I don't own the rights to Bread, and you're all probably lucky I don't.

Wow, a lot has changed since I last updated this. I have graduated from school, I have almost finished my HSCs (one exam left on the 3rd of November and then freedom!) and for anyone who knows me on tumblr... which, to be fair, is a majority of the active Bread fandom considering our teeny fan base, something amazing and life changing happened to me. Even though I've told this numerous times, I jump at a chance to tell it, so...

On the 29th of May, 2015, I had an annoying song stuck in my head, and so I decided I would listen to some music I actually liked. I was planning on listening to some MCR, except suddenly a song I hadn't fully listened to in years popped into my head. I typed it into Youtube, and saw the music video was steampunk. Loving that genre, I clicked on it immediately. The music was better than I remembered, and there was also a certain extremely attractuve singer that I noticed properly for the first time in this video... Yeah, I basically fell in love with Brendon Urie. Which was a big deal for me. And dayum, he is precious... ahem.

Okay. Anyway. On with the fic.

"Tina!"

The door jingled, and for a fleeting moment Martina saw, in her mind's eye, Joey Boswell sloping back into the shop. But the coarse accent cut through that thought, and she found herself questioning whether or not this was worse. Joey, the man who had barged into her shop and pathetically attempted to charm her (to no avail, of course; Martina was not the kind of woman who fell for 'charm'- not any more, at least) was irritating, but she barely knew him and hoped that she would not have to encounter him again. This man, however, was far worse- because Martina had to deal with his unwanted advances and seedy winks on a day to day basis. She wasn't sure what he saw in her, his type usually being naive blonde girls who were all too willing to wait on him hand and foot, and yet for some reason he had taken a shine to Martina and never ceased to irritate her.

"Shifty," she muttered through gritted teeth, her tone shaping it into more of a derogatory comment than a greeting. Sure enough, Shifty's unshaven face popped up beside her, looking just as scruffy and aggravating as ever.

"Mornin', Tina," he grinned at her, and his thick Irish brogue made her skin crawl. Irish accents had not bothered her before she met him, but now she abhorred them. There was a pause, and then he held up a cardboard tray, bearing two cups of what was unmistakeably cheap takeaway coffee, the kind they sold for a pound at the petrol station; Martina did not suppress her grimace.

"I got you a coffee," he announced, as if what he had done was not obvious. She took the flimsy cup he indicated to without thanking him, knowing that it was rude not to, but not caring. Shifty watched her carefully, and she wanted to toss the coffee in his face, knowing all too well what he had done. Instead, she feigned taking a sip, though her lips were pursed so slightly that the festering liquid didn't touch them. He seemed to believe her, because the smugness in his eyes increased.

"How 'as yer morning been?" he drawled, stepping around her and pulling off his patchy coat. His tattoos stared up at her from his arms, several girls' names in cursive that were scrawled down each limb, and she scowled at each one, pitying whoever Betty, Andrea, Kayla, Britney and the rest of them were. The poor, naiive people, having dated him. He wore the names like trophies, and it disgusted her each time she realised that he was hoping one day her name would join the lineup.

"So, Tina, I was wonderin'," Shifty hedged, and Martina gritted her teeth; she knew what was coming. Sure enough, a hand reached up to clap on her shoulder, and she cringed, feeling the desire to wash herself where he had touched her. Who knew where his hand had been that morning...

"I was wonderin' if you'd like, y'know," he laughed, the sound so false it set Martina's teeth on edge. "To go fer a round of drinks tonight?"

Martina reached out, gingerly lifting Shifty's hand from her shoulder and dropping it as if it were a dead fish.

"Shifty, how many times do I have to tell you this before it gets through yer thick skull?" she snapped, turning around to look him in the eyes, though the gleam of lust she always saw there, as if she was a prize he could not wait to win, never failed to repulse her. "I will not ever go out with you again. Never. Not for a round of drinks, not for lunch, not 'to your place' for a 'nightcap'. Never."

The expression on his tanned, leathery face was akin to condescending, as if she was too much of a 'weak, feeble woman' to realise how 'brilliant' he was. Every day, she seemed to find new things to loathe about Shifty, or perhaps her hatred for him merely increased every second she spent in his company. She shook her head, turning away from him. He was persistent, however, and reached out (and up- she was a good four inches above him in her stacked boots), to twirl a lock of her hair, in a manner that he thought was romantic, but that made her skin crawl. He was growing increasingly more touchy with her, not respecting her boundaries, and to say it was getting on her nerves would be a severe understatement.

"Come on, Tina. Don't play hard to get. I know you want to-"

Oh, no. He did not just say that. It was Martina's Beserk button; her hands clenched into tight fists, and it took a lot of restraint not to slam one into his face. Breaking his nose would have been satisfying, but it would probably also get her arrested.

"Listen, you little snake," she seethed, narrowing her eyes. "If a girl says No to you, it doesn't mean she's playing 'ard to get, it means she doesn't like you, so before you-"

The door jingled; Angela, the receptionist, had appeared in the room, and her eyes were wide as she took in Shifty and Martina, Shifty leaning in intimately, Martina looking as though she was about to throttle him.

"Hi," she said slowly, eyes flicking between the two of them, looking almost pitying. Martina's blood boiled; the thing that was the most irritating about Shifty was his ability to charm others, somehow making himself seem the picture of innocence so few people- with the exception of Julie- realised just how truly disgusting he was. Even Celia, poor Celia, who could do so much better-

"Tina's just 'avin a bad day," Shifty purred, as if Martina wasn't there. Angela nodded sympathetically, slipping off her kitschy pink coat and taking her place behind the desk, booting up the computer. When she was sufficiently distracted, Shifty's lips found Martina's ear, or the closest possible part of her they could reach.

"I love your 'air like this," he whispered, stroking the strand that he had caught hold of one last time.

"I'm dying it tonight," Martina said flatly, pulling away and picking up the coffee that he had presented her with. He paused, before winking one dirt-brown eye at her. He would never give up, she realised- and he had a girlfriend as far as she knew, some skinny ginger thing who cooked most of his meals for him. Her name was Cherise, but she had not made Shifty's tattooed honour list, yet. Some girls never did, no matter hownlong the relationship with him was. When the snake had slipped into the back room for a smoke, something Martina constantly snapped at him not to do, but which he did anyway, she snuck over to the sink, pulling the cheap plastic lid off the coffee and sniffing it carefully, being wary not to inhale deeply...

He was clever, in an utterly evil manner. The cheap coffee he bought smelled so strong and harsh, like paint stripper, that the aroma was almost enough to mask anything. Almost, except Martina had trained herself, and had a keen sense of smell. She could pick it up; the slight, chemical undertone that lay in the coffee, and a closer look confirmed the traces of powder that had not yet dissolved, gathering at the edges of the cup.

Promptly, Martina tipped it, letting the substance disappear down the drain. She didn't know what he was trying to slip her, but she knew that it would not be to her benefit.

"-Just got this last bit, and then it's done."

The buzzing of the needle continued in a persistent drone as Martina carefully drove it around the outline she was working on. She could tell her client was tensed, but he was enduring it. He was a familiar, someone she had tatted on numerous occasions, and he was a pro at handling the pain. This was admittedly her favourite kind of customer to be working with, the kind who barely complained and who didn't bitch or shriek at the artist as they worked, as if they were forcing them to get the tattoo. She shot a sympathetic glance at Celia, who was working on a teenage girl shrieking as if her arm was being pulled off- not only for the irritating attitude of the girl, but also because she had demanded that she have queen Elsa tattooed across the majority of her back, something she would inevitably regret in less than a year's time.

"This is sick," Martina's client commented gruffly, examining his arm as she completed the artwork. "Sh*t, thank you so much,"

"That's all good, Max," Martina smiled wryly at him, before pausing for a moment, pressing the sterile towel to the wound on his arm once more. The image had been coming along well; it was a long process, yet definitely worthwhile. He had been in the chair for what must have been well over three hours, and this had been his third session altogether in shaping the tattoo- it had to be outlined, then coloured, and finally shaded- but he had been patient and appreciative while his skin transformed.

The piece finally finished, she carefully cleaned and wrapped his arm, the dark image glistening through the clear wrap. It was a graphic angel, her wings spread behind her, the image shaded heavily, and Max seemed endlessly proud of it.

"This is the sh*t," he decided, inspecting his arm from multiple angles, before smiling at Martina. She smiled back, her face genuine and soft for once; it was one of her simple joys in life, seeing a tattoo finished and the satisfaction on a client's face. As he settled payment with Angela at the counter, Martina set about cleaning her station, sterilising instruments and peeling off her thick latex gloves, the skin underneath hot, red from having been trapped for so long. The eclectic clock hanging crookedly on the wall informed her that it was twelve pm, and she seemed due for a break, especially since she had no appointments booked in for another hour and a half. Another misconception was that all tattoo studios were places that customers could waltz into and expect to be tatted instantly; Wild Hearts was, as parlours went, on the higher end, and therefore people had to schedule their appointments.

"I'm just heading out," she announced to her colleagues- just Angela and Celia at the moment, since Julie was taking one of her days off today (Martina suspected that she, no doubt, would be nursing a hangover with black coffee as she often did on days off), and Shifty had gone God knows where on his break- though knowing him, Martina suspected it was with a girl, somewhere neither of them could be seen. There was a soft smile from Angela and a murmur of acknowledgement from Celia in response and she headed out, the fresh air biting at her skin as she did.

It was late July, allegedly summer, but that meant little in liverpool; there was the beginning of rain, scattering drops on the road; Martina slipped her arms into her heavy coat, tucking the hood over her hair and heading towards the chippy a block away, the closest place that she could grab some kind of quick food (on the high street there lay numerous cafes, of course, but they were the kind that served quinoa and spinach salads for seven quid and took a good half hour to get round to preparing your food; Martina had little patience with those places). Greasy air and the scent of hot fat assaulted her as she stepped inside, and she was met with the usual fanfare; people's eyes swivelled towards her, taking in her towering frame, the makeup and unusual clothing, the thick columns of her boots. She merely stared back, raising a painted eyebrow at one woman gawking at her like some escaped animal until the woman grew uncomfortable, turning away.

Martina was used to it. Bloody idiots, she thought cynically. As if she was some strange, dangerous species. An alien. Because she wore different clothes; she often laughed bitterly at how stupid that concept was. It was nothing but different packaging, a different lick of paint. It didn't make her a different creature, merely someone unafraid to express herself.

She ordered, and slumped against the wall while she waited for her food, tracing patterns along her arm idly as she did; though the coat covered her skin, she knew the swirls and lines that painted her skin by heart, could almost feel them through the thick wool as she did.

"Your hair is pretty,"

Martina looked down, startled by the young, stilted voice. A small girl beamed up at her, showing off the wet gap where one of her milky teeth was missing. She was tiny, Martina noted, so small that her head barely reached Martina's kneecaps.

Martina seldom smiled genuinely, but there was something about this small girl's enthusiasm that pleased her; children often took in her height and "scary" clothing and skittered away, or in the most extreme cases whispered that she was a witch or a monster, depending on her attire. Now, however, this girl's eyes were bright as she took in Martina's form, and she found her painted lips curving up her face in a smile.

"Thanks, love," The startling height difference between her and the child was unnerving, and she bobbed down carefully, a little closer to the girl's level.

"My cat has black and white fur like that. I wish I had black and white hair too, because then I would match her," the little girl babbled naively, reaching up. Martina flinched reflexively as a tiny hand fiddled with a lock of her hair, but at the tiny giggle the girl made, she relaxed a little.

"Maybe when you're older, you can have black and white hair too," she informed her, and it was worth seeing the bright smile that graced the child's face. Tiny, rounded hands clapped together excitedly.

"Really? Then Kitty and I will look like sisters!" She crowed. As Martina smiled, the girl's eyes widened further, and they dipped down; Martina realised, with a jolt, what she was looking at; the lines of her tattoo that began curling over her collarbones.

"Pretty picture," she gasped, eyes filled with awe. And Martina smiled at the irony of it; this little girl was so young and naiive, and yet she understood the point of tattoos more than many judgemental adults did. They weren't 'cries for attention' or 'satantic rituals'. They were art or, as the girl put it in her simpler manner, pretty pictures.

Martina peeled her coat off carefully, revealing her arms. The girl gasped in delight, running her fingers over Martina's arms. The woman was usually opposed to being touched like that, yet she found it sweet and most definitely interesting to have her tattoos examined from a child's perspective. The girl's tiny, chubby fingers ran along them and she giggled her excitement.

"Pretty!" she looked up, her face suddenly businesslike, plump lips set. "Why do you have pretty skin? Are you a fairy?"

A fairy. It was the polar opposite of what Martina was usually referred to, by children and adults alike, and it made her laugh- a far less cynical chortle than she usually opted for.

"Maybe," she winked at the girl, surprising herself with how much she enjoyed adding to the little girl's sense of wonder. "Maybe I-"

"Get away from my daughter, you freak!"

The bubble popped, abruptly. Martina was pulled back, from the childlike realm where fairies existed and pretty pictures glowed proudly for others to see, back into reality- the land of harsh criticism. Arms encircled the girl, tugging her away; Martina looked up from her crouch to see a woman, fussing over the child frantically.

"Did she hurt you, Mary? Did she give you anything bad to drink?"

Martina snorted, drawing herself to her full height, smug that she stood a good foot over the woman at this point. "Are you implying I gave your daughter alcohol?"

The woman looked up, face flushed, eyes slitted as she appraised Martina in disgust. She pulled the protesting girl closer into her arms, squeezing her against her chest like a doll.

"Well, who knows what your type would do?" she snapped, voice as brittle as glass. Martina's face grew stonier at the words your type, a phrase which she despised hearing.

"She's a fairy, Mummie," the girl announced, voice muffled by her mother's torso. The woman shook her head frantically, clicking her tongue.

"No, Mary." she shot a disgusted look at Martina. "She's a bad woman. Stay away from people like her."

The girl- Mary- pulled her head free, shooting Martina a longing, wide-eyed look and pointing at her arm.

"No," she said stubbornly, stretching her fingers out further. "She's a fairy! She's got pretty pictures on her skin-"

"Those are not pretty pictures!" The mother hissed, while Martina rolled her eyes, lips tightening. "Those are marks that show she's a bad, bad woman." She lifted her daughter higher, staring seriously into the child's eyes. Martina felt a surge of irritation, and tapped the woman on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, love, but I can 'ear you, you know." she snapped, raising an eyebrow. The woman's face grew colder, and she pulled her daughter closer to her once more, as if Martina was seconds away from snatching her up arms and throwing her into the chip shop's deep fryer, or doing something equally morbid and ridiculous.

"Good," the woman said frostily. "People like you ought to be arrested."

She was throwing all the cliche phrases at Martina, who was not in the mood to deal with this.

"For what? For wearing different clothing to you lot?" she scoffed. The woman was ordinary, of course, formless jeans, sandshoes and a sensible shirt, the colours bland and unassuming. Her face, however, contrasted with this, turning a startling shade of red as she scowled at Martina.

"For dressing like a... a hooligan!"

Martina snorted once more, folding her arms. "Is 'ooligan really the best word you can come up with?" She shook her head, sighing. "I wasn't going to hurt your daughter. She's a sweet girl who, unlike you, thinks my tattoos are pretty and wanted to look at them."

"She shouldn't!" The woman seethed, voice taking on an almost venomous quality. "She should know they're ugly, that they ruin your life!"

The man at the counter called Martina's order at that moment, thrusting out the foil bag and takeaway cup in her direction. Martina stared down at the woman, the humidity of the shop only adding to her prickling anger.

"I may 'ave tattoos, but at least I don't go around judging people and acting like a right cow." She snatched the food and her coffee then, boots clomping heavily on the floor as she passed the woman, still snapping insults at her back, and stepped out into the smoggy street, rolling her eyes. At first, when she was younger, more vulnerable, altercations like that would bother her and sour her day- now they almost amused her, in a twisted way. How others automatically took her as a bad, untrustworthy person just from her clothes; judging a book by its cover as an art form. All that bothered her now was the fact that the mother was trying to raise her little girl to grow up judgemental, something Martina highly disagreed with.

Martina took a drag from her coffee, the bitter liquid a welcome burn on her throat. She took a bite of her roll with a little more vigor than necessary. The shop door opened behind her; Martina saw the woman who had snapped at her exit, one hand clutched around a plastic bag filled with takeaway, the other clasped tightly over her daughter's wrist. She shot Martina a disgusting glare as she stalked past, and Martina snorted.

She spent her break hour strolling along the streets idly, eating her lunch and glancing around the scenery. She knew the streets almost inside out, and yet she still glanced around in interest. Martina was not sure when she had first begun that habit, but now it had become all but part of her routine. As if she was stuck, in an endless loop of glancing around scenery she knew would never change, waiting and wishing that something would change. Not just a surface change- the repainting of a shop front, a store becoming vacant before being picked up again. Martina longed for some kind of deeper, more permanent change. A sign that the world around her was evolving.

With some time to spare, she found herself dropping onto a bench, planning on taking some time to herself, to lose herself in a world that wasn't filled with stuck up people who felt it was their place to judge anyone who was not their definition of normal. She slipped her earbuds from her coat pocket- she knew it was hardly mature to be sitting on the street, listening to an iPod, and yet since people stared anyway, that hardly mattered- and placed them in her ears, flicking through the songs when the sound of a loud and obnoxious throat clearing made her tense.

Ah. Perfect.

"Listening to music?"

Martina sighed irritably, popping an earbud from her ear and whirling around.

Joey Boswell was leaning against a ridiculous black car, grinning up at her as if they were old friends, despite the fact that they had only met that morning. She gave him an unimpressed look.

"Your problem with that is...?" One thin, black eyebrow curved up, and he shrugged.

"I thought only teenage girls listened to iPods," he smirked, and she snorted. Of course he would, he who probably had no taste in music and didn't understand what decent songs sounded like. She did not bother dignifying this with a reply; she pulled the earbud back up, turning the volume up a notch stubbornly and stalking off.

Of course, Joey had to follow her, like an eager puppy bouncing around. She huffed when she sensed his footsteps behind her and whirled around once more, narrowing her eyes.

"What?" she snapped, folding her arms. "What the bloody 'ell do you want?"

Joey grinned boyishly at her, cocking his head as if they were old, comfortable friends, the opposite of how Martina felt about him.

"What music are you listening to, sunshine?"

She snorted at him, rolling her eyes. As if the music she listened to was any of his business... Why did he want to know, anyway? How could it possibly benefit him, the 'great' Joey Boswell? Was he the kind of person who was obsessed with knowing everything about everyone, even people he barely knew at all?

"The kind with instruments."

He laughed at this, a boisterous and irritating sound that made Martina scowl even further. It reminded her far too much of the canned laughter on a cheap sitcom for her liking, a forced rhythm.

"Of course." He shook his head, eyes bright. "I'm rather partial to all the greats, myself. Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Bach..."

It did not surprise Martina that a pretentious man like Joey would be the kind of person to listen to classics compositions to make himself sound sophisticated and knowledgeable. From the way he proudly announced his preferred music, she could see that he was waiting for her to be impressed and fall at his feet. But if he thought that was going to happen, he was sorely mistaken- Martina would sooner streak through Trafalgar square than swoon over an arrogant idiot.

"Congratulations," she snarked, staring dully at him, or rather the way he grinned as if any second the paparazzi would jump out and take a photo of him, the great Joey Boswell. "Well, excuse me, but I'm busy listening to music that would obviously be 'ard for someone like you to enjoy. Goodbye."

"Hard for me to enjoy?" Joey cocked his head, chuckling. Martina wondered if it would be considered illegal to smack him across his smarmy gob, which seemed not to know the meaning of shutting up. "Why, I 'ave excellent taste in music, and I am sure that a lovely lady like yourself-" a pause, a sickening wink. "Would listen to just the sort of classy music that I enjoy..."

Martina raised an eyebrow, before tossing an earbud at him with disgust.

"Knock yourself out," she muttered. The minute Joey placed it into his ear, she flicked on one of the songs she knew he would like the least, intentionally turning the volume up so loudly that she could hear it clearly from a distance. It was highly satisfying, seeing the smug simper leave his face, and him yank the earbud out.

"I'm sorry, love," he frowned, before regaining his composure. "It appears that your device is broken. All it played was some loud growling noise, not music."

Martina scoffed, pulling her iPod away from him and making a mental note to disinfect the earbud that had touched him, lest she be infected with whatever gold-dipped parasite had apparently crawled into his brain and eaten away at all the humility and charisma.

"That 'noise' was called Lordi," she raised an eyebrow once more, folding her arms and wondering briefly if Joey would recognize the name from their entry in the Eurovision Song Contest. The author of this fic took a brief moment to be unprofessional and make a very pointed reference to a show that someone they suspected would be reading this was obsessed with, followed by this very out of prose slip, which Martina rolled her eyes at (honestly, the things some authors did on a whim,) before turning back to Joey.

"Lordly?" he tapped his chin. "Tell me, sunshine- are they a gospel band?"

Martina choked back a snicker, instead resuming her poker face. "Yes. Absolutely. You know what? There is an internet cafe... oh, two streets away." she placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him around sharply. "Why don't you get on yer bike and head off down there to Google this "Lordly" band, eh?"

Joey paused, before turning back to Martina, who had used his brief moment of distraction to begin making her way away from him.

"Going so soon, princess?"

Martina gritted her teeth, turning back around and narrowing her eyes.

"What do you want?" she shook her head. "I don't 'ave all day to stand in the street and talk to someone I don't know, let alone like."

Joey gave her a truly disgusting grin, looking like the cat that had not only got the cream, but doused its smug furry face in and lapped until it was all gone.

"You might like me if you got to know me-"

Martina made a noise of disgust in the back of her throat, her eyes flicking down Joey's gold chains, bulky leather jacket, and to top it off-literally- the bouffant hair, the way the sides were shorter but the top swooped up in a pompadour manner, dyed an ostentatious blonde. It was like he was trying to style his hair into the crown he felt he deserved; he looked the polar opposite of Martina. She highly doubted that she would like him if she got to know him. In fact, in the few extra minutes that she had been talking to him, she was starting to dislike him even further.

"I sincerely don't believe that." She wondered why on earth he was remotely interested in getting to know her, anyway, but briskly dismissed it; he seemed like the type of person who would prefer to 'collect' other people, try and charm them for lack of something to do.

She ignored King Joey Boswell of douche-bagland as she stalked back to her shop, her attempt at attaining a peaceful lunch break ruined even further now. First, the judgemental woman in the chippy, now Mister Boswell popping up again like some obnoxious Jack-in-the-Box. She was in no way in the mood for that sort of altercation, and so she decided to end her break early, and return to work as soon as possible. She did not have any clients booked for a few hours, but she could busy herself with sorting the stencils, and inks. It was better, Martina reasoned, to be productive than to waste her time arguing with arrogant idiots.

As if to further ruin her day, the moment she stepped inside the shop, she was greeted with the smell of stale alcohol, cigarettes and old spice. Apparently, Shifty had returned from his break; this was always evident as he spent his break drinking, smoking and/or having sex with whatever little thing in a skirt he could seduce in the time- if only she could fire him, then she would in a second.

One nightmare after another, Martina thought drily, scowling. Shifty was currently inking a woman's back, and looked like he was taking great pleasure out of the fact that she had needed to remove her bra in order to leave him with a free space between her shoulderblades on which to tattoo. He looked up, lifting the buzzing needle away from the skin he was working on to give her a sly grin.
Martina scowled back in response.

The streets were black; the clock overhead displayed that it was nearly eight pm. It was by no means late for the studio to close- sometimes, they were open well into the night, finishing up artworks or working on late appointments. They had no more appointments booked for today, however, so Angela had headed home, and Martina, Shifty and Celia were left to pack away the store before returning home. Celia had taken a break earlier in the evening to bring Indian takeaway for them into the back room (they were not to eat in the actual studio for hygiene reasons), and she called them in. Martina took the foil container gratefully, thanking her and slumping against the cluttered table.

"Shifty," Celia greeted him politely, holding out the plastic bag to the man as he entered. "I brought us all dinner. You like Madras, right?"

Martina narrowed her eyes at Shifty. Whilst he would jump at a chance to impress anyone female in a twelve mile radius, Celia had always been the one exception. His face twisted into a sneer, making him look utterly hideous, and he shook his head.

"Did I ask you to buy me dinner?" he asked gruffly, shaking his head. "No. For yer information, I'm going out with my girlfriend this evening."

"Which girlfriend?" Martina asked sourly, and she watched the contrast as Shifty made eye contact with her; his face returned to its usual predatory grin, but the minute he returned his gaze to Celia, it drooped into an expression of utter loathing that made Martina hate him even more than usual; she was disgusted with the way he treated Celia.

"No thanks, love," he shook his head snidely. "I don't wanna eat anything you've touched. Wouldn't wan'a catch your illness."

Martina stood up quickly, almost knocking the table over in her fury. Celia looked as though Shifty had just slapped her across her face.

"Listen, Shifty," she said slowly, and Shifty smirked up at her. "Make one more remark like that 'bout Celia, and I bloody well will fire you."

"That's up to management, light of my life," Shifty stuck his chin out arrogantly. Martina folded her arms, giving him a look that she hoped conveyed just how much she refused to back down. Her eye makeup, extreme height when in boots and strong, angular features always served to intimidate people she didn't have a problem with, and yet for some reason it never worked on pests like Shifty, or even that rotten Joey from before.

"I'm sure they'd love to know about some of the other capers you've been up to," she blackmailed, keeping her voice level and firm. If Shifty was concerned, he hid it brilliantly, shrugging her threat off casually.

"You'd never get me sacked," he sounded far too confident in himself, sidling up to her and standing uncomfortably close, so she could see each overgrown hair on his leathery chin, and feel his breath uncomfortably close to her chest. "You like my presence too much."

Martina's hand twitched, begging to be curled into a fist and rammed into his face. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than the satisfaction of feeling his nose crunch under her fingers, seeing him vulnerable and knocked down a peg... But Martina steeled herself. As much as she hated Shifty, she could not and would not resort to violence.

"Just... if yer not going to eat with us, then get going." She said sharply. Shifty ignored this cue, and as they had earlier that morning, his fingers curled arpund a strand of her hair.

"I really do love these colours-"

Martina slapped his hand away, shooting him a look of pure loathing. She resolved to pick up some hair dye from the pharmacist as soon as she had finished the takeaway Celia had brought.

"Night, Tina," he grinned, his face switching and becoming deceptively innocent and cheeky, juxtaposing the sneer he had worn before. Martina glared at him, lips drawn tightly, jaw clenched. He turned, and clapped a hand on Celia's shoulder, making her flinch in shock. Martina watched suspiciously as the evil seeped back into his smile, then; apparently, it could not stay away for more than a few minutes- it seemed to be his default emotion.

"Night, Michael."

Celia froze, a spasm of hurt crossing her pointed face, before she whirled around.

"How bloody dare you, Shifty." she hissed, shoving him away with surprising force considering her small frame. Shifty fixed her with a look of poorly-feigned innocence.

"What? It's your name, in'it?"

Before Martina could, as some would delicately put it, rip him a new one, Shifty was gone, slamming the back door behind him, though they could hear his thick, irish laughter from outside. Celia's face was screwed into a pained expression as she looked down at her takeaway, and Martina sighed. She and Celia were by no means close, but they had a mutual appreciation for each other, and a mutual dislike for Shifty- though somehow, impossibly, Celia seemed to dislike him less than Martina did, despite his callous remarks towards her.

"Listen, love," Martina told her firmly. "Don't listen to anything 'e says. You know 'e's got an ashtray for a brain."

Celia shrugged, stabbing her fork into a curried vegetable. "I'm used to it. I just wish..." she dropped her fork, looking up at Martina. She looked exhausted, and utterly fed up with Shifty. "We were goin' out for three months. And I really liked him, but when he found out, he thought it was disgusting."

"It were probably for the best, love," Martina assured her, shaking her head. "You could do much better than Shifty." She craned her neck, shooting the doorway he had just exited an icy glare and hoping that, no matter how far away he was, he felt its shards of ice prick the back of his neck.

"Oh, believe me, I know," Celia told her firmly, fiddling with the plastic fork that had come with her tray of curry. "But it's 'ard to find a man who's a gentleman but at the same time is good at sex. It always seems to be one or another- either he's a gentleman but lousy at bonking, or the only thing he can do for a woman is in his pants." She popped a piece of chicken in her mouth matter-of-factly.

Martina snorted loudly at Celia's bluntness- her colleague was never one to shy away from the topic of sex, something Martina had mixed feelings about discussing. However, she had to agree; a day spent seemingly tossed between Shifty's leers and Joey Boswell's unnecessary appearances was enough to make anyone exhausted.

Oh my Goodness I haven't updated this in many many months... And this was a stupid chapter...

Uh... what did you think? lmao I know, this sucked.