Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

[Bridget]

I missed you Auntie Ru! Beautiful last chapter that you posted, and I am looking forward to your next one!

 

[Muppetfan44]

Begging for an update, because if I have to keep reading more awful tween ush gush on this forum I just might lose my mind!

 

[The Count]

Please, deliver us from the festering crapload of bad fics around here!

*Wonders where the heck WMG has gotten to, as she's also good for some quality fic here on these boards with her Pool Hall series. cross-promotion plug.

Vhy don't you nag Slackbot too?
C'mon, she just finished her hexcellent fic Once in a Lifetime, she needs a brake before brainstorming her next ficverse entry. And besides, we got a nice scene between Mokey as a new mother with Janken and Ma Gorg the other day.

All of which, comes back to say that we need another heaping helping of Aunt Ru's comfort fic to satisfy our current constant cravings.
Wha-huh?
Nothing, let's go back to rereading Kris's monster opus.

 

[Ruahnna]

Hi guys! I missed you bunches and bunches! But I'm baaack....

Chapter 162: A Good Night After All

(Author’s note: I am really wishing I had named my last chapter “Divine and Conquer.” Oh well.)

Marty hung up the phone and sighed, then burst out laughing because he couldn’t think what else to do about the situation. Confound the luck! Why was it these two couldn’t keep their private life private? He groused to himself, then relented immediately. It wasn’t their fault if the world had an overweening interest in their business. He grimaced. Indirectly, he supposed, it was at least partly his fault the world couldn’t get enough of Missy, whether she was onstage, onscreen or on a break, so he guessed he didn’t have a lot of room to grouse. But confound it anyway! This was going to be hard to patch up, especially after all the other things that had been hitting the news.
He’d gotten a couple of texts from Scooter right after, but by then his phone was already ringing off the wall. He’d ignored the office phone completely—let the dad-blamed journalists do their jobs—and made a few quick calls on his personal phone, setting up a platform if he decided to use it. After that, he’d simply sat back and waited for her to call him.
Poor kid had been pretty down, but trying very hard to be brave. When they had first met—when he had agreed to take her on as a client—what he had liked best about her wasn’t her good looks or even her obvious (if somewhat untrained) talent. He had liked best her panache in facing down the world which had tried to insist that there was no place on Broadway for a good-looking blonde who just happened to be a pig. Missy, well, she wasn’t having any of that, and he hadn’t let it stop her career one bit once he’d taken her under his wing.
Just look at her now! Huh! Showed what all those “talent experts” knew, didn’t it?
He’d listened quietly while she’d explained about the dance club. Then, he’d listened encouragingly as she’d explained about the phone call. Finally, he’d listened comfortingly as she’d told him the gist of her conversation with Kermit, the worry just eating at her over her poor amphibian, but she had held it in the road and asked for his advice.
“What do you think, Marty?” she had asked. “Do we go to war or try to let it blow over? Tell me what you want me to do.”
That had almost brought a tear to his eye, fool that he was. Several times lately she had been so angry at him—so injured—that he had thought he’d really blown things, and good, but when the chips were down (and kid, they were in the basement about now), she’d trusted him. He hadn’t realized how much her distance had hurt him until just then.
“I think…,” Marty had said slowly, “that I want you to just ignore this. Act like it didn’t even happen. Can you do that, Missy? Brave it out?”
Eloquently, Piggy had snorted, and he’d grinned.
“That’s it,” Marty had cried. “And if anybody asks you about it, just shine ‘em on like they’re not there.”
“Yes, Marty,” Piggy had said quietly, and Marty had almost fallen for it in the split-second before she dropped the other shoe. Unhappily, he’d waited, suspecting what was coming. “But, Marty, you have to…promise me you’ll do what you can for…for Kermie. I know you are Moi’s agent, and not his, but if…if someone goes after him for this, I don’t want you to….” She trailed off. She knew and Marty knew that if she were to appear suddenly eligible, then they might be drowned in a deluge of offers, some of them for movie roles, roles she might not be offered otherwise. Piggy was making sure he knew that she did not want those roles at the cost of Kermit’s reputation, or his heart. It had long been a sticking point with them. If Marty had been a more ruthless agent, or a more hard-hearted businessman, or if he had not genuinely cared about Piggy and her happiness, he might have pushed a different point of view. Gossip was good for business if you were fireproof, and they were, but he had known—possibly before Piggy did—that she’d never be happy, and never be her best onstage, without her frog beside her. This—this was a lark, a stunt—lots of actresses took a temporary part on Broadway to great fanfare, but she did not want the kind of fame that came at the cost of her happy home.
For such a grizzled old sinner, he sure knew when to be gentle. He’d made his voice as soothing as he could manage. “I know, kid. You don’t have to explain, and I don’t want you to worry. I’ll do everything I can,” he’d promised. “Scooter and I—we’re doing our best to build a hedge around him.”
“You’re the best,” Piggy had said then. Though it sounded like a toss-off line, Marty knew it was not.
“I’ll do my best,” Marty had insisted. “Scooter and I have a few things up our sleeves.”
“Scooter’s best is pretty scary, and your best is better than anyone’s,” Piggy had said, relief in her voice. Wanting to sustain that, he told her about the charity event.
“Mon Capitan is so good with children,” Piggy had murmured.
“Well, no actual children at the event—at least, I don’t think so, but lots of celebrities and lots of rich folks who want to rub Elmos with them.”
“Oh. Well, Kermit’s usually great in situations like that.”
“He is. And this should keep him out of trouble.”
“Knock wood,” Piggy had said, and he could feel her gathering herself to hang up.
“Hey, Missy,” he had said gently, and heard her sharp intake of breath. “No matter what happens, you’re a star—the real deal. Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, Marty,” Piggy had murmured, and hung up.

Marty put his feet up on the desk and his head back and thought. A million things occurred to him—some involving a knuckle sandwich to the next wiseacre who stepped in front of her on the street—but he forced his mind along more practical lines.
Scooter had said Kermit was going up there Wednesday, which meant they had a few days to strategize and plan. In the meantime, almost anything he could think of to do would simply be like pouring gasoline on a fire. Missy could freeze them out if she couldn’t avoid them, and by then they’d have a day or so of lovey-dovey photo ops—plus some much-needed together-time. Marty stretched out and reached for the picture of Frieda on his desk, kissed his finger and touched the silver frame.
“Sure do miss you, Doll,” he said quietly, but there was—regrettably—no reply.

Sara met him at the door in her pajamas. Although it was obvious she had been in bed, she had not been asleep. Scooter smiled wearily when he saw her, kissed her cheek and caught her hand, pulling her after him toward their room.
She climbed back into bed while he undressed, loving the neat way he hung up his tie, lined his shoes up under the bed and hung his belt over the butler, talking all the while. She listened as he explained about the party, the “unfortunate incident", his attempts at damage control (or containment), and his eventual visit to Kermit’s house. A lot of this was not news to her, but Scooter’s perspective on things was, and she listened attentively to his take on things.
“—so by the time I got there, half the gang were there. Fozzie, Gonzo, Rizzo, and even Pepe.”
“Aw,” said Sara. “That was sweet.”
Scooter snorted. “Yeah. Sweet. They came bearing junk food and a bottle.”
Sara looked at him in surprise. “Seriously? Fozzie?”
“Well, Fozzie brought the pretzels. It was a group effort.”
Sara looked anxious, and her face said it all. There were soooo maaannnny ways that could have gone wrong.
“Yeah,” Scooter said, turning at last and flopping down on the bed with his head pillowed in her lap. “That’s what I thought, but it was…it was surprisingly okay. More maudlin than rowdy.”
Sara stroked his face, brushing the hair back from his ears, and leaned down to kiss him. “Maudlin,” she murmured. “As in, he misses Piggy?”
“Yeah,” said Scooter tiredly. “And Jim.”
“Oh!” Sara’s voice was soft.
“Yeah,” Scooter said again. “Kermit’s a little…homesick? You know?”
“I do,” said Sara, and kissed him. This time, Scooter’s hand tangled in her hair. While their lips remained fused together, she shifted and he shifted until they were snuggled fully into each other’s arms, and being homesick was the furthest thing from their minds.

Piggy was giving the performance of her lifetime. Seymour was insistent, and he was a foul, hateful bore, but she laughed charmingly as she allowed herself to be pulled onto the dance floor and hauled into his arms.
Kermit could be commanding. He could be forceful. When he demanded she follow his lead, she usually couldn't help but melt and comply. He was...wonderful when he was like that, but only because he had earned the right to ask her to trust him, only because she knew she would be safe and cared for in his arms.
Dancing with Seymour was...clingy. She kept feeling like his hands were sliding where they ought not go, or her dress was shifting because he was holding her too tight or...something. Plus, she couldn't put her head on his shoulder or look comfortably over his ear. He gazed into her eyes with such intensity that she felt uncomfortable, and she stumbled and blushed and missed her steps over and over. It was a miserable experience, and she made a miserable showing. Seymour seemed aware of her lack of focus as well, and though he smiled, his lips set in a thin line and his back remained unnaturally straight. She did her best to be accommodating, convinced, somehow, that this would help Kermit.
Where was Kermit? She tried to look around, to see his reassuring face at the table, but Seymour pulled her sharply around and pressed her closer. She tried to pull back, but could not, and now Seymour was pouting, scowling at her.
“Please let go,” Piggy said tightly, trying not to lose it. Where was Kermit? Why wasn’t he coming to rescue her? Seymour led her around the floor and she managed, with difficulty, to look back toward where Kermit had been (where had Kermit been?) but saw, to her surprise and consternation that Kermit was surrounded by a bevy of shapely starlets. She strained around to look and saw Kermit, his hand around one particular woman’s curves….
“See?” Seymour whispered near her ear. “He’s doing just fine without you. Maybe now you’ll reconsider—“
Piggy pushed away from her dance partner, fury and disgust on her face, but he clung clammily to her and she couldn’t break contact. She fought a rising sense of panic—she needed to get away, needed to get to Kermit, needed to make that frog-stealing woman go away! She tugged again, trying to release herself from Seymour’s damp grasp, but his other hand was closing on her elbow, she was being drawn back in, she was looking for Kermit but Kermit was laughing and talking, his hand around—
“No! Let me go!” She lashed out, connected with a solid thump, and there was a muffled exclamation, then a very distinct “ow.” But it didn’t sound like Seymour. It sounded like…oh. She fumbled for the lamp and turned it on, but Rory’s hand was already there and she shrieked at the contact. “Let go—oh, let go!” The lamplight revealed a disheveled Rory in sleep pants, holding his cheek and looking at her with concern with one hand held out protectively in front of him.
“I did,” Rory said patiently. “I did let go.”
Then why did she still feel Seymour’s grasping…oh. The sheets, damp with perspiration, were clinging to her, and Piggy fought her way out of the covers. She stood and reached for Rory’s face, surveying his reddening cheek with chagrin.
“Moi is so sorry,” she said. “It was…I was having a bad dream.”
“Yeah,” said Rory, gently removing her hand and pulling her down with him on the couch. She had lost the battle about staying over, but had won the battle about not driving them out of their own bed. The couch, which had been neatly made up into a bed now looked like a war zone where she had tossed and turned and thrashed. “We, um, heard.”
“Sorry,” Piggy whispered, feeling the sharp prick of tears.
Rory reached out and put an arm around her shoulder. “Not a problem, partner. Want to, um, talk about it?”
“Not really,” she mumbled.
Chad’s worried form peered around the doorway. “Everything okay?” He looked tousled and distressed, all but wringing his hands—like a Greek statue come to life to bemoan the state of the world.
Piggy shrugged eloquently and Rory shook his head, so Chad came and sat down next to them. He put his arm around Piggy’s waist, under Rory’s, and patted her soothingly, but his eyes widened a little at the mark on Rory’s face.
“Bad dream,” said Rory.
“Oh,” said Chad. “No wonder. It’s full moon.”
“That would explain why the whole world’s crazy,” Rory said, and they all began to laugh.

The bus hit a crater the size of a Volkswagen and Rowlf jolted awake, squinting around in the dark. They had opted to spend their night on the road instead of another night in the less-than-four-star hotel, but sleeping on the bus required a certain amount of…maneuvering. Jolalene was curled up against his shoulder and someone—Rowlf turned and squinted around—Dizzy, apparently, was drooling on his back, the remains of Slinker’s hat clutched in his hand. Malachi was curled up upside-down, with his head on Dizzy’s stomach. Careful not to dislodge anyone, Rowlf stuck his head into the aisle. Slinker grinned at him in the bus’s big rear-view mirror.
“Want a turn at the wheel? It’s great if you need a little alone time.”
Rowlf shook his head, smiling. “Nope. I’m fine—unless you need a break.”
“Not me. I could drive all night.” He tapped his temple. “Best time in the world for writing songs in your head.”
“Can’t wait to hear ‘em,” Rowlf said. He settled back down and Jolalene let out a sleepy sigh and tucked her cold nose under his chin. He tightened his arm around her shoulders and grinned. This was the life. Good music, good vittles and sleeping like a pile of pups as the bus raced through the night. He could get used to this.
Dizzy mumbled something and stretched, kneeing Rowlf in the kidneys, and the good-natured canine winced and sighed. Of course, there was something to be said for home. He wondered what Kermit was up to, wondered how things were working out with Clifford and his new love. He hoped Fozzie was doing well, riding the crest of his success in Vegas. He thought about Newsie and wondered how he was keeping up with Gina; he hadn’t seen the Newsman smile so much since he’d been given worker’s comp coverage. He wondered how the band was doing, sailing the seven seas—well, one of them, anyway. In spite of being largely content, some small part of him was still restless, unsettled.
Jolalene let out a little whine and he stroked her back until she relaxed. This was nice. It was. It was feeding a part of his entertainer’s soul that hadn’t been fed in a while. He liked hanging with the band, especially liked hanging with other dogs, but it wasn’t…well, it wasn’t home. But home wasn’t going anywhere, he reminded himself. If would be there when he got back, whenever that happened to be.
“Rowlf?” He felt the drummer stir beside him.
“Yeah, Dizz. What’s up, man?”
“Um, hey dude, sorry for drooling. Was I snoring?”
“Little bit.”
“Oh, like, sorry and all.”
“No problem.”
Dizzy peered over his shoulder and saw Jo asleep, her paws tucked against her chest. “Dang. She looks so…harmless when she’s sleeping,” Dizzy said, and they both started chortling.
“She does at that,” Rowlf agreed. “But you can’t tell just by looking.”
“Doesn’t stop you both from looking, all the same,” Jo murmured without opening her eyes. Rowlf and Dizzy exchange wide-eyed looks of surprise, grinning at each other. “Shut up and go back to sleep,” Jo said, snuggling in.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Rowlf. Dizzy draped himself across Rowlf’s back, mindful of Malachi’s head resting on his tummy and soon Rowlf heard the soft, snuffling snores that told him the drummer had fallen asleep. Determinedly, he closed his eyes, and followed the drummer’s lead.

Morning on the East Coast was better than expected. Toast with butter and marmalade washed down with lots of hot coffee is not a bad way to start your morning, and Piggy found that an eventual good night’s rest was almost as good as an uninterrupted one. They did not turn on the news—there was only a tiny television anyway—and no one volunteered to go out for a paper. There was nothing to be gained by rushing headlong into unpleasantness, and besides, Marty had said the best thing was to ignore the whole incident. Still, not for nothing was Piggy a born drama queen, and she had been rehearsing lines in her head all morning for when she was, inevitably, accosted by the hounds of journalism. In the midst of her determination to ignore the news and prepare for the attack of the paparazzi, Piggy’s thoughts nevertheless strayed to Fleet, wondering what he would make of this latest debacle.
He had said he was sorry—fat chance! Piggy’s mouth set in a pout. She wondered what sort of vitriol his rag would be spewing today, wondered what sort of monster encouraged that kind of reporting, anyway. Still, she thought guiltily, he had come to her rescue—not once, but twice—and that might count for something in the long run. Piggy worried that thought like a bone, pulling and gnawing it around until her head felt like it might explode. Obviously she’d had too much coffee—or not enough—and she went and filled her mug again.
Fleet had come to her rescue on the street, but at the restaurant, it was…that was different. Had she really been in peril then? Here in the safety of Rory and Chad’s little kitchen, that conclusion seemed ridiculous, the height of paranoia. She had not been in any real danger with Seymour. He had only been overcome with admiration and had acted ridiculous. Piggy had seen it many times, had withstood more than one swooning director in her day. Holding her cup to her lips, Piggy smiled. Is that what had made Kermit stand out at first? That he hadn’t fallen all over himself, hadn’t tried to ingratiate himself or demand some sort of icky submission to fawning attention? Kermit had never fawned. Even now, even with everything they had been to each other, Kermit refused to toady to her when she was in an imperious mood. He would help her, hold her and love her, but he did not entertain groundless tantrums. (Legitimate tantrums were another matter entirely). Notwithstanding the imbalance of power inherent in working for someone, they had always met (or argued) as equals.
She thought of poor Kermie, the target of a thousand poison pens, and her eyes pricked with tears that she blinked hastily away. If only she had thought to charge her phone! If only she had not come to New York! On her own, she would never have come! (Would she have come?) After all, it was Kermit’s fault she had come! The mutiny inherent in that thought alarmed Piggy. Was she actually mad at him for insisting she take this marvelous opportunity? Could she really be that small, to blame him for being so self-sacrificing as to do without her so she could star on Broadway? She gulped the last of her coffee and put the cup down on the counter, needing to breathe, needing to move.
She found Rory in his room, methodically folding and putting away shirts in a drawer. For a moment, she stared, fascinated—apparently you could get more things in a drawer if you folded them!—but then she was plucking at his straining sleeve.
“We need to go. We need to get to the theater.”
Rory swung around to look at his alarm clock. “What? It’s not time yet—“
“But we have a matinee!” Piggy said irritably.
“Yes, we have a matinee in two and a half hours, but—“
“I’ll call Moishe,” Piggy said, turning away. “He’ll come get Moi and take me now.”
“Hold on. Hold on, Piggy. If you want to go now, we’ll go now.”
Chad appeared in the doorway, dressed but still damp-headed. He preferred to air-dry his dark locks, especially in the winter, but was dressed for warmth in a collared dress shirt, untucked, under a silk sweater. He, too, had a matinee. “Going to the theater now?” he asked, shooting Rory a look.
“Apparently,” said Rory dryly, and Piggy turned on him.
“Moi is perfectly capable of going by myself. I just thought—“
Rory reached out and snagged her arm, pulled her toward him and stopped her nervous fluttering by the simple expedient of holding her immobile in his arms. Even so, she vibrated like a jackhammer, strung with some incredible urgency.
“I misspoke,” he said carefully to Chad. “We are going to the theater, right this minute, as soon as we both put on our coats.”
“Good idea,” Chad said, looking at the alarm clock but still giving Rory a wide-eyed look of confusion. “No sense waiting until the last minute. I’m about to leave myself.” Above Piggy’s head, they were trading looks. What’s going on? Chad implored, pointing at Piggy’s blond head with his chin. I have no idea, Rory’s expression said plainly, but I’m not going to argue with her.
Sheepish but remarkably compliant, Piggy let herself be buttoned into her coat and hustled out the door. Rory hailed a cab and hurried her into it before someone could recognize her distinctive figure and they made their way uptown at a crawl. In the warmth of the cab, Rory turned and regarded her carefully composed face, knowing it for the façade it was.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked gently, but she shook her head.
“Moi is fine,” she said primly. He couldn’t decide whether to smile or sigh. Whatever happened now, she was steeling herself for it, and that couldn’t be a bad thing.

Morning in Vegas was…blissful.
Tricia had come in starving the night before and Clifford and Mabel had sat her down at the kitchen table and doled out potato soup and thick, crusty bread with garlic butter and they had finished up with brownies crowned with butter-pecan ice-cream. When Tricia had first come to Mabel, fragile and defiant and angry, she had been nothing but skin and bones, her silhouette illustrating more clearly than words the lack of softness in her life up to that point. It had taken Tricia months to stop marveling at a fridge that was usually full, and a bed to call her own. Of course, at that time, there had been other kids at home, so Tricia had spent a lot of time watching, (“decoding” Mabel liked to call it), deciding what was real and what was true before she felt brave enough to act on it. Somewhere in the midst of all the warm, furry bodies banging in and out the door (and occasionally the bathroom when you were trying to take a shower!), and the laughter and teasing that accompanied a big, noisy, happy family, Tricia began to relax, began to lay tentative claim to the happiness that had been laid out for her like a clean change of clothes.
As the hollowness in her leg eased—Tricia couldn’t know how it had pleased Mabel to see her hollow cheeks fill out and bloom with color—the hollowness inside had eased as well, and Tricia had found happiness and home in the same place.
After dinner, Mabel had washed the handful of dishes, kissed them both on their foreheads and gone to bed. “Got an early morning, covering for one of the girls what has an audition,” she’d said. “Told her I’d cover her breakfast shift.” She’d smiled at them, pausing at the kitchen door. “Don’t stay up too late,” Mabel had said. “Go on to bed soon.”
After she left, Clifford and Tricia had blushed and grinned, wondering whether Mabel knew or had guessed or was simply wishing them good night. Sheepishly, they’d trailed out of the kitchen in to the dark living room and settled onto the couch, which would later double as Clifford’s bed. They’d sat and smooched, not talking. The food had made Tricia full and sleepy, and it was already late, but after about three of Clifford’s best kisses, she’d been wide awake. She’d wrapped her arms around his shoulders, slid onto his lap and covered him with a frenzy of little kisses. Clifford had laughed, trying to fend her off, but smiling.
“Whoa, whoa,” he’d teased.
“Not what you said before,” Tricia had mumbled, and bit him on the neck.
“Not what I meant before,” Clifford murmured, and he’d held her still while he kissed her slowly. They’d broken apart, smiling at each other.
“It’s very late.”
“Yes,” said Tricia. “It is.”
“You’re recording again tomorrow.”
“Yes. We are recording again tomorrow.” She’d grinned at him, agreeable to a fault.
“Your mom said we should go to bed,” Clifford had said ruefully.
“We should,” said Tricia.
Clifford had blushed. She’d felt the heat rising off his skin in the dark.
“I don’t think—“ Clifford had began, and then he couldn’t any more.

Morning on the West Coast wasn’t horrible. It was late, but not as excruciating as Kermit had expected it to be once he’d sobered up and figured out how un-sober he had been. True, the sun seemed very bright indeed, and while the shower felt marvelous, it sounded loud. He had drunk half a pot of coffee before he felt relatively amphibian again.
His unplanned houseguests had gotten up, mumbled into their coffee and trudged out. After the coffee and the first full night’s sleep he’d gotten in a long while, Kermit had a bowl of Toasted Grasshoppers with blueberries and some leftover nuggets from the Loving Kernel. They had eaten all of the jalapeño cheese ones and all that were left were mozzarella, but those were good, too. He talked to Scooter, sounding pretty chipper, to get the particulars on the charity event and talked through a couple of things they had left hanging yesterday, but when he hung up and contemplated spending the afternoon with a bunch of fellow thespians and fans, it didn’t sound like a bad day’s work.
After much thought, he was going to wear his tux and cufflinks from the Academy Awards—might as well do this up right. He suspected people would want to see the—now—infamous cufflinks, and he might as well cater to the public. Anything for the kids, right? How bad could it be?
He picked up his phone and looked at it. Scooter had changed his outgoing message, directing all calls to him or Marty, and blocked all but a few phone numbers. Kermit grimaced, then let out a big breath, clearing his head of distractions. He called Piggy.
It rang three times, and he had just about concluded that she must be in the shower or something when she answered, breathless and cooing.
“Ooh, Mon Kermie, how are vous?”
“I’m good, Sweetie. Are you…are you okay?”
“Moi is wonderful,” she said, her voice bright. “I am getting ready for my matinee!”
Kermit looked at his watch. Already? She was at the theater already? Oh—maybe to avoid the rabid press.
“Well, break a leg, okay, Honey? I’ve got that charity thing, so I’ll probably be at that when you get out, but I’ll…um, look, you call me when you get a break, okay?”
“And you are really…okay?” Her voice had lost its bright veneer. She was asking about him, wanting to know he was all right.
“I’m fine. You, um, are things okay there?”
“Things are fine,” Piggy said briskly. “Marty was very helpful.”
“Marty has been very helpful. Tell him…tell him I appreciate him.”
“Moi will tell him.”
“Piggy, I—“
“Kermit, don’t—“
They trailed off, smiling at each other on opposite coasts.
“Love you, Mon Capitan.”
“Love you, too.”
“Bye. Kissy, kissy.”
“Good-bye.”
Kermit hung up, still smiling. No matter what life threw at them, they stood up under it. Oh! Blast and darn. He’d meant to tell her about the trip, tell her he was coming next Wednesday, but it had slipped his mind last night because of the, well, and he had not thought of it while they were talking just now. He would tell her when they talked later today. He smiled, imagining her reaction when he told her he would be there soon, ready to claim those kisses in person.
Yesterday had been…bad. But today, well, by the end of the day, he knew he’d feel better about everything.

 

[The Count]

What's that you said about a chapter title change? *Wish granted.

*Sits back to delightedly soak in the new chapter, typo fixing and thoughts to come later.

 

[The Count]

Well, if noone's going to, I'll just post my own thoughts here then.

In the three instances of Marty listening to Piggy's phone conversation, there's the wonderful Ru wordplay we've come to expect.
Dunno what the expression to "hold it in the road" means though.
*Laughs at the "rubbing Elmos" line.
: Sheesh, a running gag.

Glad that Marty has Piggy's trust through everything that's happened so far.

There's an actual item called a "butler"? Great, now you've got me picturing Carter standing there with Scooter's belt hanging off of him, turned away so as to give him and Sara some semblance of privacy. Yeah, obscure Muppet character cameos, blame my mind for that.

The segment where Piggy's dancing with Seymour... At first I thought, is this a second "date"? But I kind of thought no, wait, it can't be... And then sure enough my hunch paid off, dream sequence.
The certain woman Kermit was with at the table in the bad dream... Karen?

The entire bit on the bus with Rowlf was just right in every sense.
When Slinker says he could drive all night... The next thing you know we're expecting is for him to thunk down headfirst on the bus's steering wheel. And then Rowlf just glibly says "Right" as the bus keeps running... And then rauckus music blares out as Slinker shouts "I'm up, I'm up, I'm up!" at the same time the instrumental intro to "Can You Picture That?" is in the air. Curse you engrained Muppet fandom!
You say that like it's a bad thing.
*Hands Walter a copy of this most heavy-duty narrative for him to skim through.

You've made me a fan of both Jolalene and Tricia, and these two segments prove how well original characters can fit right into the fold.

Posted by Ru: "Yesterday had been…bad. But today, well, by the end of the day, he knew he’d feel better about everything."
And that's what we in the biz like to call foreshadowing, telling us something will happen without actually telling us what's happened, yet.

Thankses as always, hope for more when it's ready.

 

[Ruahnna]

Yes, a butler is a piece of furniture (sorry, Carver). It has a stool base (to sit on to lace your shoes), a tall coat hanger back (think the tall back of a chair), some have hooks for belts and ties and some have a tray for things like watches and cuff links. I adore them as an archaic and charming piece of furniture but can interest no one in my house in having one in their room.

Glad you enjoyed the bus scene. I think Rowlf deserved a good old-fashioned road trip, and we're about to launch another band on the road when the Vittles go on tour. An entertainer's life is often very transient and I wanted to show that, at least partly because the muppets have their theatre/studio home to contrast.

Thank you for the comments. As I've said before, comments are how we get "paid" to write fanfic, and my purse is rather empty lately. I supposed I'll have to write more....

 

[The Count]

Heh, yes, I suppose you'll have to, write more that is. Especially if you'd want to appease your ushgush sister, a Muppetfan from D.C., by getting the frog and the pig back together again again.

 

[The Count]

Thanks to the recent Frog News bit Kermit did, we now know he wasn't in any real danger during the freezer incident. Sure, he turned into a frogcicle, but he's got that internal glucose to feed off of in hibernation. Either that or it's just a matter of smacking him around a couple of times like when they filmed the gulag scenes for MMW.
It's terrible. I've got no pulse, no nothing, I mean it's worse than Harrison Ford braking his leg.
Oooh, you went there?

*Wonders if the problems with the current batch of financial backers could be solved with one quick call to Billy. Yes, spent the afternoon rereading that fic.

 

[Ruahnna]

Thanks to the recent Frog News bit Kermit did, we now know he wasn't in any real danger during the freezer incident. Sure, he turned into a frogcicle, but he's got that internal glucose to feed off of in hibernation. Either that or it's just a matter of smacking him around a couple of times like when they filmed the gulag scenes for MMW.
It's terrible. I've got no pulse, no nothing, I mean it's worse than Harrison Ford braking his leg.
Oooh, you went there?

*Wonders if the problems with the current batch of financial backers could be solved with one quick call to Billy. Yes, spent the afternoon rereading that fic.

What frog news bit?