Work Text:
It was a long fucking day. A long fucking day was the half of it. He’d been forced to witness four (count them, four) presentations on how solar energy would never, ever, ever work. He was in…
He was in a bad mood.
“Message for you, Mr. Capra?” Betty calls from the reception desk. “It’s about that presentation for the investors tomorrow.”
“Later, Betty.” He sighs. “I’m going home to get ripshit drunk. I’ll deal with all those messages once my presentation is done.”
“But, Mr. Capra-”
“Betty. ZZZZZP.” He says, simultaneously drawing a really dramatic zipper in the air over his lips. Betty sighs her disapproval, and Capra waves cheekily behind his back, strolling towards the employee parking lot.
Things were better in his car. “Car. Home.” He demanded.
“Bar?” The car responded.
“Home.”
“Bar?”
“HOME, ASSHOLE!”
“Directing! Capra, home!” The car whirs into life and backs out of the parking spot neatly, then begins guiding him neatly on his safe path home. He sighs, makes sure the car isn’t going to turn down the mountain to The Cock and Bull, then pulls out his cell phone, sorting through all the messages.
sans ;): hey pal. not gonna be able to hang out with you. got a hot date tonight. if you get my meaning. wink emoji.
(He doesn’t include the actual emoji, of course, no, he types out “wink emoji.”)
_________: hey, peter. sorry, can’t make plans tonight. we’re going to do this big puzzle with papyrus. he’s really excited about it, it’s got over a thousand pieces.
He huffs, and sends back a group text:
capra: fine. you don’t love me. that’s fine.
He waits, but there’s no response. Of course not. Ungrateful jerks. Didn’t understand a great time when it was offered to them. Well, there was nothing for it, then. Home tonight to, as promised, get ripshit drunk. Maybe see what was on TV.
What was on TV, after much deliberation, was Freaky Friday. Not even the original. He had an appreciation for the classics. No, this was the one with Lindsay Lohan. And the other one. The one from Halloween. He sighs, settling into the leather recliner with a really, really heavy pour of Lagavulin 16, and he consigns himself to his fate.
“God, I don’t deserve any of this shit.” He grumbles, and downs the glass, then immediately pours another. “Hah. Lindsay Lohan. Who knows what you’ll get up to…?” He says vaguely, and sets down to what he does best. Business. In this case, the business of getting wasted.
--------
He wakes up, and immediately senses that something’s wrong. This bed is way, way too comfortable. This isn’t the kind of bed he would own, the kind that practically held you hostage with memory foam, or like astronaut gel or something? Who did he even know who had a bed like this?
Well, whoever it was, they were rich. That much is obvious when he pushes himself up and glances around; he’s alone, in this enormous, stupid bed (California King? The words bubble up in his brain like methane gas escaping a tar pit), in a room that’s all elegant black granite tiles, and tasteful ebony furniture, and an absolutely staggering view of the sun rising over the ocean.
That sunrise presents a problem. He’s supposed to be up long before the sun rises.
“Time is it?” He groans, pushing out of the stranger’s bed and already thinking of all the apologies he’s going to have to make. His voice sounds off to his own ears - this is why you don’t drink liquor! - but it’s not until he has both feet on the floor and he’s fumbling around the blankets, trying to find his cell phone, that he realizes something is truly wrong.
Improbably, the first thing he notices is the arm hair. Like you do. It’s black, which is ridiculous. His hair is blonde. Has whoever he went home with… have they dyed his arm hair? Why would anyone do that?
Then, of course, he notices that his tattoo is missing, and he launches into a full on panic. His right arm was supposed to have a tattoo, it was supposed to be alltattoo, that was the one thing he was fully clear on! There was no tattoo here! This was all, entirely… wrong. With an enormous amount of trepidation, he strides quickly and purposefully over to the nearest wall mirror. There are several. Like, a worrying amount of mirrors. He isn’t entirely surprised by what he sees, really, by the time that he manages to focus on the image in front of him. He’d already gathered that things were wrong, after all. He just hadn’t figured that things were this bad.
“Oh god. I’m old.” Deacon groans, looking at a face that is certainly not his own. He is old - well, he is clearly approaching forty - and his tattoo is gone, and he is unmistakably in the wrong body. He rubs his(?) eyes, and then jumps slightly as a hidden sound system, reacting to some unseen alarm, begins blasting “All I Do Is Win.” Oh, he doesn’t like any of this. Things are booting up now - screens were flickering to life, electronic displays embedded in all the mirrors, including the one he’s staring at.
“Good morning, Peter.” A pleasant, female, thoroughly robotic voice announces. “Your first appointment today is at eleven AM, in conference room three-zero-two, with strategic investor group A.” This information displays neatly on the mirror Deacon’s looking at, to his mild bemusement. This isn’t magic - he’s seen plenty of magic, after all. This is just human tech, which doesn’t stop it from being impressive.
(Well, and clearly magic is still involved somewhere, because he’s woken up in the wrong damn body!)
“Freaky. Friday.” He suddenly mutters darkly, as the thought manifests inexorably in his(?) head. This is clearly the worst type of magic. This is the darkest, blackest type of magic, that could be forcing him to live out a Jamie Lee Curtis movie. “I can’t believe this sh-”
“You have a new photo message from: Sans-semicolon-close-parentheses.” The robot voice suddenly chirps. Deacon struggles to parse this for a second, until the alert flickers onto the mirror.
“Sans ;)”
Oh, there must be something very wrong with this man whose body he was inhabiting, he thinks, looking at the winky smiley, then shakes his head. Nah. Maybe not. He knew so many people who loved Sans, so maybe this was okay. Hope loved Sans, so… maybe this body he was in wasn’t entirely evil? “Would you like to view it now?” The voice inquires. Deacon blinks. This is still so weird. Sans has never sent him a text before. Sans almost certainly doesn’t have his number, right? What… what does Sans even text about? Hope, he assumes. Oh, god, Hope, she’d help him out, right?
“Uh. Sure.” He rasps, answering the robotic voice’s hanging question. This voice is too deep; the words feel clumsy in his mouth, or maybe it’s just that the mouth feels clumsy. An image flickers onto the mirror. “Gah!” It’s not Hope, that’s for sure. It’s a woman about Hope’s age, which is surprising in itself; Sans didn’t hang out with non-Hope humans, Deacon had always assumed. She’s glaring very irritably at the camera, holding a broken drinking glass, and she’s half covered in something that looks a lot like orange juice. Oh, and there’s one other thing - one tiny thing. Half her forearm is just clean white bone, except, of course, for where it was dripping orange juice.
This was a weird day.
Further messages begin to flicker up on the mirror a second later -
Sans ;): sorry, we’re gonna be late for work. somebody had a skarm incident because she doesn’t know her own strength
________: Oh my god Capra, if my boyfriend sends you a single thing about why we’re late today I’m going to kick both of your asses.
________: You will be assless.
________: People will ask, where’s Capra’s ass, and you’ll have to tell them, ‘I was annoying to _______ after Sans, being both a skeleton and a dick, took a picture of her covered in OJ. And she kicked my ass into the fiery core of Mt. Ebott.”
Sans ;): she’s not even getting cleaned up. she’s just texting you.
________: DO NOT LISTEN TO HIS TATTLING.
Deacon steps away from the mirror and blinks slowly, then turns away before any more weird messages can come up. Okay. Okay. He’s in the body of a man named Peter Capra. He’s supposed to make a presentation for some investors at eleven. And in whatever reality he’s stepped into, Sans is dating a girl with a skeleton arm. Which is apparently called a skarm. Which can casually crush a glass of orange juice. And Hope is nowhere to be found.
Oh, god, why is Hope nowhere to be found?
He scowls for a solid minute, then looks at this guy, Capra’s closet. Okay. So. We’re Freaky Friday-ing. He’d paid attention to a good third of that movie, he got the gist. He was just supposed to learn an important lesson about walking in someone else’s shoes, and then he got back to being Deacon Stuart, mild-mannered teacher of history. Suddenly, the only thing on earth he wants to be is a mild-mannered teacher of history. Okay. Okay. He would learn a lesson. Didn’t mean he’d have to like it, but he’d learn it. Anything to escape from this new tier of weirdness. He steps into Capra’s closet, and he groans again.
Does the man own only suits?
----------------------------
A half hour later, dressed in the most well-fitting suit Deacon had ever possibly conceived, he’s staring at the ominous looking car in Capra’s garage. It’s sleek, and it’s black and…
And there’s no damn steering wheel.
“Oh this is stupid.” He grumbles out loud, pulling the car door open. He’s anticipating the robot voice already, but it doesn’t stop him from twitching when it speaks up.
“Destination?”
“...Work?” He attempts weakly, staring at the dashboard like it’ll offer some guidance.
“Destination. EbbCo.” The voice says sunnily, and just like that, the car backs up, the garage door opens, and he’s being chauffeured to wherever it is that Capra works. Whatever “EbbCo” is. He spends the entire ride clenching his teeth, his feet reaching for pedals that simply didn’t exist in this car, his hands occasionally lunging for a wheel that isn’t there. This is so wrong. Out of all the things that have been wrong so far this morning, this must be the wrongest. He thinks longingly of Sylvie, back in his garage, back where things are normal and pure and nothing just drives itself. Sylvie would never pull this shit on him.
Was that the lesson he was supposed to be learning? To be more appreciative of his car? No. Impossible. He already appreciated his car more than the vast majority of human beings.
He arrives at “EbbCo” with more questions than he’ll ever have answers to. This is, more and more obviously, not just a body switch situation (ha, just? a body switch situation, Deacon?). Everything was different, even the terrain of Mt. Ebott; oh, it was the same mountain, but why was the sea so close? Where was, well, the Line? Were the monsters just free to go wherever they wanted, here, in this, um, universe?
Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all, he muses, then begins growling curses in this low, unfamiliar voice, as the car suddenly pulls itself into a parking spot on its own. Oh, he hates this car. “Okay. Okay.” He runs his hand through his hair, then grimaces at the unfamiliar feeling. “Just gotta make it through one day.” Probably. “You’re a businessman. Your name is Peter Capra. You do… business things.” He cranes his head to look at himself in the rearview mirror, groans quietly, then steps out of the car.
A pretty human receptionist is sitting behind a desk in the lobby of the building. She looks both pleased and slightly cautious when she sees him walk in.
“Good morning, Mr. Capra.”
“Oh. Um. Morning.” He clears his throat, trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do next.
“The room’s all ready for the meeting with the investors.” She says after a moment, looking a little surprised. Should he have asked about that? He probably should have.
“Right. The meeting. Which is about…” He attempts. She squints at him.
“Mr. Capra, are you alright?” She says tentatively.
“capra. you gotta stop waiting here for me buddy. people will talk.” He knows that voice. He spins around, feeling (perhaps for the first time in his life) relieved to see Sans. For a second, anyway. Oh, this Sans is different, though. This Sans is… creepier? Ugh, he’d thought regular Sans was creepy! This one’s all sharp teeth and a smile that’s somehow threatening, even though he’s giving Deacon the kind of exaggerated, flirty glance that he’d hoped to never see directed to him. Not from Sans, anyway.
At his side is that woman from the picture this morning, the one with the skeleton arm, and she is giving Sans a fully unimpressed look.
“We get it. You love each other. Joke’s getting a little worn, baby.” She grumbles, but she gives in and twines her skeletal fingers with his just a second later. Man, what did beautiful women from multiple realities see in Sans of all people, Deacon thinks, his head beginning to ache slightly.
“you ready for the big presentation, pal?” Sans is saying.
“Not as ready as we are for him to stop whining about it.” The woman says under her breath, then gives Deacon a cheeky grin. “It’ll be fine. Just extra funding, like you said, right? It’s not the end of the world if it falls through.”
“Heh. Right.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck. Sans snickers.
“god, don’t think i’ve ever seen you, uh… nervous?” He says, and takes a step closer to Deacon, before a strange expression crosses the skeleton’s face. “uh. you… okay?” He adds quietly, tilting his head slightly.
“Sure. Fine. I give presentations all the time. It’s my whole deal.” Deacon attempts. This seems to be the correct thing to say, because the woman, at least, looks appeased. Sans, on the other hand, is still squinting at him, like there’s something wrong that he can’t entirely figure out.
“uh. k.” He says, slightly warily. “well, uh. we’re gonna… work. do work. work things. good luck, capra.” A slightly mischievous look returns to his face. “cuz’, you know, it’s basically the end of the world if the funding falls through.”
“Sans!” The woman glares at him, though she’s clearly trying to hide a grin, then tugs the skeleton’s hand. “Leave him alone. He’s doing Capra stuff. Seriously,” She locks eyes with Deacon, a kind expression on her face. “It’ll be fine.” She presses the button for the elevator, and as they wait for it, Sans slings his arm over her shoulders (Deacon feels a stab of indignation on Hope’s behalf out of reflex, then instantly berates himself for being ridiculous) and leans in to murmur something in her ear, before shooting another darting glance at Deacon, once again looking wary. Unbelievable. This Sans had been buddy-buddy with this Capra guy just a few minutes ago, and now Deacon was getting this same, familiar look he always got from the Sans back in the real universe!
...How was it that Sans’ dislike of him could span time and space?!
Indignant for a second, Deacon watches the two of them step into the elevator, then turns back to the receptionist. “So. Um. Where am I going right now?” She looks up at him with big, confused eyes.
“Well, your office would probably be a good place to start, Mr. Capra.”
“...Yes. My office. Which is on the…”
“Eighth floor?” The receptionist looks frankly bewildered by now. Deacon nods quickly.
“Good. Thank you.”
“....You’re welcome?” She squeaks. Deacon hurries to the elevator, and presses the up button quickly, shaking his head. It’s a relief when the door slides open and he has the car to himself. He mashes the “8” button a little harder than is strictly necessary, then groans again as he catches sight of his perfectly maintained nails. It’s just his luck, really, that he’s been plopped down into Patrick Bateman’s body, he thinks darkly. Seriously. He’d be astounded if this Capra weirdo didn’t have a pile of bodies in some hidden closet or something. The elevator doors slide open, and he forces a casual smile onto his face.
A tiny, very elderly woman greets him at the doors. “Mr. Capra.” She says sharply. She has the tone of someone who has to scold Capra fairly often. “Your bees have arrived.”
“...What?” Deacon sputters. Goddamn it, he’s caught off guard again!
“Four hives. Like you ordered Friday. They’re here.” The old woman says, very dryly. Deacon sweeps a bemused hand through his hair.
“Did I happen to mention to you what I wanted them for?” He asks, not feeling particularly optimistic. She raises an eyebrow minutely.
“You came running out of your office. You said, ‘Doris, I need as many bees as you can get on short notice. As many as possible, understand, this changes everything.’” She recites, managing not to change her tone or expression one bit. “Does this jog your memory, Mr. Capra?”
This is the worst damn day.
“I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” Deacon sighs, and walks quickly down the hall, trying to put a busy expression on his face. Find Capra’s office. Find Capra’s office. That’s it.
“They’re looking for you downstairs in the third floor meeting room.” Doris(?) calls after him. “They’re setting up for your big presentation.”
“Of course they are.” Deacon whispers. “Okay. Alright. I’m gonna do this.”
“I should hope so, Mr. Capra. There’s a lot riding on this.” Doris says crisply, and nods back at the elevator. Feeling very much like a chastened schoolboy, Deacon turns and walks back over to the elevator, a terrible sense of anxiety washing over him. He’s had nightmares about this exact thing. Who hasn’t? Of course, for him, it had been teaching a lesson while totally unprepared, not, uh, speaking to investors, but, hey. He’d taught plenty of classes while feeling less than prepared before. He could do this, he told himself. How different could it be?
---------------------------------
IT HAD BEEN DIFFERENT.
“Clean Energy.” The Powerpoint heading. Two words that he knew next to nothing about. Worse, it seemed like Capra was the kind of guy who didn’t use a lot of notes when he did public speaking. Deacon had next to nothing to go off, as a bunch of men and women in suits (men and women he was clearly supposed to know) stared at him, first blankly, then with clear confusion.
At last, he’d just given up entirely, and spent the next forty minutes giving his best lecture on the early twentieth century oil tycoons. He’d taught that lesson before, after all. That part had gone almost smoothly. At least he hadn’t been mispronouncing the long, scientific terms that kept flickering up on the Powerpoint anymore. When he’d run out of things to say, he’d finally just cleared his throat and weakly concluded;
“And if we don’t want to make their mistakes, we need clean energy.”
Then, thankfully, some VP had swept him away from the podium, and launched into the next part of the presentation.
“You did great.” Some employee whispered at him as he excused himself from the meeting room, but she clearly lacked any real conviction. Oh god. Worst day. Worst damn day.
In the hall outside the meeting room, a monster he didn’t recognize - well, it was a Froggit, but he didn’t know this one in particular - hops up to him, and looks at him with beady eyes. “Mr. Capra. We didn’t know where to put the bees, so we moved the crates up into your office for the time being? Doris said you wouldn’t mind?” Deacon takes a deep breath, pictures the possibility of retreating into a loudly buzzing office and waiting for the aftermath of his disastrous presentation, and then gives up entirely. Forget walking in this weirdo’s shoes. Forget learning a lesson. He’s going to get out of here before anything gets weirder.
“Oh. That’s… fine.” He thinks, privately praying that this situation resolves itself and Capra has to wake up tomorrow to deal with an office full of bees. He’d deserve it. Oh, nobody would ever deserve that more. “But, I’m, um, really not feeling well. Can you tell, you know, the... people, that I’m going home?” The Froggit blinks at him, then nods quickly.
“Of course, Mr. Capra. Please do feel better soon!” The monster clearly means it. Why does everyone love this guy?! He could see Sans loving this guy, sure, that makes perfect sense now, but everyone else? He groans, and hightails it to the parking lot, making a very sincere effort not to talk to anyone else on the way out. Back in Capra’s stupid, ridiculous car, he slumps down in the driver’s seat. Misnomer, he thinks darkly, and jumps slightly when the phone in his pocket vibrates. It’s a text.
Bae(monster)(lady)(scary)(VERY HANDSY): Just checking in to make sure that your presentation went well today! Are we still on for dinner tonight? You, me, Grillby’s?
Oh hell no.
He types, perhaps quicker than he’s ever typed before: It went fine. Sorry, can’t make dinner. Not feeling well. Talk to you later.
Maybe a little terse, but there’s only so much he can deal with in a day, and hanging out with an ex isn’t very high up on the list, even if Grillby isn’t technically an ex in this universe, even if he’s messing up this business guy’s romantic life… Deacon has a tiny moment of regret, thinking about that, and opens up Capra’s contacts to find the monster he’d just been texting with.
There’s easily sixty listings under the word “bae,” with various descriptors after them. Okay. Feeling bad time is over. Capra would be fine. He glares at the dashboard for a long time, then gathers his energy and grunts, “Home.” The car lurches into motion, and Deacon breathes a very soft sigh of relief as EbbCo recedes in the rearview mirror.
He’s just arriving at Capra’s ridiculous house when the robotic voice of the car (the same one that seemed to surround Capra’s entire life) announces;
“Text from Sans-semicolon-close-parentheses.” Oh… come on.
“Um. Open it.” Deacon guesses.
“Text contents: hey, just heard the good news. you did it, bud. dunno how you managed to talk them into double the funding, but… good. means you can give my girl a big raise.” The words flicker up onto the windshield just before the robotic voice reads them aloud. Deacon stares at them in disbelief, and then, against his will, he feels a giant grin cross his face. Hey! He’d done it! Totally successful businessman style! He’d walked in someone else’s shoes and he’d pulled it off. Uh, somehow. Which means that all he needed to do now was go to sleep and when he woke up it would all be better, right?
He doesn’t know. He’d been wasted way before the third act of Freaky Friday last night. But, hey, seemed like a fair bet! Besides, he’s tired all the way down to his bones. He gives the car one last glare when it parks itself neatly in Capra’s garage, missing that cute little wheezing sound Sylvie always made when… well, when she was running, and then he treks inside the house. He makes a beeline (damn it! what the hell was up with the bees, it was going to drive him nuts now!) to Capra’s bedroom, and immediately climbs into that fully unnecessary bed, closing his eyes. Just go to sleep, Deacon, and when you wake up, this will all have blown over.
He lies there for at least an hour before he finally drifts off, his head too full with “what-ifs.” Oh, and “whys.” Like, a billion “WHY.”s. It feels like he’s only been sleeping for a second when Capra’s phone - he’d put that on the bedside table out of reflex - vibrates, waking him up. He blinks around, and can’t help but notice, with a very sinking feeling in his chest, that he’s still in Capra’s house. He’s also still in Capra’s body.
“Okay. Okay. Guess I missed something.” He says hoarsely, and grabs Capra’s phone, looking at the message on the screen:
Bae(monster)(lady)(scary)(VERY HANDSY): Congratulations on the great news, sweetie! I just heard it on the news! I know you said you didn’t want to go out because you weren’t feeling well tonight, so I brought you a little ‘feel better soon’ basket! I’m almost at your house, dearie!
Deacon looks at that last word with an increasing amount of trepidation. Just then, there’s the unmistakable sound of a doorbell ringing. Deacon winces, and creeps through the house, trying to get a good vantage. Finally, he reaches a window that gives him a good view of the front step, and he looks down at Muffet, his worst fears confirmed. Oh, damn it. Muffet was really, honestly, a wonderful lady. And she had a basket full of those amazing baked goods, he could see that from here. Maybe he could just let her in, play it cool, something - he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings! She’s looking down at her phone, typing something…
Bae(monster)(lady)(scary)(VERY HANDSY): You’re not ignoring me, are you sweetie? Don’t you want me to come in and bite it better? ;) ;) ;)
His blood runs cold. Oh hell no.
Deacon stays there, crouching and peeking out the window, until he sees Muffet huff and whirl around, stomping away and looking very annoyed. He should probably give Capra some sort of heads up, if he can ever get out of this. But first priority: Getting the hell out of this weird house, this weird day, this weird… man, who was apparently fine with being used as a spider chewtoy.
Alright. There was only one possible solution. He’d have to see how Freaky Friday ended and then do that thing, right? He’d seen an enormous television in a really nicely appointed theater downstairs. If there was any justice in this particular universe, that movie would be showing way too often on the family channel here too. And, hell, if it wasn’t, he could surely just buy the damn thing, it wasn’t like this Capra guy was hard up for cash, he thinks, a sardonic smirk crossing his face.
Twenty minutes of fiddling with remotes later, he’s figured the entertainment system out, and determined that Freaky Friday would be playing again in an hour and a half. Okay. He could live with that. Just had to kill an hour and a half. He goes prowling around the house, his stomach rumbling, figuring that he can at least grab a bite while he’s waiting - couldn’t Muffet have at least left the baked goods?
He ends up finding one can of tuna, zero can openers, a packet of wasabi flavored seaweed snack, and several thousand dollars worth of alcohol. Did the man not eat!? Not even ramen? He must always get delivery or something, but for the life of him, Deacon can’t figure out how to make that happen. Not that he doesn’t try; he searches through the drawers for take-out menus, and turns up a single phone number on a card, labeled “in case of emergency.” Maybe that was Capra’s delivery service - it was worth a shot. He dials it into Capra’s phone, and the number converts into a contact: L. Pants. Deacon’s staring at this name as the phone rings, before an all too familiar voice picks up.
“Seriously, Capra, already? What did you do now?!” This isn’t the sweet guy he’d met at the carnival - this Burgerpants sounds confident and, well, irritated!
“Oh. Um. Sorry, Burgerpants, wrong number.” He attempts quickly. There’s a somehow deadly pause on the line.
“Did Mettaton put you up to this?” Burgerpants growls quietly. “I will kill that man, I swear to god-”
“Uh, no!” Deacon says quickly - he’s got no beef with Mettaton, after all! “I just-”
“It’s Lawyerpants.” Lawyerpants pronounces clearly. “And if you’re done being weird, Capra, I’ve got stuff to do.” The monster hangs up.
Deacon’s stomach growls, and he shakes his head slowly. If this had happened in the beginning of the day, he might have been more upset. As it is, this seems just par for the course. Of course Burgerpants was a lawyer, here. Of course Capra apparently was in constant legal distress. Of course there was no damn food in the entire stupid, idiotic house.
Oh god, if Hope was in this universe, she’d have helped him out. He could have just gone next door and gotten a ham sandwich at the very least. Capra didn’t have any damn neighbors though, because of course the weirdo had to live in some supervillain lair on the side of the damn mountain!
By the time that Freaky Friday is about to start, he’s more than ready to give up on his usual habit of not drinking liquor. He’d thought he needed a drink yesterday. Ha. Okay, today he needed a drink. Like, needed-needed.
He pours himself some of Capra’s stupid-expensive scotch, and settles down in the comfortable leather recliner, staring at the TV. He should probably not be drinking on an empty stomach, he thinks to himself, and then convinces himself, tearing the packet of seaweed snacks open, that this is not technically an empty stomach. And besides. This is a really bad movie. He probably can’t get through it entirely sober. One drink wouldn’t hurt.
Lindsay Lohan is in the battle of the bands or something.
… Two drinks wouldn’t hurt.
Jamie Lee Curtis is getting a ‘punk rock’ makeover.
…
In the middle of drink five, Deacon surrenders to unconsciousness.
--------------------------------
Peter Capra wakes up to yet another glorious fucking day of being Peter Capra.
OH.
He’s in his bed! He’s in his bedroom! Hustlin’ is playing on the sound system and he’s…. yep, he is back in his beautiful, spectacular, arm-not-totally-covered-by-tattoos body! He sits up, puts his feet on the ground, stretches slowly, and then smirks.
“Crushed it.” He announces to the empty room, and gives one of the mirrors a toothy, predatory grin. “Totally crushed it.” A sudden thought occurs to him, and he hurries over to his closet, checking the most important thing -
Oh, thank god and every single one of his weird-ass angels, there wasn’t a single sweater vest in there. Just as it should be.
“Text message from: Sans-semicolon-close parenthesis.”
“Lay it on me!” He calls, turning to look at a screen. As he reads the text, he begins to laugh incredulously.
Sans ;): so, you gonna take us out for lunch, celebrate the fact that your weird talk on humans a hundred years ago got double the funding you were asking for, weirdo? ps: you’re weird.
“Type: Hell yes, we’re going out to lunch. Expensive lunch. We’ll find something even you like to eat, baby.” He’s in disbelief. What had happened yesterday? What had happened was apparently that the sweater vest loving teacher had coaxed the investors to double down, against all apparent odds. Unbelieveable. Un-fucking believable.
Oh, this was a great day.
Sans ;): not your baby, Capra.
“Type: Not with that attitude, kitten.” He grins to himself, and looks out at the horizon, feeling invincible. Suddenly, something occurs to him. Freaky Friday. Wasn’t he supposed to have… learned a lesson or something? Surely there was a lesson to be learned?
He stares out at the crashing waves, the rising sun, and the thought slowly forms, his grin growing just a fraction wider.
“I learned absolutely nothing from this.”