Swans

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Nathan/Pickles
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s Pickles’ birthday, and someone has given him a puzzle to solve.
Notes: For pandaklok. Happy birthday, hon. Additional lines provided by the infamous Squirrel Vicious.

Pickles was telling himself the same thing he had always told himself for the better part of his adult life; it didn’t matter, he shouldn’t be surprised, and he didn’t know why he even let it bother him anymore. But it did matter. And it did hurt. He took out his phone and checked his messages once more. Still nothing.

It just seemed to him that a mother should call her kid on his birthday…

The phone rang, and he pounced on it. With shaking hands he pressed a button to answer the call and held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Pickles honey, it’s your Auntie Mabel’s friend, Janie Roberts, do you remember me?”

Pickles remembered Janie Roberts very well. He remembered being a very small four year old, sitting on her kitchen table, “helping” her make biscuits. She was his aunt’s best friend, and more than once Pickles had ended up sleeping on her sofa and paying for his keep by helping around the house.

“Hey, how are you!”

“Happy birthday, honey. I just called to see how you were. Your Auntie Mable is in town getting roofing supplies, so she asked me to call you and let you know why you hadn’t heard from her.”

There was a voice in the background. “Janie is that Mable’s boy?”

“Yes it is! Pickles you remember Mrs. Cooper.”

Before he could answer one way or another, she too was on the phone. “Pickles! How are you? Still playing in a band? How is that working out for you?”

Pickles talked to them until his aunt arrived, and her third friend, Evelyn Wright. Of the four, Pickles only really knew his Aunt and her friend Janie. The other two women he had barely spoken to. He knew they attended his aunt’s church, and the four played Bridge together, but that was it. However they seemed to know who he was, even if his aunt seemed to have left out the detail that he made his living dressing up like a zombie and playing the drums. They had apparently banded together to make him a quilt, because Mable was convinced he just couldn’t be doing well, considering every time she saw him he was in jeans and an old ripped shirt. She was worried he might be cold.

Well the mansion could get a little drafty at times…

“We sent it in the mail over a week ago so it should be there,” said Mable.

It was probably sitting in a huge heap with the fan mail, waiting to be sorted.

“So what’s up with your roof?” asked Pickles.

“Oh just a few leaks. It’s an old house. Your uncle can fix it when he’s better.”

Pickles raised an eyebrow. “Is this the uncle who just had hip replacement surgery?”

“Well somebody has to do it. I can’t afford to hire a roofing company.”

Pickles sighed. “Auntie… let me hire someone for you.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that, Pickles.”

“I want to.”

“Sweetie every time I see you, you look like you were dragged under a truck. Now I love you dearly but you can’t afford to buy me a roof and we both know it.”

Pickles sighed again. “Auntie Mabel… do you have that Dethklok CD I sent you?”

“Well I have it but I never play it.”

“Look at the back where it lists the band names.”

“Just a moment.” There was the sound of his aunt walking away to get the cd, then coming back. She picked up the phone and read the back of the cd.

“Nathan Explosion, Toki… Wartooth? Skwis… oh I can’t read that. Pickles the Drummer….”

Pickles waited for the shoe to drop. Eventually it did.

“You’re THAT Pickles?”

“Yes, Auntie, I’m THAT Pickles.”

Mable was beside herself with disbelief. “With the big stone keep? And the airport? And more money than Belgium?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“They why don’t you dress better?”

Pickles rolled his eyes. “So can I buy you a new roof?”

“Oh I don’t like taking your money, I don’t care how much you have. It’s just not right for a grown woman to take money from a boy.”

“Auntie Mable I’m…”

“No don’t tell me, because if you’re grown up then I’m old!”

Pickles grinned as his aunt and her friends giggled. “Let me buy you a roof. Please.”

She sighed, then relented. “All right. But I expect to see you here for Christmas. Dressed like a gentleman for once!”

‘Christmas’ and ‘dressing like a gentleman’ were not two of Pickles’ favourite activities, but this was the woman who had taken him in and fed him when he had no where else to go. In fact her home had been a planned rest stop on many of Snakes ‘n’ Barrels early tours.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

The phone call ended, and Pickles checked his messages. Nothing. He called the mail room.

“Hey, 99? Did I get any mail for my birthday?”

“Is that a joke, my Lord?”

“Any mail for my birthday from people NAHT wantin' to suck my dick 'cause of how awesome I am?”

“I can't tell that just from reading the labels, my lord.”

“Just send up any parcels.”

“Yes my lord.”

Ten minutes later, Pickles was staring at what had to be over five hundred packages, everything from very small to very large, and three that were probably bass drums. Holy crap! Pickles picked up the first package and opened it. It was a bottle of his favourite gin. Well hey, maybe the day was looking up.

The gifts varied from fantastic to confusing. There were bottles of gin, customized drumsticks, drums, medieval weaponry, socks (!) a copy of the Kama Sutra, a hair restoration kit, (gee thanks asshole) a bag of black and silver glitter (useless but kinda cool) a book on cryptozoology, and a stack of other things, including a ten pound bag of brown sugar fudge.

Munching fudge and swilling gin while bundled in the quilt his aunt made, Pickles opened one last package. It was from Ireland, and it contained a small scroll and a bodhran. Curious, he opened the scroll, and slowly read it. It seemed a class of University students had researched his past as part of a project on genealogy. They had traced his family back seven hundred years, and the bodhran was an exact replica of one a distant ancestor was known to have played.

He held the small drum in his hands, turning it over, tapping on it lightly with his fingers. It was made of wood and goat skin, painted with Celtic knots and running hounds. Once upon a time someone who was part of the long chain that made up himself had crafted this, played it, loved it, and apparently been buried with it. Archaeologists had dug him up, documented him, then put him back, but not before doing a DNA sample that proved he had a famous descendant. Students had recreated the drum, using only materials available at the time, and sent it to Pickles so he would have a piece of his own history.

“Pickles?” said a quiet voice.

Pickles glanced up, suddenly realizing he had been staring at the drum for quite a while, and Charles had been saying his name for at least a couple minutes.

“Are you all right?” Charles asked, standing almost knee deep in a veritable sea of wrapping paper, boxes and packing peanuts.

Pickles showed him the drum. “Seven hundred years ago, an ancestor of mine was buried with this. Students in Ireland, who have never met me, never talked to me, have no reason to give a shit about me, sent it to me for my birthday.” He then showed Charles his hand-made quilt. “My Aunt Mable, who is not actually blood, she was married to my mom’s brother for about five years before he died three months after I was born, made this for me, along with three of her friends, because they know musicians don’t make much money and they were worried I was cold.”

Charles smiled faintly. “That was very sweet.”

“Yeah. It is.” Pickles drew a shivering breath. “But why is it strangers in Ireland and a woman who could have easily walked away years ago remember my birthday, and my own mother can’t be bothered?”

“Your mother doesn’t deserve you, Pickles.”

Pickles was mildly startled by the comment. “I never heard you say anything like that before.”

“Yes, well, it… bothers me considerably to see anyone wondering why his mother is… to put it bluntly… a complete self-absorbed self-centered bitch.”

Pickles’ green eyes became enormous. “Who are you and what did you do with Charles?”

Charles just smiled. “Pickles I care about you boys. Do you think you pay me enough to put up with your shit?”

“You want a raise?”

“No, Pickles, I don’t. I just meant that you have a family, and people who love you.”

“I know,” said Pickles. “It’s just that… she’s my mom, you know?”

“I know,” said Charles softly. “I’m sorry. But if it helps at all… you have people who love you.”

Charles handed Pickles a tiny package. Pickles accepted it, studying it. “Is this from you?”

“No,” said Charles. “I have no idea who it’s from, but it’s for you. I got you the three bottles of Spanish Elixir.”

“Yeah remind me to give you a blow job for those, thanks.”

“Well my birthday is in three weeks, so…”

Pickles blinked. “Stop joking, you’re freaking me the fuck out!”

Charles smiled. “Enjoy your gifts, Pickles. And… I’m sure your mom will call.”

“Yeah and Murderface will be crowned the next Miss America,” mumbled Pickles as Charles left the room.

He turned the box over in his fingers, then picked open the black wrapping paper. Beneath it was a black box, and inside the black box was black tissue paper. He picked out the paper, and inside was a tiny fragile swan, hand made from blown glass, sparkling black and touched with silver. He held it up and studied the tiny thing, so incredibly delicate and lovely. Well at least someone made an effort to get a gift in his favourite colour, but why a swan? Who knew he liked swans? Wait a minute…

Pickles hunted around for the small bag of black and silver glitter and opened it. It matched the swan perfectly. Well that couldn’t have been a coincidence. He set the tiny swan on his dresser, and poured the glitter over it. Now he had a sparkling swan swimming silently on a pond of black. Pretty. But…?

A tiny piece of paper fell out of the bag, landing amidst the glitter. He picked it up, and read it.

Find me in the hall, and follow me.

“Who the fuck do I look like, Alice in Wonderland?” he complained.

He picked up his phone and called his mother, just wanting to hear her voice, have her acknowledge him in some way. He was a little disgusted with himself at how happy he was to hear her answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi mom,” said Pickles. “I thought I’d…”

She sighed with annoyance. “Pickles your brother is going to call any minute, stop tying up the line!”

And that was it. She was gone. And once again he felt that overwhelming hurt slam down on him as he cursed himself for thinking things would ever improve. She didn’t want him. She had never wanted him. He had no idea why, but he was the rejected kitten, stuck someplace dark and lonely to die.

Pickles closed the phone and put it in its little leather holster, then picked up the note once more.

Find me in the hall, and follow me.

Well at least somebody wanted to play with him.

Pickles walked into the hall, and stared at a black swan cygnet in a basket on the floor, a black silk ribbon about its neck. He picked the baby bird up, holding it close, petting the soft pearl-grey down. Tied to the basket was a silver thread, leading off into the distance down the long stone hallway. Puzzled, Pickles followed the thread, holding his bird.

The thread wandered down the long hallway, meandering through doorways, down stairs, around corners, and leading into the deeper parts of the castle where Pickles never went. Eventually the thread led him through a door and outside, onto a small dock he had no idea was even there. It was early evening, and the sun was just setting, casting a bloody glow over the dark water of the lake that lay beneath the imposing form of Mordhaus. Tied to the dock was a black boat, crafted in a very stylized way to look like a great black swan, the eyes in the bowed head reflecting the sun’s light and blazing like dragon fire. Within the boat was a bed of sorts, made of piled furs and quilts and strewn with black rose petals. On it was a picnic basket, and a couple bottles of wine, as well as another fuzzy little cygnet, asleep on the black silk pillows. He was staring at the boat, wondering what was going on, when he became aware of a large presence standing behind him.

“You uh… said once that… sometimes you wished you could just… go to the park and look at the swans. You know, like regular jack-offs.”

Pickles turned to look at Nathan, staring up at him, blinking. “I don’t… understand.”

Nathan cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “Okay I know we said we wouldn’t care about each other and we wouldn’t… like… celebrate birthdays, but you know what, after we thought we lost Charlie and after all the shit we’ve been through, and… we would have lost you too if Skwisgaar hadn’t remembered his ancestors were Vikings and protected you…”

Pickles was silent for a time, just gazing at Nathan, petting the baby swan he held in his arms. “So… this is for my birthday?”

“Yeah. And because I… y’know…” He mumbled something. Pickles raised an eyebrow and grinned that wicked little grin.

“What was that?” Pickles asked.

Nathan mumbled once more.

“One more time?”

“I said I think you’re hot and I totally wanna do you.”

“That’s great, Nathan, real romantic.”

Nathan smiled, and stepped closer, looming over Pickles, reaching up to gently touch his face with one enormous hand.

“Yeah okay I suck at romance but… seems like I should give you a chance to run screaming before we end up in the middle of the lake, not after.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Pickles lowered his gaze to his swan, petting it as Nathan drew a little closer. He felt himself gently embraced, and nuzzled. “So is this just… sex, or…?”

“Well think of it as a birthday gift that came with the receipt attached. You can try it out, and… if you like it, you can keep it, and if you don’t…. I’ll probably just go play golf in the rain again.”

Pickles smiled. “Okay.”

Pickles stepped into the boat, seating himself on the pile of furs and blankets with the cygnets, petting them. Nathan stepped into the boat after him and cast off the line, and steered the boat towards the middle of the lake, where a small group of black swans, recently flown in from Australia, were floating on the black water. Soon the moon would rise, and the small waves would sparkle with silver. Nathan lowered the anchor, then lay down beside Pickles. The two cuddled close, nuzzling, learning each other in a new way, and Pickles closed his eyes as Nathan leaned down and kissed him for the first time.

The phone never rang, but somehow that didn’t matter anymore.