My unicorn got run over by a tractor

All of Duke's nights lately had been restless, but last night had been especially so. He was out of bed before the dawn, fussing around the boat, unable to settle on any one particular task or project before finding something else. He was working on a way to hang a curtain over the bedroom skylight. He was rearranging the crates on the deck to give the porgs more things to climb on. He was halfway through dismantling his bathroom sink, trying to get at the source of the stubbornly slow drain.

Right at this precise moment, he was rearranging his by bottle height, and wondering trying to decide if one of the hinges on the cabinet door was actually loose, or if he was just incapable of focusing on any one thing for more than thirty seconds and therefore imagining it.

He was probably about ten minutes from just stripping down and hurling himself into the harbor, freezing water be damned. Maybe that would finally settle him down.

[for those on the boat, and likely SP through the early afternoon EST]

Duke woke up to find a strange gray crystal stuck to the skin of his stomach, like an excessively large bellybutton ring. No amount of tugging could pull it out, which meant it was absolutely some kind of unnecessary Fandom thing.

It was making him extremely nervous.

He could head out to sea, but that was where he’d disappeared from last time, and also, what if the boat sank? He could try heading to the mainland, but that’d involve going through town, where sometimes there were killer clowns or brainwashing reindeer. And anyway, Baltimore had things like cults. And also his mother.

Nope, the only thing for it was to stay right where he was and hope for the best. And prepare for the worst. By triple-checking the locations of all his weaponry. And maybe barricading the doors.

Shit. Did it smell like gas in here? His sense of smell wasn’t great, how could he tell if there was a gas leak? Sure, okay, his stove didn’t even run on gas, but still.

The porgs. Miners used birds to be able to tell when there was bad air. We’re the porgs acting strangely? He nudged Polly with his toe. Polly didn’t move from his admittedly comfy looking spot on the counter. Duke nudged him harder until Polly grunted and shifted. Duke let out a shaky breath.

“Okay, good. You’re not dead.”

. . . For now. . . .

[open]

Duke wasn't usually one to put much stock into holidays like Valentine's Day. Last year's had very nearly been a disaster, for instance. But Octavia was clearly feeling a little extra in-the-dumps right now, and Lucifer had sent him an enormous, gorgeous, queer bouquet, and Duke felt inspired.

He spent the day setting it up. Went through his hold and pulled out all the plushest, richest fabrics he could find. Fuzzy blankets and brocade curtains and lots of soft Persian rugs. He draped his galley, transforming the usually cool, open space full of hard surfaces into something warm and exotic, like the interior of a Mongolian yurt. He lit the space with candles and oil lamps and paper lanterns, and set Lucifer's bouquet prominently on the coffee table. To eat, he had berries and chocolate and oysters rockefeller, with wine and absinthe and some other items to help them all relax and feel good. There were soft cushions everywhere (including the stuffed shark and sun and moon pillows from last year's pillow forts, with the inclusion of a little velvet star-shaped cushion he'd picked up on a whim), and even a few vintage furs.

It was, he felt, about as cozy and warm and romantic (and hopefully not too fish scented) as his boat was going to get. Now all he needed were his partners.

He sent Lucifer a text (come over, bring octavia), figuring Octavia wouldn't rouse easily on her own, then settled in to wait, and second guess every single choice he'd made in decorating, worrying it would come across as too much.

He distracted himself with his guitar to keep from trying to tear it all down again, and waited.

[for the guests!]

Duke had spent most of the morning working in the bowels of his boat, fine tuning his engine (which seemed to practically sing this morning, which was . . . kind of eerie, but he managed to hunt down the rhythmic knocks and whistles eventually, and it was back to sounding like a regular ship's engine again). He steered her out around the island a little just to make sure she was in proper ship-shape, then dropped anchor to have a quick lunch before bringing her back into port.

Which was when he noticed that the porgs seemed to have organized themselves into two distinct gangs. And that Polly Lobster was wearing a jaunty little bowtie and a bowler.

They burbled aggressively at each other, firing what sounded like they were probably meant to be clever little bon mots back and forth, and just as Duke was heading over to get a closer look, charged.

"Woah woah, hey!" Duke shouted, wading into the middle of the battle. "There will be no gang warfare on my ship! Porg or otherwise!"

The porgs ignored him. Polly Lobster shouted something, one wing pointing at the sky, and suddenly an enormous industrial fish hook -- which Duke didn't have -- came swinging out of nowhere, dropping a big empty net across the opposing porg forces. And smacked Duke in the forehead on its way past, stunning him and sending him stumbling back over the gunwale and into the water. Where he sank like a stone.

If only there were some friendly sea creature around to save him. . . .

[for a particular mermaid!]

Duke had never been one to sit on a good idea (much of late to Lucifer and Octavia's chagrin). So when Lucifer mentioned thinking that the three of them should take a trip out on his boat for a nice little vacation, Duke had immediately suggested doing it for the holiday. Christmas at sea with two of his favorite people? What better way was there to spend it?

He'd spent the day yesterday getting the Rouge ready for them. Doing laundry, buying extra fancy sheets for his bed, cleaning the galley within an inch of its life. Setting up the deck with some cozy seating and string lights, and a little outdoor heater. Then he whipped up some pumpkin apple bread for Octavia to munch on while she watched him and Lucifer attempted to share the kitchen.

There was alcohol galore. Hot toddies and buttered rum. Lots of fancy coffee to spike. Duke put on his nicest shlubby sweater and flannel shirt and pulled his hair up into a neat ponytail (if you ignored the locs that literally never stayed in place when he wore his hair up). Now all he needed were his dates for the long weekend.

[for the dates, and likely some epic SP!]

Duke and Octavia had managed to find some amount of peace, between their talk on Monday and getting sucked into Lucifer's past on Wednesday. Octavia was still staying on her own boat for the time being, which had Duke somehow both twitchy and relieved. He hated sleeping alone now, but he hated having the people he was sleeping with flee in a panic the moment they woke up even more.

He was funny that way.

It made him even more prone to hanging out on his deck than he normally was, since from there he could look over and see the Samsara, and know that Octavia hadn't gone sailing off overnight. Not that he expected her to, but he also wouldn't have expected Lucifer to freak out and kick the two of them out first thing in the morning, either. Frankly, he wasn't much looking to take anything for granted, these days.

So he was up on deck, nursing a cup of unspiked coffee, watching the porgs play around on the various crates. And reminding himself that, right now at least, everything was fine.

They'd see how long that lasted.

[expecting a couple, but also open!]

Duke had been tempted to take Lucifer up on his offer of crashing at his place last night, but had talked himself out of it at the last minute. He'd been relying entirely too much on Lucifer lately. He was bound to get sick of him.

(Never mind that Lucifer had been coming to find Duke as often as Duke had been going to find him. That was different. Somehow.)

So he'd managed to get comfortable in the bed, even without the now familiar presence of a small mammal in the bed with him, and had even -- eventually -- managed to fall asleep.

He was awake again by sunrise, and gave up trying to get anymore sleep shortly thereafter. Remembering what Steve had said about horses trying to swim and not at all anxious to discover what would happen if he attempted to do yoga in his current form, he was instead lying on the deck, loafed like a cat, practicing moving things with his magic horn. He was getting pretty good at manipulating things like drinks, but dropped the crates as often as he managed to lift them.

"This is definitely not worth losing my hands for."

[open!]

There was an odd noise coming from the engine room. Duke went to investigate, only to discover a very greasy raccoon looking extremely proud of herself while holding a five-eighths ratchet wrench.

"Oh, Tavi," Duke said, shaking his head. "What did you do?"

Right. Time to figure out how to give his raccoon girlfriend a bath.

[Inspired by this. For the raccoon and an expected visitor]

Duke had at least had the good sense as a raccoon to make his way back to the Rouge last night. He had not had the good sense as a raccoon to actually go inside the Rouge last night, which explained him waking up Sunday curled up under a pile of crates on his deck, absolutely surrounded by trash.

Funny, all those crumpled snack bags and things had seemed so much more valuable when he was small and furry and hungry.

He sat up cautiously, pulling a cheeto out of his bangs.

". . . I hate this island."

[open!]

Duke was just getting back from a trip into Baltimore to pick up . . . provisions for his planned "get away" with Octavia this weekend when his phone rang.

His 2010 phone.

He dug it out of his pocket with a grimace, and half-averted his eyes as he took a look at the number. Then frowned and flipped it open to answer.

"Audrey? Since when do you call me?"

"You and Nathan, ugh. I am capable of having friends, you know."

"Nah, of course," Duke teased, glancing around to see if Octavia was here to overhear. Or any squirrels. He set out a glass of rum just in case. ( which makes this bit NFB! )

[mostly establishy ahead of more canon, but also open! That he got a phone call is fine to report, but contents are strictly NFB, please.]