Wren and Bri are trying to suppress the daft giggles that always hit you after three at night, when you have to work two jobs, being a single mom and supporting yourself and your infant child, or alternatively in Bri's case a slacker brother and pair of adopted stray dogs, and you have finally put the child to sleep, cooked and packed lunches for tomorrow, did the dishes and should go to sleep but instead you are sitting in front of your best friend, eating cold pizza and drinking too much soda.
"OK, but bear with me," Wren is studying a mushroom slice on her piece. "Say, you can pick a film and make it real. Which 'verse would you go for? Don't say Star Trek, that's a given." Bri is pensively chewing her crust.
"Do you have any idea just how many great fantasy movies there are? Not to mention Star Wars!" Bri sticks her tongue out at Wren.
"Yeah? And what would the two pathetic creatures like us do in Star Wars? We would be the slaves on Tatooine, with our luck..."
"Well, if that gives me a shot at Luke, then I'm all for it. I could strangle Jabba for that."
"Yeah, you've always had a thing for blonde hotties, didn't you?" Wren winks and pops a mushroom in her mouth.
"Blonde, brown, black headed, I'm with Benedick… Any color it please God, as long as he's not thick as a brick in the head."
"Well, that is straight fantasy, my lambkin," Wren gets up and carefully places her plate in the sink. She is finishing her cola, and suddenly says, "I'd go for Labyrinth."
"Ahahahah, got a thing for hot Brits in tight tights, do ya?" Bri laughs. "Cain't say I blame you. Underground does sound fun." She points her crust at Wren. "You remind me of the babe!" Wren turns and looks at herself in the glass door of a pantry.
"Not these days I don't, and definitely not with the power," she chuckles joylessly. "More of those orange things that could tear off their heads. Bloody hell, I look like shite," Wren's accent is always stronger when she is tired.
"What, lovie, wishing the Goblins would come and take you away, right now?"
"You see, it's not the tight tights, Bri," Wren sits down again and rubs her face. She does look exhausted. "It's the absurdity of that world. It's so off that nothing really matters." Bri sympathetically pats her shoulder. Wren exhales sharply and then smiles to her friend impishly. "And I hate Brits in tight tights, I have seen too many in my dancing years. But at this stage I'll take even one of them plonkers. Seriously, why can't I just find a bloke for a simple shag? They all either run, or want to be my saviours… Ugh. Like they are going to saunter into my life and solve all my barney. Daft misogynists." Wren snorts derisively. "At least I feel Jareth would be for a casual bonk, you know? That is if Sarah is not in that verse, because I so can see him coming back for her few years later and them having monkey sex on his throne." They both are snorting, trying not to wake up Wren's seven months old daughter, Mira.
There is some soft rustling noise in the hall of Wren's tiny apartment, and she gets up to check it, mumbling 'bugger, I hope it's not a possum again.' She is disappearing around the corner when Bri quietly calls after her.
"Aww, honey, if it'd really fix things for you, I wish the Goblins would come and take you away, right now." Bri hears a soft chuckle, and then it grows oddly quiet. "Wren? Is it a possum after all?" Not hearing anything, a now worried Bri gets up to check.
"Wrennie? No fair playing hide and seek this late at night." Bri thinks she hears a soft giggle, from a few different places. Chills race down her spine as she recalls where she last heard something like that. "No freakin' way. It's just a cotton pickin' movie!" She hisses in a fierce whisper.
"Indeed it is, and do chivvy up with the terror and the indignation. I am so late," a familiar voice makes Bri spin on her heels. No frigging way!
The Goblin King is standing behind her, the curtains on Wren's window thrash just the right way, and… What's with the outfit? She doesn't remember him being dressed in surfer shorts and a colourful shirt. And is that a frigging straw hat?!
"Didn't anybody ever tell you rednecks don't do terrorized? Besides, I'm still making my way through 'what the hell' land first." Bri tilts her head. "Bermuda shorts, Jareth?"
If the Goblin King could look embarrassed, that is exactly how he would look. Soft pink blush spills on the cheekbones, and as BBC Irene Adler would say, you could cut your hand slapping these, and his famous, two coloured eyes shift.
"Honeymoon, Bri, keep you snidy sassy comments to yourself. Which reminds me," he makes a generous wave with an elegant long fingered hand, "Do hurry up!"
"Okay, short version, you know I know the movie. You know I'ma run the Labyrinth for Wren. What I want to know is this, what about Mira? Y'know, the seven month old baby that needs a sitter while I get her Momma back."
"Oh blast! I forgot about the baby." He shifts between his feet, and for love of monkey, are those flip flops?! "Could you possibly take her with you? I do not have a single spare Goblin at the moment. We are currently draining part of the Bog of Eternal Stench."
"If I gotta run with a baby on board, I want more time, Bubba. Besides, no way in hell I'd agree to a goblin sitter, unless you've been hidin' some somewhere's what's got more sense than what I've seen!"
"Manners, darling! They are excellent child care specialists. But time is money, or babies, depending on how you look at it. How about an additional hour?" He really thinks she is dumb.
"Jareth, darlin,' you're slippin'. I thought you wanted this done quick? Five extra hours, or you can take Mira with you on your honeymoon." The Goblin King blanches beyond his usual posh British paleness.
"Be it your way," he sighs theatrically, "You have eighteen hours, blah-blah-blah..." At this moment Bri notices a blob of sunscreen on his iconic nose and sniggers. He gives her a suspicious look. He really looks less intimidating out of his outfits. And Bri is not nine anymore. Her taste in men has improved since she got the VHS for the first time. "Are we in agreement then?"
Bri tosses a careless 'yeah, yeah' over her shoulder as she starts looking for baby equipment she's going to need now that Mira is coming with her.
"Oh, and the last thing," there is a snake like smile on his lips, and Bri doesn't like it, "I'm afraid my replacement has a bit more of temper issues than I do. I hope your friend minds her manners."
"Sugarbear, if'n my friend is hurt when I get her back, you're gonna have to worry about my temper issues, an' you can take that to the bank! You better put a bug in the ear of this replacement of your'n."
Bri's phrase hangs in the empty room. That bogsnoggin' Goblin King has melted into the air mid-threat. Bri curses three generations of Jareth's ancestors, and a few to come while she gathers the baby, thank god Wren believes in keeping a properly packed diaper bag, and heads out the bay window facing the Labyrinth. Baby on her back, diaper bag on her hip, she is ready to face whatever the maze has in store for her.
Wren lands on her arse in what is indubitably the throne room of the Goblin King in the Castle beyond the Goblin city. Everything is properly in order, the Goblins are noisy and dusty, chickens wander around, there are barrels, all looks like a proper do, and Magic Dance is playing at the background. Wren gets up, brushing dust off her PJ shorts on her bum and turns to the throne. Wait, what?!
Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, is standing near the throne, in all his dark-waved, blue-eyed glory. The arms are folded on his chest, face cantankerous, the full Dwarven regalia provided, including the brigandine and Orcrist clasped to his back.
"Aren't you in the wrong 'verse?" Wren blurts out, and if he wasn't that majestic he would have rolled his eyes. But then his eyes run over her.
"Are you not too old for a wished away babe?" Oh, the voice is still marvelous. Wren acutely regrets a silly tee with Einstein sticking out his tongue. The King Under the Mountain's eyes linger on the physicist.
"I am. Still doesn't explain what you are doing here. And where is Jareth?"
"He is travelling with his new wife. I am standing in for him."
"You?" Wren snorts, he gives her a grumpy look. All possible puns about standing and his height run in Wren's mind. And then she realises why he is standing at the moment. If he sat on the throne, his feet wouldn't reach the floor. She is short herself, she knows. Somehow that makes her feel better. "Are you not going to dance and throw me in the air and let Goblins catch me?" The thick black brows draw together. Apparently Kings don't like to be mocked. Tough tits. "And where is the outfit?" She gestures all around her head mimicking Jareth's iconic hair and shirt ruffles on the chest. Something changes in the Dwarf's blue eyes, and one black brow twitches.
Wren is suddenly hot. That is, unless she is hallucinating, a very masculine spark in his eyes, and suddenly he curls one corner of his lips, there is a loud 'poof' in the air and… Wren's jaw hits the dust on the floor.
A six five, no less, version of the King Under the Mountain, all proportional, and those are very long legs, is lounging on the throne. He doesn't go for the whole Jareth's 'one leg on the armrest' look, but he is comfortable. One ankle is on the other knee, a hand fisted in front of his mouth, and he is tapping his boot with that riding crop. The outfit is different, thank goodness. Wren never liked those leggings and the black waistcoat. Apparently the Dwarf King has better taste than the Goblin one. He is wearing pretty much what Jareth wore at the Crystall Ball Ball, as Bri tends to call it, except, let's face it, he fills it up much better. And those are very, very nice calves. The hair is in a ponytail, the braids still on the sides of the face, probably Dwarven traditions didn't allow him to change it. Altogether that is a very bothersome picture. As in Wren being hot and bothered.
"Satisfied?" Not even nearly. Wren internally shushes her libido.
"If you got this outfit, I demand my puffy white dress." The brow crawls higher, and that is definitely a small smile.
"You are the babe in this scenario, fair maiden. Not the chapmpion. All I can offer you is stripy red and white footed pajamas." Wren feels like she might want to give herself a slap to clear her mind. Firstly, Thorin Oakenshield pronouncing 'stripy red and white footed pajamas' isn't something her brain was ready for. And secondly, he is flirting.
The next thought is even more alarming. Isn't his next line "in nine hours and twenty three minutes... you'll be mine"? There are several concerns here. Will Bri be able to save her before it? Will Wren's ovaries explode if Thorin, son of Thrain pronounces "you'll be mine"? And is there a way to ensure that Bri isn't here on time?