Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

[bouncingbabyfig]

Yay! upadatey! Very nice! Who is Tim's phone friend? Hmmmm...

 

[Ruahnna]

Hi. A doubt surged while going through Ch 104 regarding the following snipet.

Posted by Aunt Ru:
"Just give me the money and the package—I already got the address." He hefted the package, which felt empty, and eyed his erstwhile employee suspiciously. "What's in here anyway?" "Nothing important." "Look—if I'm gonna deliver this, I'm gonna know what it is. So either you tell me, or I open it up and look." He suited action to words, opening the envelope and looking. Now he really gave a look."

When you say "he" hefted the package, which felt empty, are you refering to Scribbler's boss or the currier summoned to deliver the package?
Because if it's the latter, then it would have to be changed to say that said person eyed his urstwhile "employer" suspiciously instead.
And I'm a little confused as to which of the two you meant to infer in that exchange.

Curse you, dratted typos! That is supposed to be "employer." The man who is going to deliver the package hefted it to gauge what he thought was in it. It felt empty, and when he asked what was in the package he got an evasive answer, so he opened it to look. The item he was supposed to deliver is not the usual sort of thing he delivers, so he was bewildered, but still willing to take the money and run with it. Fooey, fooey, fooey on me and my uncoordinated fingers!

BBFig--Tim is talking to his agent, who apparently knows him very well....

(Posting more soon.)

 

[bouncingbabyfig]

Agent, that's what I meant. Sorry.

 

[Ruahnna]

Chapter 106: Excursions

“Sorry to get you up and out so early, Mabel,” Clifford said, but the good-natured mole waved him off.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Miss breakfast with a bass player? Not likely!”
Clifford managed to fold himself into Mabel’s little car, his carry-on wedged in the back seat. From his point of view, he wasn’t sure Mabel could see over the steering wheel, but she seemed to manage, weaving in and out of traffic and applying the horn when necessary.
“Sure glad you came, doll,” Mabel said. “Life’s been dull since you guys left. Course—there’s always the boys, but they don’t need much looking after. Tell me what’s really going on.”
Clifford told her. Told her everything he could think of, from Scooter’s happy domestic state to Rowlf’s road-trip, about Jimmy’s visit and the true story behind the tabloid stories. He told her about Fozzie’s new fan, the Rizzo-and-Gloria Jean amiable break-up, and Kermit’s seemingly well-adjusted moping. Mabel nodded, asked questions at the right places and howled with laughter over the way Marty and Foo Foo and Jimmy and Annie Sue had helped turn the rumors inside out.
“So what’s Jimmy like?” said Mable, trying picture a younger, more playful Kermit.
“He’s a good guy,” Clifford said thoughtfully. “Funny—like Kermit. Talented—like Kermit, too. Man, you ought to see his impersonation of Kermit trailing after Piggy—it was epic!”
“That I saw,” Mabel said. “Everybody saw. The news coverage was better than the World Series.”
“Sha,” said Clifford.
“And Jimmy is Robin’s dad.”
Clifford heard the question in her voice. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I think he was pretty young when Robin was born.”
“They’re…divorced?” Mabel didn’t want to be nosy, but she was interested.
“Yeah. He and Leaper—that’s Robin’s mom—couldn’t keep it together. But it’s friendly, I think, as those things go.”
“So that’s not why Robin hands with Kermit and the Mrs.?”
“What? No. No—nothing like that. In fact, Robin went home to hang with Grandma and Grandpa before Jimmy came, but now they’re all there—everybody ‘cept Kermit is back at the swamp.”
“I guess Kermit misses the little squirt.”
“Yeah. I guess he does. Robin and Kermit—it was just meant to be.”
“Sometimes kids get born into the wrong family, or the wrong parents,” Mable said enigmatically. “So Kermit’s by his lonesome?”
“Not really,” said Clifford. “He’s living at the studio and sleeping at the big house.”
“What—no cot in his office?” Mabel teased, with no idea how prophetic that would prove.
“No—but it might come to that.”
Mabel’s little furry brown wrinkled up. “I saw somethin’ in one of the trade rags,” she said. “Movie release date’s been moved up—right?”
“Yeah—that was…weird. The timing and all. First the studio’s like, all, take the extra days, but now they’re really putting the thumb screws to Kermit and the schedule. It’s almost like….” Clifford trailed off, not wanting to sound paranoid, but Mabel reached over and patted his knee fondly.
“No—I thought the same thing. I know Kermit runs his own show, pretty much—as much as you can in this business—but it’s all interconnected. What one studio does makes all the others run around like chickens after balloons.”
“Too true,” said Clifford. “And I can’t help but think somebody with some clout is pulling strings we can’t see.”
“Why would anyone want the movie to come out early?” Mabel asked. “Trying to move it away from competition? What’s competing?”
Clifford shrugged. “Same ol’, same ol’ stuff. You know. Bug-eyed alien movies, teenage monster movies—hip, well-dressed monsters, mind you—spy thrillers that don’t make sense unless you see the 3-hour director cut, love stories….”
Clifford trailed off and Mabel took her eyes off the road for a second to peer at him.
“You know, Honey—the only person you’ve not told me about so far is you. What’s going on with you?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Clifford said. “I just…I just don’t feel like doing anything. I thought about a road trip—Rowlf’s having a good time—but I can’t make myself look for one. I’ve been picking up studio gigs once or twice, MC-ing, filled in for a buddy at a pub, but…nothing.
“You writing any music?” Mable asked. Clifford shrugged.
“Junk,” he said. “Nothing I’m proud of.”
“Maybe you need a break—a fresh scene, something different.” She patted his knee again. “You come to the right place, Clifford. We got nothing here but different.”

Piggy was quiet the next morning, but it was a watchful sort of quietness, and Rory cottoned to it after less than 30 minutes. Perhaps it was the feeling that he was being watched and found lacking—by someone else—that made him ultra-sensitive to her gaze, but he called her on it in a less-than-friendly mood.
“What?” he snapped. “Something wrong with my lifts, now?” Piggy heard the anxious edge in his voice and tempered her own temper to cut him some slack.
“Were you born on a farm?” she asked bluntly, and apropos to nothing. Rory was so flummoxed by the questions that when he set her down onto the floor, he did not release her, but continued to hold her close and gaze down into her blue, blue eyes.
“Was I—what?” he asked. “Why would you think I—oh. Oh. Right—the playbill.” He snorted. “Why—don’t I look like a corn-fed boy?”
“Well, I’m detecting lots of bull but I don’t think that means you were born on a farm,” Piggy countered neatly, and Rory burst out laughing. It took the tension out of his muscular frame and he smiled genuinely for the first time that morning.
“No—actually, I was born at St. Mary’s,” Rory said. “Same as about a gazillion other New Yorkers. Why?”
Piggy shifted microscopically in his embrace, reminding him that they were in a public place and reminding him that he was still holding her cradled in his arms even though they had stopped dancing. He blushed a little, now registering other interested eyes, and turned her neatly with one hand on her waist so that they were walking away from the crowd of dancers warming up.
Piggy waited until they were out of earshot, then looked up at him. Her eyes gave nothing away, but her words were straightforward. “I know you don’t have any spare time with me clogging up your days right now, but I need you this afternoon after practice. I need to take a ride and want you to come with me.”
Rory’s face and body registered surprise, and he put his hand on her waist again and drew her further away from the crowd. He knew from the tabloids—or thought he did—that she had been having trouble with stalkers of sorts. And a couple of the lighting guys said there had been someone lurking around the alley up the street. Was someone frightening her? Did she need him to come along for protection since hubby was far away? Or was she part of the scrutiny of his dance number—could she be the reason they were looking at the song again now? Although the thought seemed ridiculous, Rory didn’t know what he ought to think. He looked at her, at her big blue eyes and appealingly turned-up snout and tried to think what to say.
“I, er, okay,” he said meekly. “What time do you need me?”
“I want to borrow you for about couple of hours,” Piggy said, “right after rehearsal.” Her face was earnest, but gave nothing away.
“Sure. No problem,” Rory said, wondering what on earth he could do to help her.
It did not occur to him—until much later—that he ought to have been asking what she might be planning that would help him.
“Wondermous,” said Piggy. “Vous are too kind.” She took his wrist and dragged him back toward center stage. Rory tried not to smile. She did know where center stage was, and showed an uncanny knack for staying in it. And though he wondered, time and again that day, what she wanted from him, she said nothing on the topic until after rehearsal was through.

“—and that’s how come I didn’t have any cream cheese left for my bagel this morning,” Gonzo finished. Kermit nodded, listening with one ear to his old friend and still trying to overhear Fozzie’s conversation behind him. Bless the fuzzy bear, he’d been really thrilled by all of the new attention. Scooter was making subtle shoo-ing noises at everybody in the studio who didn’t belong—which was pretty much everybody—and grumbling a bit because someone had gotten the last cup of coffee from the coffee maker.
Without warning—like lightning striking, Scooter sometimes thought—Sara appeared at his elbow and kissed him like she’d been doing it forever. He sort of hoped she might follow through on that idea and keep on doing it forever.
“Mmmmwah,” she said, and smiled at him happily. “I’m on assignment on this end of town and I came by to bring you something.” Scooter hoped it wasn’t lunch—he’d already eaten—but Sara just beamed at him and pulled her hand out from behind his back. In her hand, she held his dilapidated thermos, a relic from so many nights back at the Muppet Theater that he could hardly remember its origin. She’d thought it quaint and had cleaned it and pressed it back into useful service.
“My thermos?” he said. “What’s in my thermos—oh! Oh—you are wonderful!”
Gonzo stopped his explanation of why normal physics doesn’t apply to dare-devil stunts to look a question at Kermit. Kermit shrugged.
“Could be anything,” Kermit said fondly. “Sara brings him round all sorts of treats when she’s coming by.” Both men gazed at their former gopher, considered their own lonely states, and sighed.
“But don’t drink it all at one time,” Sara said. “Or Kermit will have to peel you off the ceiling.”
“I’ll only drink the whole thing if I’m really desperate!” Scooter promised. He felt confident he could keep that promise—they were getting so much done he hadn’t felt desperate in at least two days. He walked her to the door and there was a lull in the subtle herding he’d been trying to do. Ironically, it was the cessation of his efforts that caused them to be noticed. Gonzo and Fozzie both stood, pushed in their chairs, and said their good-byes. By the time Scooter returned from walking Sara out, he and Kermit were alone.
Kermit had noticed that they were having more company at the studio than usual, and had sheepishly—and gratefully—guessed the reason for it. Everyone was worried about how he was doing with Piggy gone. Everyone was worried he’d get morose and off-track and lonely. But he was fine, Kermit thought determinedly. He was just fine.
Sadly, Kermit was a terrible liar—even to himself.

“Your offer is very much appreciated,” said Dr. Teeth expansively, swiveling lazily in his big harvest gold naugahyde easy chair. His gold-toothed smile was so wide you could almost hear it through the phone. “Let me reconnoiter with the band, but I feel certain we’re going to be able to give you an All Right! This the best number to reach you on?” He listened, scrambled for a pen on the untidy desk and finally wrote down the number on the back of a business card he’d found in his pocket. “Sure—no, not too long. I’ll send out a text and try to get back with you by this afternoon.” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “I will do my best! Cool is what we do.” He listened for a moment more, then said goodbye and closed the little phone and looked at it for a moment.
He checked the time, then hit speed dial. This was good news—he wanted to share it voice to voice instead of texting it. Floyd answered on the third ring.
“Felicitations, Mr. Bass Man,” Dr. Teeth said. “What do you and the good Lady J say to a cruise gig?”
“Well, Janice needs somewhere to wear that spanking new bikini,” Floyd admitted, and laughed his raspy laugh. “Where we going? Not Alaska, I hope—although she does have this great little snow-bunnie thing….”
Dr. Teeth’s smile was so broad it threatened to split his head open. “A woman for all seasons,” he said. “Ask her if she wants to go to St. Thomas.”

Scribbler felt light-headed from bleach fumes. If he scrubbed any more, he’d make a hole in the floor. He stood up wearily and pushed his hair back from his face. His hair felt grimy and unkempt and he wondered for the first time in a long time what he looked like. He hadn’t thought much about it—hadn’t paid much mind to his hair or his clothes or anything, really. He’d been head down in the job—if you could actually call it a job.
He pulled a paycheck, sort of, although what he was earning was hardly a living wage. Still, the boss seemed content to pick up the tab for all this…whatever this was. A vendetta of some sort, he supposed. He did not like to think that their goals were aligned, even if their interests were. The boss wanted…something bad to happen to Kermit. Well, something bad had happened. Missy was here, and Kermit was on the other coast, and if that wasn’t bad, well, he didn’t know what to say. He hoped that while she was here she’d come back to herself. He hoped she’d come back to him, but that was little more than a pipe dream now. Still the thought of her—here—in his shabby little apartment was oddly homey. Scribbler surveyed the spotless kitchen with satisfaction.
It was not that different from the first apartment he’d invited her to grace when they were both struggling. She was still just one pretty face among thousands, but she was beginning to be noticed, especially by Jim Henson and his associates. His stories were getting picked up, and he was getting bylines. It had been a hopeful time, a golden time.
Later, there had been other apartments, and other assignments, and Piggy had had her first really big break with The Muppet Show. That had necessitated a little maneuvering, what with filming out of the country, but he had managed and, of course, there had been phones back then. Not cell phones—not personal phones, much less smart ones—but phones nonetheless, and they had talked endlessly about what she was doing, and what he was doing, and more about what she was doing. And when she moved up, he was moving up too, chronicling her meteoric rise to stardom and having his own wagon pulled along. Still, despite all those apartments, despite all the places they had been—both together and separately—it was still his first little apartment that sprang to mind now. When he had been starting out. When they had been starting out, and anything was possible. Just like now.
He could see her, sitting forward on his rickety kitchen chair and stirring her coffee while she talked of being on Broadway one day. He would lean against the kitchen sink and listen to her (or sometimes, truth be told, just watch her) and, watching her, seeing the animation in those beautiful blue, blue eyes, it was impossible not to believe every single word out of her pretty little mouth. Even when he knew they weren’t true.
“Hey—you okay?” asked one of the rats. “You’re looking a little lost.” Scribbler looked down to find Elonzo looking up at him in some concern. Just visible below Elonzo’s enormous belly, Scribbler could see his dainty little feet, and his mouth quirked into a smile.
“Me? No—I’m not lost,” Scribbler said. He ran his hand through his hair again, and thought about a shower, and maybe a decent shave. “I’m just starting over.”

(This was going to be longer, but I decided to cut it into a couple of chapters.)

 

[The Count]

This makes me happy. Sorry for cutting a reply short, but I'ma hitting the sack now.
Why would you hit the sack? It didn't do anything to you.
No Bo, it's just an expression.

Night all.

 

[bouncingbabyfig]

Oh, good! Cleaning up your act is always a good place to start. I still can't believe how you've made me start to feel for scribbler. Sheesh! Amazing authors these days....

 

[newsmanfan]

------------------------------
Hmm...Scribbler isn't cleaning that place for himself. He's cleaning it for her. Poor slob...

The line about chickens chasing balloons made me stop and envision it for a long while. I have NEVER seen chickens chase balloons, and yes, I have been around chickens, had a whole war going with a bossy hen once...do they really? Balloons aren't scary? Sorry...it just messed with my head, just for a minute there...

Much as I'm happy for the Mayhem to pull a cruise gig (I hear tips on those are good, and food and room are comped), it does make me wonder if someone is indeed string-pulling to further isolate Kermit and Piggy. I think Clifford is a smart cookie.

Someone say COOKIE?

Er...over there, in that other thread, big guy! *waits 'til monster lumbers off* whew...

Anyway. Mabel's sharp as they come, and I'm betting she, Cliff, and maybe Scooter will eventually decide to go looking for a manipulator and find a Seymour and maybe even a Mysterious Bad Guy Who Reminds Me a Lot of Dr Claw. No?

Er...do you mean to say Piggy actually lived, even as roomies, with Scribbler?? WHOA. Scuse me...head exploding...going to find tea and chocolate...
--------------------

 

[The Count]

*Comes in with a replacement head for Kris taken from the four or so stashed in the crawlspace above the thread. That better? Never mind, more story please Aunt Ru.

 

[Muppetfan44]

apologizing for not responding sooner, but ooh what intrigue in this chapter-

What does Piggy need her new dance parnter for-hmm I wonder, and we see more of a glimpse of a connection between Scribbler and Piggy in the past- was there really a reltaionship there or a poor delusion of Scribbler that they were together..ooh the mystery and intrigue keeps adding...

loving it as always- can't wait to read more!

 

[bouncingbabyfig]

*Sighs and waits for more*
Love you aunty Ru!