Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So I told her to tough it out.” Durza said, knocking back the rest of his fire-whiskey, topped with real fire. “It’s only a back ache, not a big deal. And a headache. And acne.”

The other two villains nodded in agreement while sipping their drinks; Jareth had ordered a champagne cocktail and was currently tying a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue. Rumplestiltstkin poured more Glen Alba into his glass before adding his tale of woe.

“Belle was the same way last month; she slept in the library for four days with a hot water bottle and a box of chocolates for company.” He sipped the amber liquid. “She even closed the curtains; said the light was too bright for her eyes.”

“What did you do?” Jareth asked, pulling the cherry stem from between his teeth.

“The only thing a man could do in that instance. I hid in my tower until she stopped crying.”

Jareth nodded. “Sarah drove me to the absolute end of my rope last month. One minute she’s screaming at me, the next she’s trying to kill me!”

“I can understand the impulse,” Durza noted, refilling his glass by magic, “but that doesn’t sound like Sarah at all.”

“She’s a little slip of a girl, how could she try to kill you?” Rumpelstiltskin asked.

“I was singing with the goblins, you know how I like to sing.”

The other two villains nodded, having witnessed Jareth on karaoke nights.

“Anyway, I had just started ‘Magic Dance’ when Sarah barrelled into the throne room and told me to shut up, the noise made her want to puke.”

“Then what happened?” The villains asked.

“I told her that I move the stars for no one and she threw an axe at me!”

Durza and Rumpelstiltskin almost did spit-takes, then raised an eyebrow at the Goblin King.

“Alright, it was a porcelain chamber pot--half-full, mind you--and it landed right here!” Jareth pointed to a small scab near his hairline. Durza and the Dark One squinted at the life-threatening injury. “It felt like it an axe, and I smelled like the bog of eternal stench!”

“I swear,” Durza said, adding fresh fire to his drink, “I don’t know why women get so unhinged during their monthlies.”

“Exactly.” the Dark One said, “they act like they’re dying. It’s only a bit of blood and discomfort. Back in the Enchanted Forest, you wouldn’t believe how many men promised me anyones first-born for some relief from their wives time.”

“They act like it’s a curse.” Jareth said sagely then signaled the barmaid for the bill. When it arrived he tore it in two. “Until next month, gentlemen.” With a cloud of glitter he was gone. In similar fashion the other two villains departed; the Dark One in a purple poof and Durza on a wave of fire.

The barmaid--a tall woman with ebony skin, full lips, wearing a white spaghetti strapped shift; her arms covered with elaborate tattoos of African violets, Impala lilies, and Baobab trees that spread across her bare shoulders and spilled down her chest into her deep cleavage picked up each of the villains’ glasses in turn and whispered a phrase in the first language of humanity over them and smiled.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The following month Durza was the first to arrive at the bar. He wore purple fleece pajama bottoms, black socks with sandals and a lime green wife-beater shirt. He grumbled his order to the barkeeper, “Water, no ice or I’ll kill you.” then complained loudly to the barkeeper that the water tasted like piss, probably was piss and he wanted chocolate and coffee. Preferably in the same cup.

Rumpelstiltskin arrived next; his usual leather pants and silk shirts discarded in favor of tartan boxers, a t-shirt covered in stains and holes, bunny slippers and a brown housecoat. As he walked through the door the ogre house band started playing a song with rib-breaking bass; the Dark One cast a spell--using a fudge brownie as a magic wand--turning the band members into B.J. Thomas, George Jones, Hank Williams and Merle Haggard. When the Possum began belting out ‘She Thinks I Still Care’, Rumpelstiltskin began weeping and flung himself into Durzas’ arms, who dropped the Dark One like a hot coal.

“Don’t touch me, I’m not hugging you!” Durza said, prying himself from the Dark Ones’ embrace. “What the hell is your problem?”

“I don’t know!” Rumpelstiltskin cried. “I don’t know anything! I can’t concentrate, everything makes me sad and my,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “breasts feel swollen. I feel like an overripe tomato.” He looked up and down at Durzas’ attire. “You look like something women run away from.”

“They usually do, no matter how I’m dressed, but point taken. All of my clothes are too tight. I hate everything I own. I hate everything that you own. I hate everything on general principal.”

“How can they be too tight? You wear loose tunics and breeches!”

“They felt like sausage casing around my stomach and back.”

“So you decided to wear an Armani nightmare?”

“Fuck you, asshole! Your ensemble would make Givenchy spin in his grave!” Durza hissed, rubbing his temples, “I’ve spent most of the last two days in the bathroom either peeing, shitting or both, I need clothes that are easy to get in and out of!”

“Are you sick?”

“No.” Durza said, laying his head on the table.

“Eating a lot of beans?”

Durza tilted his hands back and forth. “Usually with breakfast and dinner, when I eat at all.”

“Sounds like me, all I want lately is bread, salt and chocolate. And naps.”

“Good Gods, men, don’t talk about food.” Jareth complained as he trudged to the table. “Sarah made something called pizza the other day and the smell of meat made me throw up. It landed on a goblin, so I didn’t feel too bad, though.”

“Jareth, by all the gods, new, old and yet to be invented! Is that you?” Rumpelstiltskin gasped.

The Goblin King was unrecognizable in baggy sweatpants, a Union Jack t-shirt and a black hoodie pulled over his hair. He pulled the hood down, revealing stringy, greasy hair that hung limp from his scalp. His porcelain skin was dotted with angry, red acne.

“Yes, it is and you can stop staring. I know I look like a victim of the Black Death. My question, gentlemen, is anyone else bleeding as badly as I am?”

Durza raised his head. “Every day and night for three days now. How often are you supposed to change rags? And are blood clots supposed to be the size of your thumbnail?”

Rumpelstiltskin grabbed an appetizer menu off the table next to theirs. “Ooh, they have mozzarella sticks and beef ravioli!” Durza plucked the menu from the Dark Ones’ hand.

“Where’s the desert menu?”

“Yes, I’m suffering,” Jareth huffed at being ignored, “but don’t mind me, just order your fatty, fried foods and don’t give me another thought.”

“We won’t.” Durza and the Dark One replied as one.

“How many pads do you use, Durza?” Jareth asked, reading the back of the menu they refused to share.

“I’ve been using five or six rags a night and I’m still bleeding through.” Durza looked up from the menu, “I don’t know if I want to eat, my stomach feels like a punching bag.”

“Then have something light,” Rumpelstiltskin suggested, “like loaded potato skins with sour cream and bacon chunks!”

“I was going to eat cheese yesterday, but started crying when I realized I didn’t have any bread.” The Shades’ eyes welled with tears, “I couldn’t have lonely cheese!”

“No cheese should be lonely!” Rumpelstiltskin wailed.

Jareth looked on in disgust and stole the menu. “Maybe I can risk a chicken and black bean quesadilla. I’ll eat a healthy meal tomorrow, like a salad or maybe just oatmeal.”

“I can’t find a comfortable position in my sleep.” Durza said when he finished crying. “My eyelashes feel fat.”

Rumpelstiltskin looked like he wanted to blast something, anything. “Mirrors lie.”

Jareth nodded, “Right as rain, my sparkly lizard. Best to ignore them. That’s why I’ve kept mine covered.”

The barmaid came over to the table, “Your usual orders, my lords?”

The villains put their heads together for a moment, then Durza spoke up.

“No, bring us a pitcher of water each, mine with no ice or I’ll kill you. For food,” he turned the menu over, “we’ll have three of each of everything.”

“Keep the starches and fried goodies coming, dearie, or we’ll wage war upon your populace.”

“And bring napkins.” Jareth asked with a smile that promised a painful death. The barmaid nodded and put the order in.

“Well, hell, somebody has to say it: why is this happening? Obviously it’s magic but what kind? And more importantly--Who? And why?” Rumpelstiltskin wondered aloud. “Men don’t have periods!”

“Clearly,” Jareth said sluggishly, his usual menacing air subdued by discomfort, “someone thinks we men should learn a lesson.”

“I’m a fast learner.” Durza piped up.

The question would have been answered but for two reasons: no-one knew--and they were convinced it wasn’t their fault--and the first round of food was delivered. An army of waiters placed plate after plate of high calorie dishes in front of the villains. In the presence of starches, salt and fat all questions were forgotten. And so was the bill.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Hank Williams was moaning ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry’ as Jareth entered the bar. This month he preferred yoga pants, slip-on sandals, sweatshirt all in black. Rumpelstiltskin wore a red and green utility kilt, bunny slippers, brown cable sweater and purple button down shirt. The Goblin King waved the Dark One over to the table; this month it was nearest the bathroom.

“You look like a professional mourner.” Rumpelstiltskin said, observing Jareths’ outfit.

“At least,” Jareth sneered, “I’m not wearing a Catholic schoolgirls’ skirt.”

“It’s a kilt, asshole.”

“Looks like a Goodwill reject.”

“You’re jealous because I have the legs for it and you don’t.”

Jareth opened his mouth to reply, but realized Rumpelstiltskin was right and started crying into his hands.

“Trouble, dearie?”

Jareth wiped his eyes with a handful of paper napkins. “Either I feel all emotions at once or I’m an emotionless void.” He blew his nose into a napkin. “Sometimes I want to fade away into shadow.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, “At least your acne cleared up.”

“No, it hasn’t. It moved to my ass.”

“What moved to whose ass?” Durza asked as he approached the table and descended gingerly onto the seat. His flame-red hair was pulled back in a scrunchy. He wore a pair of baggy, dark gray sweats, a t-shirt decorated with dragons and blood-red canvas slip-on shoes.

“Nothing, nevermind.” Jareth insisted. “Why are you late?”

“You’re lucky I’m here at all.” Durza replied as he reached for the desert menu on the table. “I couldn’t find anything I liked.”

“I didn’t ask about your wardrobe choices, Shade…” Jareth said.

“Are those dragons moving?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, pulling Durza closer. The Shade winced as his weight was shifted against his will.

“Get your fucking hands off me or I’ll feed you to my Urgal army.” Durza commanded and shoved the Dark One away. “She never mentioned there’d be days like this.” He sighed. “Then again, I never asked.”

Jareth and Rumpelstiltskin stared at each other in confusion. “She who said did what?” Jareth asked. Rumpelstiltskin was as befuddled by the question as the comment.

“Arya. I asked if monthlies were supposed to feel like my nuts are being kicked night and day.”

“What did the elf say?” Jareth asked.

“Tough it out.” Durza replied. “Then she made this sign with her fingers,” He held up two fingers like a V, “I don’t think it meant peace.”

“No need to be harsh about it.” Jareth said.

“Are you taking anything for it?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, Durza shook his head.

“I don’t know what to take.”

“Turmeric is good for pain.” Rumpelstiltskin recommended, opened his sporran and took out a scroll. “That’s a list of other pain relievers.”

“Are any of them chocolate?” Durza asked, skimming the scroll. Rumpelstiltskin pointed to an item at the bottom of the list. “I’m surprised Belle is talking to you. Arya wishes me death.”

“I don’t tease her about her menses. When she gets emotional it’s like someone has taken the labels off the vials in my workshop and I don’t know which one will cause an explosion. So I try to avoid her, unless she wants a hug.”

Jareths’ mouth dropped open. “She lets you touch her? Sarah never wants me to touch her!”

“Gee, I wonder why?” Rumpelstiltskin replied.

Jareth shook his head, embarrassed for his friends. “Pathetic, taking advice from a woman. We’re men, we’re hardy and resilient. We’re wizards who have stood the test of time, we’ll not be bowed by a week of bleeding.”

“We few, we happy few…” Durza began.

“We band of bleeders.” Rumpelstiltskin finished. “Why should we suffer? Why should Belle suffer in her library with a blinding headache and cramps when a smidgen of opium mixed with feverfew lessens the pain?”

“Arya did let it slip when I sought her advice--I mean, asked her opinion--if massaging the sore area would help.”

“Was she forthcoming?” Rumpelstiltskin looked hopeful.

“She recommended an Asian man who lives in the village.”

Jareth listened in disgust. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”

“Did you say anything worth listening to?” Rumpelstiltskin retorted. “I think it’s your pride, Goblin King that prevents you from asking your lady for help.”

“Why should I?”

“Duh,” Durza said, “she has more experience in this area than all three of us combined.”

The barmaid approached the table. Tonight she wore an off the shoulder summer dress decorated in African violets and leather sandals on her feet. “Good evening, gentlemen. Can I interest you in our newest dessert: chocolate cheesecake with gingerbread crust?”

Three villains pulled forks from thin air and made a beeline for the kitchen.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“So I sought Sarahs’ advice in this matter.” Jareth said to the other villains as the barmaid placed drinks on their table. For the Goblin King, peach schnapps lemonade. Durza, a blood orange jalapeño margarita. Rumpelstiltskin kept his alcohol simple: Rob Roy. The villains took sips of their drinks and leaned in to hear better as the band--Dolly Parton, Patsy Cline, Emmylou Harris and Tammy Wynett--took turns performing. A month had passed since the Goblin King had been told off by his fellow sufferers. “Not only did I ask for her guidance, I apologized.”

Durza stopped the barmaid after sipping his drink. “How much alcohol did you say was in this?”

“Just enough, my lord.” She said and left to take orders at another table.

“How did you apologize? Red roses? Chocolates? A chance to finish high school?” The Shade asked, sipping his drink.

“Changed behavior. Surely you’ve noticed, gentlemen, that a revised outlook and changed behavior is the best apology?” Jareth sounded like an oracle on high. “After seeking Sarahs’ recommendation for pain relief, we talked. That means, gentlemen, that she spoke and I listened.”

“Either he’s gained wisdom,” Rumpelstiltskin said, “or he’s as full of shit as the bog of eternal stench.” He leaned a pocket-sized mirror against the salt shaker on the table.

“I vote for the latter.” Durza smirked and waved the barmaid over. “Ah, yes, I’ll start with the chicken and strawberry salad, with the ginger dressing on the side; a cup of hot water as if for tea--no ice or I’ll kill you--and the lemon bar for dessert. Please.”

“You, sir?”

Rumpelstiltskin stopped humming ‘9 to 5’ long enough to give his order, “For me, the beef fajitas with pan seared vegetables. I’ll decide on dessert later.”

The barmaid turned to Jareth, who was still looking at the menu. “I’ll have the bruschetta first, then beef medallions with wilted spinach and cognac sauce. I’m not sure if I want dessert tonight.” The other villains looked on in shock.

“Are you truly the Goblin King, or is the Shadow Man inhabiting your form?” Durza inquired, poking Jareth with a fork.

“It’s me, you ass. I had a slice of cake today and want to be able to wear my tight pants tomorrow.”

Durza turned to the Dark One, who was smiling and glancing at the mirror. “Egotistical much?” He said, pointing to the silver mirror, “Should we leave you two alone?”

“It’s a magic mirror. I’m expecting an image from Belle.” Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward on his elbows, his chin in his hands. Patsy Cline took center stage and sang ‘Back In Babys’ Arms’ just as the mirror began to glow. Rumpelstiltskin looked down at the mirror and blushed from collarbone to hairline. He transmogrified the salt shaker into a sack of gold coins and with a cloud of purple smoke, was gone.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

“Tally time,” The Goblin King announced to the other two men at the table. “Dark One, are you with us?”

Rumplestiltskin placed a hand mirror against the sugar dispenser on the table and glanced up at Jareth.

“I’m here, owl boy.”

“That’s bigger than the last one.” Durza noted, pointing at the mirror.

“I upgraded.” The Dark One shone the surface of the glass with a silken handkerchief he poofed out of nowhere.

“Did you leave something turned on at home again?” Jareth looked like death as he smiled and sipped his drink, a Cinderella mocktail.

Rumplestiltskin turned his crooked nose upward while turning a shade of bubble gum pink, “A gentleman never discloses…just shut up!”

“As I was about to ask, a show of hands: who’s flowing?” A trio of heads shook.

“It’s obvious our magic was more powerful than whatever possessed us.” Jareth nodded.

“Or maybe,” Durza said, reading clouds in his hot chocolate, “we learned something.”

“Possible.” Rumplestiltskin said, swirling his tea with a straw.

Jareth looked like a lord, “I prefer my reality to yours.”

Behind the bar, the barmaid smiled.