#....uh anyway point is DON'T SCRATCH IT SARAH

[killerchickadee]

The other day I burned my hand making dinner. Nice little half inch burn on the top of my hand. Luckily it hasn't hurt at all since the initial burn, bit today. It. ITCHES.

And I'm like babygirl that's a burn, do not fucking scratch it or it WILL hurt. And also scar worse than it's already going to.

[philtstone]

Sarah/Bucky, “hugging from behind”

part of this verse, and i apologize beforehand bc this got a bit longer than i intended but ive been thinking abt this concept for weeks. you can also find this on ao3!

Sarah makes her way downstairs later in the morning than usual but still sooner than most, her whole body humming with contentment. She can feel it in her breast and her cheeks and her shoulders and the bowl of her pelvis, warm and syrupy. The early-morning sounds of the house waking up echo muffled behind doors. Sam's loud footsteps sound across the landing, followed by AJ loudly asking a surely still-sleeping Cass where his Ninja Turtles t-shirt is. The start up of the running shower can be heard from Sarah's bedroom.

There are people in the space between the hallway and the kitchen when she gets down, so Sarah stops, wrapped in a house robe that is objectively too short, lilac, and frilly at the edges, and exerts the last little bit of effort needed to bring herself back to earth before adjusting her bonnet.

"Good morning, Miss Sarah," says Keith Richardson. He is doing a hovering sort of thing by the shoerack close to the front hall, dressed nicely in his brown khakis and brown plaid all set up against brown skin, and positioned such that he can't really see into the kitchen but Sarah can, when she passes him.

"Hey Keith," Sarah says, "Help you with somethin'?"

Sarah's used to this house being something of a watering hole. It's been that way since she and Sam were kids, and when Sarah and Cassius moved back to Delacroix after college, nothing really changed. There's always someone around to let people in through the door, anyway, so she's given up caring who sees her in her slippers.

Well -- maybe if it was a man other than Keith, she'd care. But Keith has always been harmless in that way some people are. Kids used to call him Keithy Smalls in high school because he refused to wear backpacks of the normal size. Sarah thinks he works in accounting now.

"No Ma'am, just waiting for your brother. Said he'd help with a business need of my cousin's, real good of him. Can you believe it? The real Captain America, straight from Delacroix."

Sam's been back in town for all of two days and is already being pulled in all sorts of directions. Sarah decides that he's grown, and she will bother him about it later in the evening. She says,

"That's great, Keith."

"Beautiful day out," Keith continues, radiating earnestness. "Don't you think?" It is; the house is filled with the eight-a.m. golden glow of late May sunshine, dappling on the scratched wood floor and filling Sarah with a different sort of energy than what she came downstairs with. "But I think you're looking more beautiful than the weather. Did you do somethin' new with your hair?"

"Uh," says Sarah, "thanks, Keith," and she slips fully into the kitchen.

Their other visitor is already at the table, sitting with that impeccable posture that Sarah thinks must just be a natural property of her spine and cradling a steaming cup of coffee. Good, Sarah thinks. She likes a guest who makes herself at home when invited to do so. Shows good character, even if Sarah doesn't really know anything else about the woman. This is not really a point of irritation, because somewhere along the way Sarah has ceded trust to more than one of the men in her life, but still --

Makes for an awkward edge to any potential small talk.

Sarah watches as the Captain of the Dora Milaje brings her cup of coffee to her lips and sips silently to the backdrop of Keith Richardson's oblivious tones.

"Y’all need help with anything in there?" he is asking, from the doorway. "I'm happy to lend a hand, maybe get to see the behind the scenes of one'a your famous breakfasts --"

"I'm all good in here, thank you Keith," Sarah says politely.

“Hello again,” Keith says, good-natured, to Ayo. “I was just tellin’ Sarah that the beautiful weather got nothin’ on her.” He grins at Sarah again, expectant. “Sam explained y’all had a second cousin visitin’ from overseas,” he adds.

“Third cousin once removed,” says Ayo, in an impeccable French accent.

Sarah resists the urge to dither; the afterglow of ten minutes ago has definitely started to fade -- her pre-coffee brain and some of the higher points of her thighs are still clinging to it, but losing steam with rapidity -- and she remembers that their Daddy always laughed when she dithered. Said it never got anything done.

“Thank you, Keith,” she says again. She sticks her head out of the kitchen and calls, "Sam! You gonna let poor Mr. Richardson wait all year?"

"Oh, just Keith --"

But Sarah disappears back into the kitchen before he can finish. In the following quiet, Ayo raises her eyebrows in the direction of the front hall and mutters something Sarah can't quite understand under her breath.

"What's that?" asks Sarah, pausing in getting her own coffee started, shuffling through the kitchen to get things going for the boys' packed lunches. Ayo looks intrigued at the direct address, then repeats in accented English, at a clear, but appropriately understated volume,

"I do not know what kind of man it is who cannot tell when a woman has just been well-loved."

Sarah feels herself flush all the way from the ends of her twists to her toes.

"Oh -- that's, well," she says, pulling her robe a little more closely around herself.

Ayo’s expression remains unimpressed, but now that Sarah’s looking there is an edge of amused approval hidden masterfully in the woman's angular features that she is almost certain will not actually be voiced aloud any time soon. "Sorry for all the informality," Sarah says, because she thinks it might be too mortifying for her, this early in the morning, to acknowledge that.

“Sukucela uxolo,” Ayo says immediately. “It is no bother.”

Unlike Sarah, Ayo is already dressed: crisp black turtleneck, leggings, and the kind of simple yet intricate makeup that Sarah has never gotten the hang of. At any rate, she looks immaculate. She also looks like a woman who is always entirely sure of her place in a room and has suddenly found herself unsure, and Sarah feels a small measure of her own uncertainty dissipate, into the easy light of the kitchen.

"This house, it's always got people moving through it," she explains kindly.

She’s sure Ayo must have known this before she arrived. Something about her cover being blown on a stateside mission involving a rogue Wardog – Sarah still has a bit of trouble wrapping her head around all the astonishing, intricate details that are Wakanda. Part of it feels like home (the buttered oil, slipped onto Sarah's bedroom vanity as a quiet, unannounced gift); part of it feels like a whole mystery (this woman, at her table). But she’s always happy to have another person in the house so long as they don’t get under anyone’s feet, and she can’t help but feel like Ayo’s never gotten under anyone’s feet once in her entire life.

Bucky would’ve told her – God, Bucky wouldn’t have suggested she lay low here if the risk of recognition was even slightly tangled with the chaotic, thrumming heart of the place.

He’d asked her, of course. After he and Sam had the idea but before they’d said anything to anyone else. He’d been real insistent that she think it through, too -- with that quiet intensity that made Sarah think about how there were still some things about his life entirely foreign to her, no matter how much they settled and grew and shared together. The keen viscerality of immediate physical danger, for example. The cold, mind-bendy stuff that involves another human person very immediately hurting to kill, for no other reason than they’re supposed to. Sarah’s seen shit, but she’s never seen that. She gets the feeling he’s real protective of this house, and its four walls, like he couldn’t bear any of that stuff get in and it’s his responsibility to keep it out.

Unclear, if that’s true. But it’s real to him, which makes it real to her, in a sense, also.

So Ayo – it had been a big deal, that he’d asked. A profound favour for a friend, the depth of which Sarah's still unsure is known by all parties.

She watches as Ayo absorbs her comment, then tilts her head in acknowledgement, then nods.

“An admirable quality,” she says finally.

Sarah’s coffee is getting cold. She shuffles across the kitchen to stick her mug in the microwave, listening as Sam finally runs downstairs with elephant feet to greet Keith loudly and reassure him that he’s got everything they need to get the truck started.

“Real good of you to do this, man,” they can hear Keith saying, as the two men make their way out the front door. “Hey, uh, hope you don’t take this a bad way –”

“You know I can’t take anything you say bad, Keith.”

“-- But you know if Sarah’d be interested in having dinner with me some night?”

Before the porch door swings shut, Sarah hears Sam’s loud, startled laugh, and the accompanying advice:

“Man, you are barkin’ up the wrong tree. Here, gimme the keys, I’ll drive.”

Sarah turns back to Ayo.

“Keith's harmless,” she adds, feeling compelled.

"So I can see," says Ayo.

It is terrible of her; Sarah lets out a whole snort, then begins laughing. It seems to carry them right through their silent appraisal of each other.

"Oh," she says. "Lord. The poor man.”

She sets about getting breakfast started in earnest, slipping her made sandwiches onto a plate that she trusts Bucky will bag sometime in the next fifteen minutes, then contemplating frying up an easy hash. Or maybe just grits …

Ayo watches her, a glint of curiosity in her eye. Something about her posture has softened in turn.

"You are a family of upright people," she observes, and Sarah blushes again.

"Oh -- thank you."

"I should not have been surprised. Amava andibonisile oku. And Captain Wilson is the type of man who earns the admiration he deserves."

Some deep-seated instinct in Sarah's core is triggered by the appreciation of her brother. "I'm glad you think so," she says, maybe more sincerely than she means, and Ayo seems amused by this.

"Ingcuka emhlophe speaks very highly of both of you as well," she says.

Sarah pauses, hand over wooden spoon in a bowl.

"You mean Bucky."

Ayo's expression does not flicker. "Yes," she says, followed by something muttered and clearly irreverent about American nicknames. “You are quite skilled at this,” she adds, more formally, while Sarah fights another unbecoming snort, and maybe a third blush.

“There is absolutely nothing in the world some good food can’t fix,” she says firmly, hoping that all the implied gets through. “And it does pay the bills.”

“It is more than that.”

“Well. I – I love doing it. I’ve always loved doing it.”

Ayo remains silent for another few moments while Sarah's capable movements scrape batter from the sides of the bowl.

"May I assist in any way, usisi ohlonitshwayo?"

"Oh, you're a guest --"

"Akunjalo," Ayo says, almost like she is displeased with the word. Then her expression tightens. "Apologies. I am here out of necessity. I was assured that my presence would not --"

"It's, it's not a problem. Um, here --" She hadn't really been lying to Keith, but then, Ayo has been sitting like a lamp post in the corner for probably all morning. The poor woman's likely going nuts at the lack of action. "Here," she repeats. "You can chop the onions. I always get Sam to do it 'cause it makes me half blind, so you're practically family now."

For a moment, Ayo blinks at the onions as though startled, then pulls them towards herself and begins chopping. She's sort of terrible at it. Sarah finds this tremendously funny but does not say anything.

"Captain Wilson can also cook?" Ayo asks carefully, in her throaty voice, after a moment of uneven onion-chopping.

"Oh, sure. Not as good as me though."

Sarah cracks some eggs into the pan.

"My wife is an excellent cook," Ayo says, as carefully as anything else she has said, into the sounds of the kitchen. It is a bit like an offering. "The art escapes me. But it brings life into a home."

"We need food to stay alive," Sarah says plainly.

"Yes," says Ayo. Her hands are wet from the onions. Sarah wonders what Ayo's wife cooks, and if it's anything similar to her own history of recipes, tucked into the corners of her kitchen and her family and her heart. Sarah thinks for the first time that Ayo must have used those hands to inflict injury more than once -- like her brother has, and like the man she loves. She knows Bucky has a complicated history with this woman, knows there is a degree of penitence that still underlies his tone when he speaks about her, like he's trying to make up for something. Sarah associates Ayo with the afternoon precluding one of the more painful moments in their lives, and the reserved, private parcels of personal history Bucky has offered her over the last two years. She doesn't much know exactly where Ayo stands. At first glance, she'd thought the Dora to be beautiful in an entirely intimidating way -- there is a curl to her mouth that makes it seem consistently on the verge of disdain, or at the very least ready to impress threat. She reevaluates this now. Ayo's expression remains intense, but radiating a subtle, warm approval that makes her immediately likeable.

Anyway -- Sarah gets the feeling that the mere act of her entering this old house speaks for itself.

The stairs thunder again, this time with teenaged boy footsteps. AJ and Cass get to squabbling about something in the foyer while Sarah accepts the chopped onions, shakes up the now-fragrant hash and sticks some old homemade biscuits into the toaster to heat up. She only startles slightly when a pair of hands close around the softer front parts of her waist, one warm, one cool, in shorthand for the backwards hug he always does when there are people around.

She stays focused on her stove while Bucky greets Ayo and starts bagging the boys' lunches.

"You got everything you need to drop them off?" she asks, comfortable with their routine. She scrapes some food into a plate for Ayo, then Bucky, then herself, while he reaches around her to pour his own cup of coffee. His hair is still damp from the shower and he's changed into a plain black t-shirt and jeans that Sarah appreciates as a steady hum somewhere in the back of her mind.

Bucky groans a bit around his first mouthful of food. "God, how d'you do this every time. See?" This is to Ayo. "'S best safe house in the world. Like a five star hotel."

"I am not openin’ up for business," Sarah informs him. His cheeks are a bit flushed, still -- from the shower? -- and she can't help but let her mouth twitch. "This was a favour to a friend."

Ayo's eyes are dancing.

"Not better than Aneka's," she apologizes.

“Mmm,” Bucky says knowingly – his mouth is still full, the man – “Aneka’s –”

"-- but quite impressive. I am not familiar with American food."

"Oh, this is my food," says Sarah. The corners of Ayo’s lips turn up in a rare, feline smile.

"Kuya kufuneka ndimxelele ukumkani ukuba intanda yomzalwana wethu iyoyikeka," she says, in a tone clearly meant for Bucky alone, and Sarah watches him freeze, the dark fingers of his left hand curled around his coffee mug. "They are grateful for your aid in this problem," Ayo adds quietly, a crease lining her forehead. Her hands remain flat against the kitchen table.

"It wasn't your fault, Ayo," Bucky says.

"Tcha. We shall not speak of it." She glances at Sarah, then back towards him. She says, "this afternoon?"

"I'll find him after I drop the boys off."

They're talking about something else entirely now. There was an edge to his voice, right there. Sarah catches Bucky's eye, and he holds it – steady, open, trusting. She knows as surely as she knows her recipes that he would never do anything to put her children in danger. She nods.

"My thanks," Ayo says.

"Nantoni na yomhlobo," he says quietly. For the first time, Sarah notices how uncoordinated the words are in his mouth; Ayo speaks the language with such effortless fluidity.

"You’re gonna be late,” Sarah warns, spooning another helping onto his plate. There’s a crash from the hallway.

“Mo-om, have you seen my gym shoes?”

“Laundry room!” Sarah and Bucky call back in unison.

“Ms. G’s at the front door!” continues AJ’s voice. “She’s askin’ ‘bout a calendar!”

Sarah, Bucky and Ayo listen as the gravelly tones of Ms. Gloria’s warm voice correct Sarah’s son through what must be the wide-open front door.

“Uh, sorry, colander!”

Like Sarah said; there’s always someone in this house. She moves to go greet their neighbor, but Bucky stops her with a fleeting vibranium hand against her hip.

“Are you …” He doesn’t seem to know what he really wants to say. Sarah wonders what it was that Ayo told him – whether it is clear to the world outside their home how much she loves him.

“We’re all good here, James,” Sarah says, voice low.

Ayo is respectfully examining the photographs on the refrigerator and feigning deafness, but Sarah doesn’t feel like this is all that private. She’s in the same home they’re in, after all – even if it’s just temporary. Sarah touches her palm to his cheek, just once.

“In fact,” she adds, “I am better than fine. Ten out of ten, sir. Keith Richardson thought I was glowin' more than the morning sunshine.”

Bucky’s expression flickers, confused, then sharpens with understanding, chest expanding, eyes dropping down to take in the shape of her frilled up robe in a sharp, tangible flick as his mouth lifts in a grin at once shameless and a bit shy.

“Hmm,” he says, somewhere in his chest; Sarah laughs.

“Take my babies to school,” she says, “and do – whatever you need to do. It’ll give me time to eat my breakfast, and then me and the Captain of the Royal Guard are gonna make sure Ms. Gloria gets her colander and calendar.”

Behind her, in the kitchen, Ayo is smiling again, a tiny, near-invisible thing. Sarah goes to the front to invite Ms. Gloria in, kisses the boys’ heads goodbye, then picks up her plate of breakfast, comfortable in her knowledge of how life is meant to be.

**

the translation of what Ayo tells Bucky is: "i will have to tell the king that our brother's beloved is formidable"

[olive-heathcliffe-notbps]

[October 26, 20XX. 11:42 PM]

[Mark scratched at his arm slightly, not hard enough to be concerning but enough to know something was up. Sarah wrinkled her nose (or, what would be her nose) at the action and reached a hand to his scratching arm. Her clawed tips wrapped around the middle of his right forearm as the corners of her crooked, broken mouth pulled downwards into a frown. 

“You really shouldn’t be doing that, y’know,” she breathed without breathing, spoke without speaking. The concern in her sweet voice was now audible, quite a shift in tone from the uncaring, chipper manner she usually spoke in. He picked up on the change as he gently pulled her hand off and sighed,

“Sorry, sorry, it’ss a force of habit. I can sstop if you like... want me to, I guess.” He turned his gaze towards her, not fearing making eye contact, as she had no eyes for his to lock with. He was still slurring his words together, but it would be fine as long as he didn’t have anything else to drink for the night. 

“I mean, I’m really not supposed to care, so... keep doing it, I don’t know. I’m not your boss,” she laughed at the sentiment. It sounded so dumb when she said it out loud, didn’t it? And yet, Mark laughed right along with it, whether it was because her laughter was contagious or because the intoxication was ruining his sense of humor. It’s not like it really mattered though, right?

The conversation was starting to veer off-topic, however, so Sarah had to reel it back in. “Anyways, what about my voice?” she questioned. The small grin she brought out of Mark immediately dissipated. She could tell he wanted to start scratching again upon hearing the question. She wondered if it was even worth pushing, but she didn't have to wonder for very long as Mark prepared to speak again:

"Well uh......." His mouth was turning dry as sandpaper. "I-I don't... ugh, it sounds weirder the more I think about it, and I could just be wrong and making connections where there isn't any, and I'm probably just misinterpreting everything like I usually do, and......." he mumbled, his voice trailing off into a little more than a whisper as he continued. Sarah knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help but giggle at his complete lack of self-confidence. She couldn't help herself. It was adorable, in a twisted kind of way. This human before him had it in him to let an alternate, let alone the one that killed his sister and almost killed him, stay in his house, and yet talking to people was where he fell short.

"Just spit it out, silly. Whatever it is, you're overthinking it," Sarah assured him. Mark stared into space blankly for a moment, as if he forgot what he was even talking about, before doing the strange laugh-scoff combination that he sometimes did. "God, okay... okay fine, uh..." he fiddled with his hands as he tried to force the words to come out. "C-Could you... uh... use? The voice on me? To get me to go to bed? Like, y-you used it a lot before and then you kinda stopped s-so... uh. Fuck, wait, lemme start over-" It wasn't clear if he was tripping over his words because of the alcohol or the tiredness or because this is just how he talks, but-

"Mark, slow down a little. I'm, like, barely following what you're saying." Sarah stopped him as he began to ramble a second time. She wasn't smiling anymore, but she wasn't frowning either. In fact, this was an expression he hadn't seen from her before. She looked almost... suprised? It made sense, he thought- it was a pretty odd request, after all- but it didn't occur to him that things... suprised her. She just seemed so relaxed most of the time...

"Start over," she said. "You said you wanted me to use 'the voice' on you?" She knew exactly what he was talking about, but no one except her and... someone else... had figured out how she always managed to get what she wanted up until this point. Mark winced, realizing he probably looked like an idiot right about now.

"God I fucking knew it, I- I'm sorry, it's- I-I was just being stupid, i-ignore me," he spat out hastily. Sarah's "face" grew from suprised to concerned as she reached over to take his hand, squeezing it tightly.

"No, no, it's not stupid, you-" she hesitated slightly before continuing. "What do you know about my voice? Tell me everything." Her words were so soft and soothing. They enveloped Mark like a blanket, fluffy, warm, and safe. It wasn't the same voice he knew all too well, and yet they were so comforting that Mark couldn't help but comply with exactly what they asked him to do.

"Uh... ah...." He took a deep breath, both to give him time to properly formulate what he wanted to say and to attempt to calm his nerves. "W-Well. I noticed... a couple times... when you talked to me, you'd like... tell me to do something, and all of a sudden I'd want to do it," he explained, "even when I wanted to do the exact opposite before. A-And your voice sounds different whenever you do it, too. I don't know how to describe it, it kinda sounds more... dreamy? Not in a weird way obviously, but like... I start feeling more tired, a-and I can only hear your voice, and-" He paused. "And I can't make sense of anything, so I feel like I have no choice but to go along with whatever you say. Like a sheperd leading its flock." He lingered on those words for a moment. It was the perfect explanation for what he experienced, and he seemed almost proud of himself for finding the right words to say.

Sarah seemed proud too. Or, more accurately, she seemed simply impressed.

"And you found this out all by yourself?" she pondered in awe. Mark nodded quickly, grinning a little as he did so. "Yeah, I-I'm really into psychology and that kinda thing, so I started picking up on like, those sublte changes, you know? I-" He cut himself off when he realized he was about to start rambling again. He didn't want to bore her with any of the details.

"You are? You'll hafta tell me more sometime!! I wanna know all about that stuff. And I still can't get over how you knew all of that, even without me telling you anything. You're a really smart guy, Mark," Sarah cheered excitedly. He flushed as his hand started to rapidly hit his leg. You'd think he has never been complimented before in his life.

"A-Are you sure? I- Ohhh my god... I'd love to tell someone everything I know, I've been in love with psychology for years-" he stimmed even more as he spoke. Normally, he'd be suspicious of this kind of behavior coming from Sarah, but it was some mix of drunkenness and exhaustion that made his inhibition practically disappear.

Shame I have to get his hopes up like this, Sarah thought. He really does deserve better. Truthfully, her words were partly genuine. It was amazing that he was able to see what her other victims and even other alternates couldn't see. But she had to break through the numbness he had succumbed to. She needed emotions to take advantage of, so when worse came to worst, she had to make her own.

And it was working, too. For the first time in days, he looked legitimately happy. His laugh started to grow less delighted and more delirious, though, and Sarah knew the moment she was waiting for was about to pass. So, she made her move.

"C'mon, settle down... It's way past your bedtime, Mark.... Stand up and make your way to your bed for me, will you?" she chirped in that lovely, lovely voice of hers. Mark's laughter fizzled out, not because he was suddenly unhappy, but because he no longer had a choice. It was strange to Sarah, him consciously telling her to weave her way into every muscle, every fiber of his being like this. None of her prior victims had ever been like this, though they also never found the source of the strings that suddenly guided them before... you know.

"I- yeah, yeah you're right... it's way too fuckin' late for me... I'll- I'll go to bed," Mark said, fumbling his words slightly. Before, he fought and fought to keep himself from completely surrendering to Sarah's words, but now... he was tired. He was so tired. He wanted to give up his emotions, his body, his very mind all to her. And so, he did.

Sarah helped him stand as he make his way over to lie down. What a strange prey he is, she thought. It would be so, so, so easy for her to end him at that moment. She knew exactly where the gun was, and she knew for a fact Mark did too. It would be just like the incident some nights ago, but this time she'd truly finish the job, truly watch his blood pour from the bullet hole laid in his brain...

...and yet, the desire to help him compelled her more. It was strange... but it was nice.

Mark had already climbed into his bed he filled in one last request upon gaining some lucidity.

"Oh, and uh, Sarah..."

"Hm?"

"C-Can you tell me that things're gonna be okay, too?"

"Oh, yeah! Sure, I can do that for you!!"

"Th-thank you... I've- I've been so unsure about so mant things lately... I just want to truly believe that everthing will turn out fine. Even though it won't, but... yeah."

Sarah took his hand again. She didn't know why she kept doing it over and over. His grip felt welcoming to her. His hands were usually ice cold, but tonight they were warm.

"Get a good night's sleep for me, Mark... give up your fears, give up your anxieties. You are safe, you are loved, you have so many friends who are willing to support you. Believe that all will be well in the end, okay?" Her body almost swayed with her speech. With her other, free hand, she gently rubbed against his forearm, relaxing him further.

"Yeah... you're right, Sarah. A-About everything. I can't believe I ever doubted you. Goodnight, Sarah." The love in his sleepy, drifting voice was clear. Just a few moments later, he was out like a light switch, falling into a dreamscape world before 12 AM for the first time in days.

Sarah sat in silence for far longer than she should have. She didn't want the moment to end, not now at least. But all good things must come to an end eventually, don't they? She dragged the experience for as long as she could before finally decided to leave Mark to his rest.

She closed the door without making a sound when she finally had to let the moment pass. When the doors were completely closed, though, her already wide smile deepened as she did tiny mini-hops up and down in the hall of his house.

I had a normal interaction with Mark!! One where he wasn't nervous and twitchy the whole time!!!!!! This is progress!!!!!!!!!!

Just beyond the fateful door, the real Sarah was burried in blankets and stuffed animals. Sometimes, she wished the older her would just shut up.]

s. Sarah i think i need a . big favor um. doyou remember. that voice u can do

hm . i do. why do u ask