San Francisco, CA
December 10

"How're ya doing, lassie?" Niall laid his Irish accent on thick. It helped with tips. And he really needed the tips. This was his only real job, a way to pay the bills while he tried to make a go of music. He was a singer-songwriter, or he was trying to be, anyway. And while he had played hundreds of gigs, even recorded a couple of demos, Niall couldn't quite catch a break. He laid a napkin down on the bar and leaned toward the girl. He had seen her around the bar a few times. Quite a few times. "A Cape Cod, yeah?"

She smiled, nodding. She could be quite pretty, he thought, if she didn't wear so much make up. He tried to imagine what she would look like fresh out of the shower, her hair wet and loose, her eyelashes wet from the tap instead of that black junk that looked like furry spider legs...a towel wrapped loose around her chest. Shit. He was thinking himself into a semi right there behind the bar. Knock it off, Niall, he chided himself. He turned back and set the vodka with cranberry in front of her. "Thanks," her deep voice had an edge to it, like she might always sound sarcastic when she spoke.

"You're quite welcome," Niall leaned his elbows on the dark wood between them. The bar was pretty dead. Only a handful of customers, most of whom were huddled in little clusters around the short tables at the back. "So, how are ya this lovely evening?" He asked again.

She shrugged, sipping her drink. "Oh my god. This is perfect."

"Yeah? Well, t'anks. I tried," he smirked at her.

"People usually put too much vodka. Or water."

He shook his head, "shouldn't be any water."

"I know," she rolled her eyes, draining the last of the pink liquid. "Can I get another?"

He laughed. "Sure, me ould flower." She rolled her eyes at the endearment. He slid a second drink in front of her. "Ya still haven't told me how you're doin..."

"Getting better, thanks." There was a faint trace of a warm English accent buried under her California cool.

He tipped his head to the side. "Where're you from?"

She rolled her eyes again. "Palo Alto."

He laughed. Guffawed, more like. He leaned his head on his arms, his eyes pinched shut. "You sound a bit British," he put on a British accent, once he finally stopped laughing.

She pushed the empty glass to him. "My mum is from Cheshire," she nudged the glass.

"I'm startin to see why they've been putting water in yer Cape Cods, love," he chuckled, taking the glass and fixing her another. Coughing from the back pulled his attention. "You all right, mate?" The guy gave a thumbs up, but kept on coughing and drinking more beer at the same time, which seemed impossible to Niall. How could something go in at the same time something else was being expelled? He shook his head, and turned back to the pretty girl, her bleach-blond hair laying in long tendrils on her shoulders.

"Why don't you have one with me?" Her eyes had taken on that heavy-lidded look of intoxication. "Love," she reached a hand out toward him.

Niall couldn't help but smirk. He placed her fresh drink in front of her and poured himself a shot of whiskey. And another. And another. And so many more. He actually lost track of how many drinks she had, how many he had. But the bottles were nearly drained, so he would guess way too many. Just way too many. "We are completely bolloxed," he laughed. She did too, but she kept resting her hand on his leg, her head on his shoulder. He didn't even remember coming around the bar.

"Absolutely paralytic," she nodded.

"Absolut-ly," he said with a Russian accent, holding up the vodka bottle.

She giggled. The pretty girl beside him giggled, and all he wanted to do was kiss her. She had the cutest little dimple. "You're quite good with accents. Are you even Irish?"

"Course," he twirled her hair between his fingers. "I could teach you how to speak with an Irish accent if ya like." She nodded and sat up straight, as if she were in school. "Okay. Repeat after me. Whale..."

"Whale."

"Oil."

"Oil."

"Beef."

She giggled again. "Beef?" She asked.

He laughed, nodding. "Hooked."

"Hooked," she hiccuped.

"Now put it all together."

"Whale oil beef hooked," her eyes widened as she realized what she had said. And said it again, "Well, I'll be fucked."

"Ya will be if ya keep drinking," he smirked at her.

"Promise?" She asked, tipping her head to the side.

Oh. If the constant brushing of her hand on his leg wasn't enough of a sign, that certainly was. Niall pressed his lips against hers roughly, grabbing awkwardly at her back, pulling them both from their stools and onto their feet. Problem. They were both utterly sloshed. She nearly fell over, giggling into the kiss and grabbing his arms to steady herself, but he was barely steady, and they nearly went down. He caught the edge of the bar just before things got really messy. He pulled her closer, running his hands up to her hair. She grabbed him through his jeans, and he moaned. Good lord, she was forward. He kissed his way to her ear, breathing heavily as he murmured, "Let's take this to the back, yeah?" She nodded. He threw the lock on the front door, which only locked people out, not in. He didn't want anyone other than his already served customers coming in.

As they stumbled drunk to the storeroom at the back, Niall tripped over an outstretched leg. An outstretched person. The girl pulled on his arm, giggling as he tried to right himself. "Must have had too much," she raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah," he glanced back as she pulled him into the storage room.

"D'you, d'you have a condom," she asked, grabbing again at his jeans. Wow. This was actually going to happen. Niall was catching a break, for a change.

"Yeah, um, shit, where do they..." He dug around in the desk drawers. He knew Willie kept them here somewhere. He found one and tore it open with his teeth. The girl had already hiked up her skirt and taken off her panties. Jesus. He stared at her for a moment. It had been way too fucking long since he'd gotten any. She rolled her eyes impatiently, snatching the condom from his grasp. He moaned again as she pushed his pants to his knees and rolled the rubber onto him. Then she pulled him by his arse, closer and closer. He kissed her again, feeling so innocent. He'd only ever shagged three girls, and she seemed...experienced. His hand groped for her breast, pushing her shirt up awkwardly as he pushed into her, his fingers grazing her nipple gently. "Such nice little diddies," he groaned, grabbing it now with more passion.

"Shh," she put her hand over his mouth, then tugged at his hair, until he buried his face in her shoulder.

It was sloppy and sweet and over way too fast. Niall felt a little guilty as he came, but he was distracted by the buzzing of a phone, and he just couldn't hold it back anymore.

She sighed and pushed him away, taking her iPhone out of her coat pocket. "Hi, mum."

He watched her pull on her panties, adjusting her skirt and top with a scowl. He turned away and discarded the used rubber and pulled up his jeans.

"No, I'm not drunk. God." He let out a little laugh. "Yeah, I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes," she snapped the wallet-like phone case closed. "I have to go."

"I'm sorry, I--"

"Forget it," she waved her hand dismissively.

"No, really, I'm sorry." Fuck, he wished he wasn't blushing just then.

"No, really, forget it. Forget this ever happened." She walked past him out to the bar. "Oh my god! Hey! Hey!" She ran back to him. "Jesus, get out here."

She looked scared. Really scared. Shit. What had happened while he was getting off in the storage space? The quiet of the room alarmed immediately. And when he got to the doorway, he saw why she had panicked. Every single patron who had been drinking was now dead, their eyes staring at nothing, their mouths hanging open slackly. "Fucking hell."

She looked up at him, "I have to go," she said, her tone softer.

"Wait. Just let me shut the place down, and I'll make sure you get home safe." She shook her head. He ran his hand through his hair, and shrugged, feeling like a complete loser. "Will you at least tell me your name?"

She smirked, that dimple showing in her cheek again. "Gemma."

"I'm Niall."

She tapped the small plastic nameplate on his chest. "I know." Hoping at least to kiss her again, he walked her out to the street, which was quiet. A car went by in the distance, but otherwise, there was no traffic. It was pretty late for people to be out driving. But there were still usually more cars out on the road than this. "See ya, Niall," she kissed his cheek and walked away, climbing into a cherry red Maserati, and driving away. A fucking Maserati.

He watched her taillights disappear over the hill, away from the city center. Then he turned to go back inside. He needed to figure out what the hell to do with all those dead people inside. What do you do in this situation? Call the police, he guessed. He grabbed the doorknob to go in, but it didn't give. He pulled and shook the bronze knob, groaning with frustration.

Shit. Shit. "Shit!" He kicked the door. He had locked himself out of the fucking pub. He just couldn't catch a fucking break. Fuck. He kicked again. All his shit was inside. His wallet. His phone. His fucking coat. He shivered against the December night, wishing he'd at least worn a long-sleeve. His eyes scanned the area for some kind of tool, anything to help him get through the door. He grabbed a loose chunk of cement from the curb and tried to break the stained glass windowpane of the door, thinking he could reach in and flip the lock.

As he was battering it, chips of dark green glass falling away, a voice halted his progress. "Hey, you! Stop! Put that down."

He spun, lowering his hand, the makeshift tool still clutched in his grasp. "Oh, hey ossifer. Officer. I locked meself out." His Irish accent sounded thick even to him.

The middle aged cop had his hand resting on his gun, a wary expression on his face. "Uh-huh. Put down the rock, son."

"No really, I was actually just about to call you fellas because there is a pile of dead folks inside." Niall started to turn away again, gesturing to the bar. The lights on the sign flickered.

The officer drew his gun, "put down the weapon now." Niall looked from the gun to his own hands in confusion. "Now!"

He released his grip and watched as the chunk of cement fell to the sidewalk by his feet. He glanced back up to the cop. "Sorry. I--"

"Get down on your knees with your hands behind your head," the officer commanded.

"But I--" Niall tried to reason with the guy. He worked here, he needed to get back in here.

"Get down, now!" He flinched at the forceful, almost frightened tone of the cop's voice and dropped to his knees without any further protest. But he felt himself shaking as the plastic ziptie was tightened around his wrists. And he felt his heart thudding as the officer dragged him to his feet and over to the patrol car. And he felt his stomach churn as the dizziness from all that alcohol finally caught up with him.

But he didn't feel any of that quite as forcefully as the guy's fist to his jaw after he puked all over the dark uniform shirt, splattering whiskey and fried cheese sticks all over the cop's chest.

He was shoved into the back of the cruiser and taken down to the station. As they looped down the steep hills of San Francisco, Niall gazed out the window. The streets were deserted. Nearly deserted. There were people. Those people just weren't moving. It was like something out of a fucking movie, like some zombie shit.

The cop slowed to a stop in front of the station and opened the back. "Come on. No trouble, now."

Niall just grunted and scooted out of the car, feeling like he might be sick again.

The police station looked as dead as the streets. It was painted a strange pale yellowish-green, like the first leaves in spring. And then the fluorescent lights cast it all in a yellow glow that would make anyone want to puke. "I, I'm--" he leaned over and retched bile and yet more whiskey in a small puddle on the sea green floor.

"Damn it, kid." The cop tugged on the back of Niall's shirt roughly, but without any real animosity. They stopped behind a long counter, and Niall pressed his fingers to a large black stamp pad, leaving his prints on the form. "What's your name, kid?" The guy coughed into his arm. Niall was getting annoyed of this guy calling him kid. He wasn't a fucking kid. Yeah, he looked young, but he was 24 fucking years old.

Niall sat there, giving his basic personal details--name, age, birthdate, residence, citizenship, place of employment--for what felt like hours. But he watched the clock ticking slowly around. It had only been a few minutes. Finally, he was taken to a cell behind that front room. "Don't I get a phone call?"

"Phones are down." He shrugged. "Sorry."

"How long will I be in here for?"

"I don't know kid," the cop wheezed, coughing again. "Probably just the night. Get some sleep."

Niall did just that, laying on his side, with his back to the gate. He wanted to cry. He had never been arrested. Never been in any trouble. He wasn't even doing anything wrong tonight. His mind bounced from thought to thought, keeping sleep at bay for several minutes, but finally his mind gave into what his body wanted. Sleep.

When he woke up, his head cleared of all the alcohol, he heard coughing and the rattling of keys. He rolled over eagerly, hoping they were coming to let him out. The cop who had arrested him was walking down the hall toward him, but Jesus, he looked terrible. His skin had lost all its color, and he looked like he hadn't slept at all. "Are you all right, sir?"

"No," he coughed weakly, shaking his head. He held up the keys. "That's why I'm here. Everybody else," he coughed again. "Dead," he barely breathed out before his eyes widened. Niall watched as he reached for his neck, coughing and spluttering. The cop fell to his knees struggling for breath, then keeled over on his back.

"Hey, are you, are you..." Niall's voice trailed off.

The cop was dead, clearly, the keys still curled in his hand.

"Shit," Niall muttered to himself. He crouched down and reached his arm through the bars. He could almost touch the guy's shoe, the body angled so his head was further away, his feet closer. Niall laid on the ground, pressing his shoulder into the bars painfully. His fingers grazed the bottom of his shoe. He stretched and strained, but always only barely reached the rigid foot of the policeman.

He sat back against the far wall and stared at the dead body, desperate tears leaking from his eyes. He was trapped. He was fucking trapped in this fucking cell. There was no one to let him out. "Fuuuuuck," he bellowed, covering his face with his hands.

Somehow that outburst gave him renewed vigor, and he tried again, reaching his hands through the gate. He just couldn't reach. He needed to pull the guy closer. He slipped off his shirt and tried to loop it over the dead man's foot. After several unsuccessful tries, the shirt finally caught. But as soon as he pulled, it slipped right off. It was so tedious, just trying to loop the shirt back over the fucking foot.

When the shirt latched over the toes again, he leaned down and tugged slowly. Carefully. And the foot moved. "Woo!" He cheered, and the shirt slipped. It was hours. He spent hours just trying to get that foot to move. He reached through the bars again, his fingernails still just scraping the bottom of the shoe.

This shit just wasn't working. He decided to try and knock the keys out of the guy's hand, and maybe drag them closer. He took off his own shoes and unlaced them. He tied the laces together, end to end, to make one long string, then he tied one end through the loop of his shoes, making sort of a grappling hook. He scooted over closer to where the guy's hand was, up by his head, sort of curled on his chest. He tossed the shoe and missed completely. He brought it back slowly.

Again and again, he cast his little line out. Again and again, the hook, er uh shoe, came back empty. A few times, he knocked the arm, and he could hear the keys jingle. But he didn't want to get too excited and screw up, so he just brought that shoe back and kept on. Throwing his shoe, pulling it back. Throwing, pulling.

And then, God, then, he hit the hand. And his heart lifted with joy, as the keys lifted into the air, and he sucked in a little breath. But the momentum of the shoe pushed them rather than pulling them, and they landed just over the cop's shoulder, just out of sight. Just out of reach.

He slumped down in exhaustion. "Fuck," he whimpered. Niall resigned himself to die in that cell, dropping his head in defeat, tears finally flowing freely. He just couldn't catch a break.

~~~~~

Um. Idk.

Thanks for reading.

Please vote and comment.

"Diddies" is apparently Irish for titties. So says the Internet. And the Internet never lies, so it must be true.

Do you ship Niall and Gemma?

Anyone have any suggestions for good Niall fics?