eyes on Lancer and his pout. "What?" she demanded.

Lancer gave her his best 'that was mine' look.

"Oh, suck it up, Poet," she snapped. "You're already drunk. Much more and you won't be able to write."

Lancer stuck his tongue out at her before noticing he was slowly swaying as he sat on the floor. He stopped himself, sat up with as much dignity as he could muster, then with a thoroughly pompous air...

"I don't have any ideas tonight," he said.

He didn't even make the effort to duck the couch pillow thrown at his face. Rather he giggled maniacally as it impacted, grabbing it and curling up on the floor with it.

"Drunken Poet," Ember grumbled. "Then why in heck am I even here?! Phantom was a real dipstick tonight, you know! Followed me here to make sure I didn't detour to anywhere he wouldn't like."

"And I feel so sorry for you," Lancer drawled.

Ember growled, suppressing the urge to ectoblast her drunken poet right in his big fat gut.

"It's..." Lancer gestured wildly, one arm knocking the empty bottle off the table as he swung it around. "It's... I dunno how any of this sounds! You wun lemme read none of your songs in front of people an' you wun bring yer guitar here so I dunno how it sounds when you play! I haven't heard what you're doin' to any of my words! Ember, I need ta know what I sound like."

"Listen, Poet," Ember snapped. "I don't do concerts for one! It's just not my style! I either have an audience or I play alone! Got that?"

"Then I dunno iffn we can keep this arrangement," Lancer said.

Ember snarled and glared at the acoustic guitar before her. It was more than just a stylistic issue, she literally could not play in front of only one person. She'd tried. No, she needed an audience, a group, she needed multiple people to feed off of as they basked in her music. Or she needed to be alone, as alone as she was inside a recording studio locked in a room with no connection to the outside world, only the electronically filtered voice of the guy in the booth to tell her that anything existed outside her music.

"I can't play in front of only one person," she insisted. But something he'd said... "But... Hey, Poet, you mentioned 'reading in front of people'. What do you mean?"

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The atmosphere of the Skulk and Lurk was confused, electrified. It was tuesday. The owner usually came out with his guitar and played with the local garage band on tuesdays. But their equipment wasn't there nor were they. Something about a surprise.

The patrons were indeed surprised when The Raven walked in with an acoustic guitar.

And then someone else.

"Skulk and Lurk, are you ready to rock!"

By the end of the night there wasn't a seat left in the house.