Another Day In Paradise | Danny Johnson x Reader

A Bit Of An Expert

The bowling alley was like a blast from the past; well, from a past you hadn't lived through. It looked as if it had been pulled right out of the eighties, each lane made out of glossy maple with big screens above the scoring areas flashing brightly with a neon memphis design. Neon lights shone green, purple and blue from every corner, making the bright red leather of the lane seating nearly glow. The moment you set foot inside of the place, you were met with a gut-punching feeling of excitement, a grin splitting itself over your lips as you tipped your head back to really, really take the sight of the place in. You could see the bathrooms in a far corner, a snack bar between them and the doors you had come in through. There was a counter to trade in your shoes for a pair of bowling ones, a little arcade, doors leading to private party rooms; it was awesome. 

"Welcome, friends," Brahms sweeps out an arm, smiling like a kid on Christmas, "To Ashboro Alley!" Billy, who was at your side, let out an appreciative hum and let some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. Michael, Norman and Jason were relatively unfazed, headed straight for the front counter with bounces in their steps and friendly banter thrown between them. They had never looked so 'in their element' before, save for the evening around the campfire. "Onwards, my friends," One of your hands was caught in Brahms', his other being extended towards Billy. With a moment's hesitation Billy cracked a small smile and took it, letting himself be dragged towards the counter in tow. 

"Hey, Michael! Norman! Jason! Good to have you back, should I get your usuals?" The boy behind the counter had dark brown hair that stuck up in spikes and a cheeky grin that reached from one ear to the next. You recognized him, but you are certain you hadn't spoken to him before. 

"Yes, please," Norman smiled as he stopped at the counter and folded his arms on its surface, "How's the shift tonight, Randy? Are your friends here like they usually are?" As the boy (Right, Randy- as in Randy Meeks) turned around to select the right shoe sizes for his regulars he nodded, craning his neck to throw his words over his shoulder in order for them to overpower the tinny 80's music.

"You bet, lane 11. The place is pretty packed tonight, you're lucky I remembered to get your lane reserved!" Juggling three pairs of shoes in his hands Randy turned back around and dumped them onto the counter, accidentally mixing the pile together and needing to pick them apart all over again. "I see you've got two newbies with you, huh? Who is that, uh," He squinted his eyes at you, trying to place your face, and then it dawned on him and he snapped his fingers, "Right, (Y/N) (L/N) isn't it? For your information you're one of the few people in this school who I don't think has the potential to be a mass murderer or a serial killer or some shit. It's nice to meet you, what shoe size?" You grin at his words and nod a joking thank you, letting go of Brahms' hand to approach the counter and request your own pair of shoes. "Alright, and you are..." Randy turns to Billy, and again his eyes squint halfway shut. It takes him a second longer to remember this name, and Billy seems to shrivel lightly under his scrutinizing gaze, but then Randy perks up again and his splitting grin returns. "Billy! Lenz, though, not Loomis. Good to see you here, man, what's your shoe size?" Now it was Billy's turn to, meekly, approach the counter. He placed his balled fists on it's tacky surface and muttered out the words, his shoulders tensing up again. 

"11's, ple-please," As soon as the words leave his mouth he takes a step backwards, and you shoot him a warm grin in hopes to ease his fraying nerves. It works, and his defenses melt back again. The shoes were retrieved and slapped down on the counter along with a pair for Brahms.

"Enjoy your lanes, kids, and try not to send a ball into the ceiling again." With a wink and a finger gun Randy hurried off to take care of the next customers, who had approached the counter at your side. 

"Off to the lane?" Michael asks in a hum, his gaze shifting evenly from one person to the next as he made sure everyone was all set to go. He's met with a series of affirming nods, and then the group begins to move as one towards the bowling lanes. You aren't sure which one is reserved for you, but everyone else (except for Billy) walks with a total confidence. You arrive at the one with the number '9' hanging from the roof in a glowing white, and follow the others as they plop down onto the leather couches to swap out their shoes.