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The air in Purgatory Mansion thrummed with a cacophony of spectral laughter and bass-heavy music. Every nook and cranny teemed with the living, the dead. because yes, absolutely everyone was invited. Amidst the crowd, Taco made her entrance. She was a vibrant splash of neon and dark denim, her hair a rebellious mess of streaks, a studded choker digging into her neck, and mismatched arm warmers peeking from under a t-shirt emblazoned with a pixelated skull. It was an outfit that screamed ‘Season One Taco’ – a brash, attention-grabbing echo of her past self, chosen perhaps out of a strange, nostalgic impulse, or maybe a subconscious desire to regress, to a time when things felt simpler, if more volatile.
Beside her, Microphone, in a meticulously crafted werewolf costume complete with snarling muzzle and impressively matted fur, clutched Taco's arm, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and unease. "Are you sure about this place, Taco? It feels… crowded." "Relax, Mic! It’s just a party!" Taco exclaimed, her voice barely audible over the din. She offered a reassuring, if slightly unhinged, grin before promptly losing Microphone to soap and cheesy in a matching zombie costumes. One moment, Mic was there, the next, gone.
A sigh escaped Taco’s lips. So much for sticking together. She shrugged, a familiar, easygoing attitude washing over her. She’d find Mic later, probably entangled in a spirit circle or debating the merits of spectral hauntings. For now, a drink was in order. She navigated her way to a bar carved from what appeared to be petrified wood, ordering something that glowed an alarming shade of cerulean. The first sip was an electric jolt, and soon, one led to two, and two led to… well, enough to make the mansion's walls feel a little less solid and her own past decisions a little less sharp.
The party continued its relentless pulse, but Taco found herself needing a momentary escape from the sensory overload. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, a sign that the cerulean concoction was doing its job a little too well. "Bathroom," she mumbled to herself, pushing through fan and paintbrush arguing about modern art. Her path quickly became a winding, disorienting journey through dimly lit corridors, each one more ornate and confusing than the last.
Rounding a particularly grand, portrait-lined corner, she nearly collided with someone. She stumbled, catching herself against the velvet wallpaper, and looked up, ready to offer a slurred apology. Her words died in her throat. Standing there, a surprisingly dashing pirate complete with a tricorn hat, an embroidered waistcoat, and a single, glinting earring, was Pickle. He was mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly with a bejeweled hand towards Knife, who stood beside him, lacking a costume because he was already a ghost.
Pickle’s eyes, usually so light and carefree, widened fractionally as they landed on Taco. The sight of her, in that familiar, loud, S1-esque attire, seemed to catch him off guard. A sudden, thick silence descended upon the hallway, heavy with unspoken history. Knife, ever perceptive of awkward social cues, gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod to Pickle, and silently slipped away, melting into the shadows like a wisp of smoke.
The silence grew, stretching taut between them. Taco felt a blush creep up her neck, her tipsiness suddenly amplified by the unexpected encounter. It was too much, too soon.
"Taco?" Pickle finally broke the quiet, his voice a low rumble. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her outfit. "Are you… drunk?" She blinked, shaking her head a little too vigorously. "Only a little tipsy," she corrected, her words a bit thick. "Just trying to find a bathroom. Got a bit of a light headache coming on." She gestured vaguely towards her temple, hoping he wouldn't notice the slight wobble in her stance.
Pickle’s expression was unreadable. Inside, a familiar knot twisted in his gut. This version of Taco, the flashy, in-your-face persona, was a painful reminder of the past, of the person who had manipulated and hurt him. He’d promised himself he’d be civil, though, especially with the rumors of her trying to make amends. He was trying to move on, to not cling to old hurts. And seeing her here, a little vulnerable and lost, stirred something unexpected within him.
He sighed, running a hand through his carefully gelled hair, dislodging a stray feather from his hat. "Look, a bathroom's probably not gonna fix that. You need some air." He paused, then, to his own surprise, heard himself say, "Come on. Let’s head up to the roof. We can… grab a beer. Talk. Catch up, I guess."
Taco’s jaw practically hit the floor. She stared at him, bewildered. Pickle? Wanting to talk? With her? It was such an unexpected gesture, so far removed from the animosity that had simmered between them for so long. But the idea of fresh air, of a quiet moment away from the pulsing chaos, and, more than anything, the desperate, yearning part of her that still remembered his easy companionship, made her accept. "Okay," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. "Yeah. Okay."
He led her through a less crowded service corridor, up creaking stairs, and finally onto a wide, flagstone roof patio. The night sky above Purgatory Mansion was surprisingly clear, a vast expanse of stars twinkling indifferently at the revelry below. Pickle pulled two beers from a small, ornate cooler tucked near a gothic-style chimney and offered one to Taco. The cold bottle felt good against her flushed hand.
They leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the sprawling, illuminated grounds. The distant thump of music was a softer, less aggressive pulse up here. For a moment, neither spoke, just sipped their beers, the silence comfortable rather than tense. "So," Pickle began, breaking the silence. "It's… been a while. What have you been up to?"
Taco hesitated, then found herself recounting the messy, often painful, process of her redemption arc, the hard work of making amends, the quiet satisfaction of rebuilding trust. She spoke of her renewed commitment to honesty, her attempts to understand her own manipulative tendencies, and the strange, quiet moments of self-discovery. Pickle listened intently, interjecting with thoughtful questions, and surprisingly, no judgment.
Then it was his turn. He spoke of his own life, the small victories, the everyday struggles, the lingering feeling of being adrift after the show ended. He made her laugh with stories of his foolish misadventures, like accidentally dyeing all his clothes purple in the wash, or trying to bake a seven-layer cake and ending up with a single, dense brick. Taco found herself genuinely enjoying their conversation, the easy banter flowing between them as if no time had passed, as if no betrayal had ever occurred.
They talked for what felt like hours, the beers slowly emptying, the stories growing more personal with each passing moment. The laughter was genuine, light, and free of the weight they usually carried in each other's presence. Taco felt a warmth spread through her chest, a feeling she hadn't realized she’d craved so desperately – the uncomplicated joy of simply being with Pickle.
As the last beer was opened, a wistful note crept into Pickle’s voice. "You know," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the distant forest ahead "I missed this. I missed hanging out with you, Taco." He turned to face her, his eyes serious. "Even if you’re... a completely different person than who you pretended to be in season one." He paused, taking a slow breath. "I really wanted to have that relationship again. The one we had, before… everything."
Taco’s breath hitched. Her vision blurred, the stars above becoming shimmering streaks. The words, so simple, so honest, were exactly what her heart had been aching to hear for so long. The cerulean drink and the beer combined with the raw emotion unleashed a floodgate. Tears welled up, hot and fast, tracing sloppy paths down her cheeks as she began to cry.
"That's… that’s all I wanted to hear," she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. She reached out, gripping his arm with surprising force. "I just… I really wanted to be your friend again, Pickle. Even if I'm different now. I just wanted you back."
The admission, raw and unfiltered, hung in the cool night air. Pickle’s own eyes became a little glassy, a deep well of emotion stirring within him too. The years of hurt, the resentment, the longing for what was lost – it all coalesced into this single, vulnerable moment. The sight of her, so completely undone, so desperately wanting what he also wanted, broke through his carefully constructed walls.
An intrusive thought, powered by the alcohol and the sheer emotional intensity, took hold. Without thinking, without planning, he leaned in. His lips, soft and surprisingly gentle, met hers.
The kiss was hesitant at first, a tentative exploration, then it deepened, fueled by years of pent-up feelings and the intoxicating rush of their shared vulnerability. Time seemed to warp, the world outside them fading into a blissful blur. Their bodies pressed together, arms wrapping around each other, legs tangling as the heat between them flared, undeniable and electric. The cool night air was forgotten, replaced by the fire of their unexpected reunion, their lips moving with a desperate, familiar rhythm. Things started blending together, a dizzying swirl of touch and taste and emotion, getting intimate alarmingly fast.
The next morning, Taco woke with a groan, her head throbbing in earnest now. The room was unfamiliar, the sunlight streaming through a windowpane too bright. Her eyes fluttered open, then widened. This wasn't her bed. And beside her, tangled in the sheets, was Pickle.
He was still asleep, his pirate hat somewhere on the floor, his face devoid of its usual playful energy, instead looking remarkably peaceful. Taco stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. Rooftop, talking, crying… a kiss? A profound sense of confusion, mixed with a faint blush, washed over her. She didn't remember much after the kiss, just a hazy, intoxicating rush, a swirl of intimacy that led… here.
A soft rustle beside her signaled Pickle’s awakening. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light, then settled on her. For a moment, the same uncertain confusion mirrored in her own eyes was reflected in his. "Morning," he said, his voice a little gruff with sleep. He sat up, pushing his hair back from his face. He didn't seem panicked, or regretful, just… calm. "So. Guess we got pretty drunk last night, huh?" Taco nodded, pulling the sheet higher. "Pretty sure 'pretty drunk' is an understatement."
They got dressed in comfortable silence, the weight of their unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air. Pickle, still surprisingly composed, offered to make breakfast. Soon, the smell of sizzling eggs and toast filled his small apartment kitchen.Over mugs of coffee and plates of food, they finally talked. Not about what they remembered – which wasn't much beyond the roof and the kiss – but about what this meant.
"Look," Pickle began, stirring his coffee. "I’m not gonna pretend I know what happened after we… well, you know. But I meant what I said last night. I did miss you. And I do want you in my life, Taco." He looked at her directly, his expression earnest. "So, where do we go from here?"
she picked at her toast, her heart pounding. Taco knew this was a pivotal moment. "I… I want that too, Pickle," she confessed, her voice softer than usual. "I really do want to be your friend again. And I guess… What happened last night… it wasn't just the alcohol, right?" A small, knowing smile played on Pickle’s lips. "No," he admitted, "I don't think it was just the alcohol." He reached across the table, taking her hand. His touch was warm, reassuring. "So… friends?"
Taco squeezed his hand. "Friends," she confirmed, a genuine smile finally breaking through her nervousness. "But… maybe with occasional kisses?"
Pickle chuckled, a soft, warm sound that made her heart flutter. "I think I could get used to that." He leaned forward, catching her lips in a gentle, lingering kiss, a quiet promise of a new, complicated, and familiar beginning.