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[jameswilly98]

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[garamkathaa-blog]

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[sugarbombs-n-stuff]

Companion’s Hobbies

I hope you all enjoy this one and let me know what you want to see from me in the future!

(No gage or longfellow this time around, ill add them later if yall want but i think longfellows boring and i haven’t really played with gage enough for me to say much about him,)

Ada - She actually really digs birdwatching! She can name basically every bird you see and she gets sad whenever she thinks about pigeons.

Cait - Most people would assume something violent and while she does enjoy sparring she’s also really good at wood carving. She picked it up when she was enslaved but she didn’t really do anything with it until traveling with Sole.

Curie - Besides science things she enjoys swimming and gardening with Codsworth. After Sole taught her how to swim she was basically always in water though she does panic a bit when she dives down too deep. Her and Codsworth started gardening when she started getting interested in plants and now they do it for the ritual of it.

Codsworth - Gardening and telling stories. He likes the monotony of gardening as it gives him peace of “mind”. And if there are kids around he’ll tell them stories about Pre-War America, folk tales, and even original stories. Deacon and Cait have dubbed it as Story Time with Codsworth.

Danse - Danse enjoys reading and working out. He likes the sore feeling after working out on whatever equipment Sole set up. Most people might believe that when it comes to reading, he prefers non fiction, he does not. If you get a look at what he’s reading when he’s enjoying himself you might find him reading Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of the Narnia books. He’s a huge fan of fantasy but there are times where he’ll read I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream or Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.

Deacon - Fiber arts like knitting, weaving, embroidery, anything like that. It has some to do with making disguises but he also grew up doing it with his mom and grandparents. His family are Big-Horner ranchers so they had plenty of wool that his grandma would spin and him and his mom would knit and weave with it. His other grandma would dye and weave it mostly. After all these years he kept the skills and still loves fiber crafts. He basically always has a knitting project he’s working on. If you’re close with him(or pay enough caps), he’ll make you something.

Nick Valentine - He’s an old man that listens to audio dramas while he mends either his clothes or Ellie’s. Like Deacon, if he’s close with you he’ll mend your things too. It became his hobby accidentally after he kept ripping his clothes and by the time Ellie came to stay with him it had already weaseled its way into Nick’s heart. He’s also fond of checkers and he and Ellie play it a lot.

Piper - She writes. Its her hobby that she made a business out of. It started a little after her dad died and she does it now to grant her self some peace of mind. She’ll write stories for Nat and they’ll act them out together in their living room through laughs.

Preston - Hunting, Fishing, and repairing , though he isn’t as good as Sturges. He grew up on the island near far harbor so its pure muscle memory when he does it now. His brother taught him how to fish when he was younger and his auntie taught them both how to hunt. He can really clear his mind when he’s doing it and its one of the rare times his mind gives him peace instead of problems.

Hancock - Hancock doodles a lot. It was always getting him in trouble when he was in school but now its what he does when he’s first watch when traveling the wasteland. Even on important documents for Goodneighbor you’ll be able to see tiny almost chibi-esk drawings of whatever’s on his mind.

MacCready - Mac also draws! When writing notes to Duncan he’ll draw pictures of whatever creatures he encountered when traveling with the sole survivor’s merry band of misfits. He works hard on every drawing that he makes and it shows cause even though its just a hobby he could make good money off of it.

Strong - Even though he will never admit it, he enjoys hunting with Preston. He also likes reading shakespeare and he’s slowly but surely branching out to other authors. He can read on his own but if him and Sole are close enough, he’ll ask sole to read to him while he’s cutting up what ever fresh kill he got from hunting.

X6-88 - Insect Taxidermy and Gun Cleaning/Modding. If you walk into his house he has butterflies, bloatflies, blood bugs, etc on the walls. He hunches over a desk and pins their wings and bodies and it’s genuinely one of his favorite things to do. Gun care empties his mind as he lets muscle memory take over. While it is calming , he does it more so when he gets an itchy trigger finger. He’ll take it apart, inspect it, clean it, then reassemble it over and over. He’ll tire of it quickly though

[zarkishere]

On the seventh day of Christmas, Zark gave to me...

woaw rainbow (1) + fic

chapter below too!

____ Months of unresolved ache often lead to explosive emotions. ____ 3 days later.

Ruben was on ‘shit-cleaning-duty’ (Bill’s words), picking up every pile of manure in the barn and then throwing it in a cart, humming a tune to himself…it was early, he was trying to do this quickly so he could go out later.

They’d traveled 2 whole days to get here—He liked this camp; it was bigger than usual, two cabins at the center —one for Dutch and Hosea, the other for Arthur and John— with the other’s tents littered around it, a barn in fairly well state, an actual fence…or parts of it, rather. Plus, it was warm and well hidden…heaven, as far as Ruben was aware.

Shame he was stuck cleaning poop all day. It was fair, he guessed, after making such trouble…

Eventually he was done, wiping his forehead, leaving the shovel near the exit and walking out toward his tent. He needed to bathe, of course, he smelled like crap…quite literally, too.

Things were still tense in camp, of course. People made questions, complained about moving, talked down to him. It was fine. They were lucky that woman had barely scratched them. They were lucky the lawmen had lost them. It was fine.

Ruben took a deep breath, heading to the Callanders tent; He still slept with them, seeing no point in wasting money buying another tent even if Hosea had said he could. Maybe someday, maybe if he really needed it. Once he got inside he grabbed a clean button-down from Mac’s chest—Ruben often stole clothes from Mac, to Mac’s amusement—and beelined toward the river.

He bathed, threw on clean clothes and went back to camp, thinking of how to ask Dutch to let him out…He was sat down at one of the new tables, eating stew, looking down at it like the food owed him money.

Ruben cleared his throat. “ Sir? “ He asked, trying to sound confident even though he was clearly not.

Of course, Dutch was fully aware of his nerves, tilting his head as he turned toward Ruben. “ Yes? “ He hummed, acting unaware.

“ I was wondering if I could…maybe….go out for a while? Just to see if I can catch something. “ Ruben responded, arms crossed behind his back.

There was silence for a few beats, the two men staring at each other. Ruben wondered what Dutch was thinking—the man was always doing so, it seemed, be it plans or the books he was reading or something else. His brain seemed like an unsolvable maze to him.

Eventually, Dutch snickered and shrugged. “ ‘course, son. You’re better off robbin’ for us than picking shit all day. “ He said before going back to eating, silently dismissing Ruben.

Ruben made a mental note to buy something Dutch for his kindness, nodding and heading out.

He got on Ruth, not taking anything that wasn’t already on the mare as he went out. He hoped to find something—anything—that would keep him busy and maybe bring some coin back to the gang.

He started in the nearest town, his boots kicking up dust on the dirt roads. The usual hustle and bustle was absent. The saloon stood mostly empty, its door swinging lazily in the wind, and the merchant at the stall seemed to be nearly dying of boredon. Ruben tried a couple of the local shops, but the owners had no work for him. "Come back next week," one grumbled, barely glancing up from his task. As he walked down the main street, Ruben paused by the stables. Maybe some ranchers needed help with cattle or repairs. He leaned on the wooden fence, watching the horses lazily graze, but the stablehands were nowhere to be seen. No deals, no jobs. The town had nothing to offer. Feeling the weight of wasted hours, Ruben turned back. He passed a few more mostly empty towns, the silence growing heavier with each step. Where the hell was everyone?

There was no point in sticking around. With a frustrated sigh, he made his way back to camp, the thought of returning with nothing gnawing at him.

No one asked, of course, but it still bothered him. It was late now, the sun completely hidden from view thanks to the treeline, clouds becoming stars…with not much else to do, he just idly did chores around camp. It sometimes felt like no-one did anything, and he really wished someone who’d be more useful would come around.

Eventually, Pearson called out for people to come over and eat, and so he walked over to the dishes after most everyone had gone already, grabbing a plate and turning around to—

“ Ay—cuidado. “ (Owch—careful.) Javier grumbled.

They had barely talked to each other—not that they talked much beforehand, but Javier had now started to return the favor and had begun to avoid Ruben—so this was their first interaction after the better part of 3 days. He seemed upset.

“ Pero si tú te me tiraste encima! “ (But you were the one that threw himself on me!) Ruben retorted, the weigh of the past few days making him more irritable than usual.

“ Yo no—ugh…Ruben, I don’t feel like arguing. “ Javier said, shoving past him to grab a plate for himself.

Ruben stared at him for a few seconds, anger boiling before he grabbed his arm and turned him around. “ Oh, but you very well argued with me back at that woman’s house! If it weren’t for you, we’d be fine! “

Javier seemed stunned for a few seconds, but eventually he nearly growled as he leaned in closer, expression darkening. “ You’re the one that’s always pushing me, don’t act innocent. “ He said, eyebrows furrowed.

Ruben could nearly feel Javier’s breath on him; a mix of tobacco, some sort of alcohol and…something else he couldn’t quite place. He shook his head, deciding this wasn’t the best time to think about that.

Instead, he threw his plate to the dirt—it was made of metal, so it wouldn’t break—and shoved Javier. “ This is all your fault! “ He said.

Javier put his plate down on the table with force before shoving Ruben back. “ I don’t know what your fucking problem with me is, but you’ve been rude to me since we met! “

“ Everything—everything that’s happened is your peoples fault! “ Ruben spat, anger rising from deep within. A wound that never healed.

Javier’s eyes widened, letting out a bitter chuckle as he looked Ruben up and down. “ My people? Cariño, you’re Mexican too. “ (Darling.)

The petname made a shiver run down his spine. He ignored that, too. “ No, I’m not. And that’s not even what I meant. “

“ Right—so your father isn’t Mexican? “ Javier placed his hands at his hips, raising an eyebrow.

Ruben groaned. “ Yes, he was, but I was born in Brazil. “

“ That makes you half-Mexican, imbécil! “

“ NO! I mean—maybe—that’s not my point! You revolutionaries ruined everything! “ Ruben’s voice broke ever so slightly.

Javier raised his eyebrows, and if he wasn’t before he sure was now. “ What does that have to do with anything!? I—oh, I see. I know what you are, un maldito imbécil que prefiere vivir en miseria antes de pelear. “ (A fucking moron who’d rather live in misery than fight.)

“ Tienes idea cuantas personas murieron porque gente como tú se les ocurrió ser parte de una pelea QUE NO PUEDEN GANAR? “ ( Do you have any idea how many people died because people like you decided to be part of a fight YOU CANNOT WIN?) Ruben spat, jaw clenched.

“ Mi tío murió por la revolución, Rubén, así que si, si tengo idea. “ (My uncle died for the revolution, Ruben, so yes, I do know) Javier answered, fists clenched. He was so close to punching Ruben. So, so very close.

“ Pero—no es lo mismo! Él pagó el precio, yo—” (But—it’s not the same! He paid the price, i--) Javier’s patience had finally snapped. Without another word, he punched Ruben’s face, a hard hit that sent the younger man stumbling backward. Ruben’s feet slipped on the dirt, and he crashed down onto the ground with a grunt.

Javier’s wasn’t a heavy puncher, he mostly used knives. This was surprising. " Levantate! “ (Get up!) Javier’s voice was sharp, filled with anger, as he watched Ruben scramble to his feet. Ruben grumbled as he got up, very quickly squaring up. Before Javier could react, Ruben lunged forward, making them both land on the ground, Ruben on top of Javier. He swung for a punch, but Javier moved out of the way and moved so he was on top now—they rolled in the dirt, struggling for control, fists flying as they tried to gain the upper hand. Their limbs tangled as they fought to get on top of each other, each trying to pin the other, but neither succeeding. A bit of blood splattered every once in a while as punches landed. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath as the two men rolled on the dirt, their movements frantic and wild. Javier tried to land a punch to Ruben’s ribs, but Ruben grabbed his arm and twisted it, forcing Javier to the side. They were both covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, but neither one was backing down.

Ruben silently hoped someone would come and stop them. Javier kneed the other’s stomach, causing him to grunt. In retaliation, he swung an elbow toward Javier’s face. The two collided again and again, their breathing heavy and ragged.

They kept their eyes on each other. Javier’s eyes followed a trickle of blood that ran down from Ruben’s nose to his lips. It was chaos, messy and uncoordinated. Neither could get the leverage needed to end it.

Javier managed to land a blow to Ruben’s cheek, but Ruben responded with a shove. They were still both on the ground, so it barely mattered at all. They were both exhausted now, breathing heavily, their muscles aching from the constant struggle. Neither had won, and neither had truly hurt the other. The fight slowly came to an end, both of them lying there in the dirt, tangled together, their breaths heavy but no longer frantic. There was no decisive blow, no clear victor. Just a mess of exhaustion and frustration.

They were silent for a few seconds, both sighing and looking away.

“ Tu…tu padre murió en la pelea? “ (Your…your dad died at the fight?) Javier asked between breaths, quiet, nearly gentle even if he was still fuming.

Ruben felt his throat tighten. He swallowed, shaking his head. “ Entonces? “ (Then?) Javier asked, frustration showing again.

Again, there was silence.

He sighed, accepting Ruben wasn’t ready to talk about it just yet. “ Mira, Rubén…no sé qué pasó, y lamento que hayas perdido a alguien por nuestra pelea, pero no fue culpa mía. Yo no maté a esa persona. Yo solo quería que nos trataran de manera justa. “ (Look, Ruben…I don't know what happened, and I'm sorry you lost someone because of our fight, but it wasn't my fault. I didn't kill that person. I just wanted us to be treated fairly.)

They both sat up, Ruben looking back at him. “ Te juro que moriría por cada inocente que muríó. “ (I swear I would die for every innocent person who died.) Javier added, looking straight into his eyes.

Ruben opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Arthur called out to them.

“ The hell are you doin’!? “ He asked, stomping his way over. “ On the—oh my lord. Did you fight??? Again??? “ Arthur sighed in frustration. “ Get up, go eat. “

And so they did, brushing themselves off and heading for dinner.

They didn’t talk about it to anyone who asked.

[rcpplusonca1]

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[sdscdd]

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[puniittelecom]

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[uclaver]

[rachanasharma1028]

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[jameswilly98]

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[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 68

Chapter Summary - Danielle has become somewhat reclusive, spending a lot of time on her study, and not enough with Tom, so he comes up with an idea to get her out of her books and repair some bridges of his own.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe​ @wolfsmom1​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Danielle looked at the page in front of her, her vision bleary from hours and hours of staring at her study. Rubbing her eyes, she groaned and looked at her phone, shocked to see that she had been studying for five hours straight. She felt herself fill with dread as she thought of cooking a meal. To say Tom had not come to her to speak or anything meant that he too was probably obsessing over his work, so she rose to her feet and decided that she would see what he felt like eating.

On opening the door, she moaned, the smell of cooking wafting towards her. Smiling she went to the kitchen and bit her lips together, seeing Tom dancing to that Justin Timberlake song he commented somewhat factually that everyone bar her seemed to like, the oven on and a pot on the hob, telling her he was making spaghetti bolognese, as he spun around on the spot as part of his dancing, he jumped slightly at seeing his girlfriend behind him. "Oh."

"Don't let my being here stop you, you had a groove going." She smiled as she walked over to the pot. "Where's the spaghetti?"

"I don't have any."

"Yes, there is, I bought some the other day."

"Well I cannot have any, I need to go on promoting Kong, so my suits have to fit."

"Right, fair enough, that's you out, but I am allowed carbs, so you better be getting some for me." She looked around. "And some cheese."

"Cheese?"

Danielle looked at him in horror, "You cannot have spag-bol without cheese, you absolute heathen, I mean having it without spaghetti is blasphemous, but without cheese…" She shook her head, "Not happening."

Tom chuckled. "You are so passionate about your food."

"I make no apologies, it's who I am."

He leant down and kissed her. "I am well aware, I love that about you."

"Even if I am officially the chunkiest girlfriend you ever had?"

"You are not chunky, Kitkats are chunky, you are a person."

"Sorry, what was the other word, 'wholesome'."

Tom growled. "Nacelle told me you had a little issue when you were shopping."

"It wasn't an issue, it was a bitch of a sales assistant that made a comment about me being chunky," Danielle explained. "She was somewhat appalled that one of my lack of height and rotund of hip diameter would be wearing dresses, that in her opinion, were meant for the likes of your former flame."

Tom merely growled. "I also heard you rounded on her."

"I just told her that her superiors would argue her opinion since my bank card would work as well as a thinner girl's, so either show me the changing rooms or stop wasting my time."

"That's my fiery Irish Lass." Tom grinned proudly before kissing her again. "And for the record, you are not chunky, and I very much love how you look or have you forgotten how I adore to ravish you at any and every opportunity."

"Behave you insatiable man, you might burn my food." She laughed, but the manner in which she held onto Tom and looked at him told him of her internal need for him to state such to her from time to time.

"In all seriousness though Elle, I love you as you are, if you gain or lose weight, so long as you are happy with it, I don't care."

"Yes you do, everyone does, besides, if I lost weight, my breasts would decrease in size somewhat." Tom froze for a moment before letting go of her and rushing around opening different presses. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for the spaghetti."

"Why in such a panic, though?"

"I can't allow these divine assets of yours to shrink in any manner, that is a travesty of epic proportion." Danielle merely laughed and threw her eyes up as she went and stirred the pot on the hob.

*

"It was nice having dinner with Nacelle and her fiancé." Tom declared as he finished his food.

Danielle looked at him curiously, wondering why he brought up the pair since it had been almost a week since they had brought her shopping and then went back to theirs for takeaway, with Tom joining them. "I was not aware you knew Becky."

"Rebecca is one of the biggest names in the industry for contracts, anyone who is anyone gets her and her partners to write up their contract, Marvel deal through them over here."

"Yeah, I knew she was a bit of a deal, just didn't realise how big, Nacelle isn't a bragger."

"I noticed, those who are brilliant at what they do rarely are." Tom smiled. "So what was she saying to you about New Years?"

"I got asked, more than once, who did my makeup and I told people, now she has two weddings booked in for September and at a nice price, plus Becky is sorting her the Spring/Summer '18 contract for New York Fashion Week from it." Danielle smiled in delight. "Guess I was a walking business card."

Tom grinned. "You love to see others do well, don't you? Your friends, even Paul."

"Hey, so long as it does not affect you and me, I want Taylor to do well, just so long as it is nowhere near me or at either of our expenses." Danielle shrugged, "You get nowhere in life wishing ill on people. I am happy, so why want others not to be."

"I often forget you are so much younger than you act." Tom grinned as he pulled out the bottle of wine they had been drinking, "More?"

"Jesus no, I have to proofread a project in the morning. The last thing I need is fuzzy brain doing it."

"How is the study? We are in the same house but barely see each other."

Danielle noted the small hint of sadness in his voice. "I know, it is like before Christmas again, I just get so fixated on getting everything done, I'm sorry." She sighed. "I am getting way more work done than I thought I would, but perhaps I should slow down. This," She held up her hand. "Has another four to six weeks, you are gone to the US in what, two weeks?"

"Ten days."

"Shit." Danielle shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"I want you to get everything done, but…"

"You want me here too, not just in physical being, but actually sitting down talking to you?" She hampered a guess.

"Is it wrong to say yes?"

"No." She smiled knowingly. "I need you to do something for me, Tom." He looked at her expectantly. "I need you to tell me when I am overly obsessed with other stuff, I need you to say 'Elle, I want your attention too'."

"I don't want to force you or make you feel as though it's a chore."

"You're not a chore Tom, you are my boyfriend, who I really, really love spending time with, I just forget sometimes."

"I've an idea." It was Danielle's turn to look at him expectantly. "How about we go see my dad, he's been asking if I would come up, and of course, he is asking for you?"

"When would you be thinking?"

"As soon as we can?"

"How would we get there?"

"The fastest way is to fly."

Danielle's nose twitched as she thought, something Tom noticed she did when her mind was racing to figure out a perceived issue. "I have Mac's vaccination card with me, if we find him kennels, I would go."

"Would that be alright? I mean, I am sure we can find someone to mind him."

"We are not dumping him on Ben and Sophie, she would have to be talked down from a bell tower with a sniper rifle." Tom chuckled. "And I doubt Luke would offer."

"I would pay to see Luke's face." Tom laughed. "Nacelle?"

"They have Nero, I doubt he would be too happy." She explained. "It is too late now, but I will Google a few places and ring them in the morning to see if they'll take him."

*

"Are you okay?" Tom asked as they arrived at the airport in a cab to prevent arousing suspicion.

"Yeah, as we said, we go in separately and no one will put us together." She smiled, pulling out her phone. "We better head in, our check-in time is closing in fifteen, it wouldn't bode well to miss our flight since we only booked it a few hours ago."

"That was nice of that woman to Facebook you back last night."

"Business is cut-throat for so many these days, I am just glad we have a place for him, I think he will like it." Danielle smiled, recalling Mac's delight at his temporary accommodation as well as the other dogs.

"It's only for two days, we'll be home soon." Tom smiled, nervous about seeing his father after his father gave him a significant piece of his mind on his "Whoring" the previous summer. Paying the cab driver, he got out of the car and got his suitcase, which housed both of their belongings, neither taking anything significant with them since it was such a short trip, a few moments later, when Tom had entered the building, not attracting too much attention, Danielle got out of the cab, thanked the driver and closed the door. Inhaling, she walked into the airport, somewhat surprised that Tom was over at check-in machine typing in his details and scanning his passport. nonchalantly, she walked to one of the machines that were a bit away from his and did the same, collecting her ticket and walking to the W.H. Smith's nearby to get a packet of hard-boiled sweets. "It's a lot quieter than I thought it would be." She turned slightly at Tom's voice being so close to her.

"Well, you have no one ringing different photographers to get your sexy mug all over a website." She smiled. "Will we head to departures?"

"Okay, sorry it's only a small commercial and not something fancier."

"Because of course, I am used to different, aren't I?" Danielle laughed. "Seriously, I have never been on anything but a three each side Ryanair or Aer Lingus flight, and the furthest I have been to is the Netherlands."

"What, really? Your parents never brought you on holiday?"

"I have been on loads of holidays, I know my country back to front, inside out, dad always said, bar the weather, Ireland could match any country in the world for scenery, history and culture, in fact, it surpasses many on all of them." She stated.

"So why were you in the Netherlands? What brought you there?"

"Amsterdam." Tom looked at her with a suspicious look and a raised brow.

"Not for that side of it, I did Art for my Leaving Certificate, Rembrandt was the artist our school focused on for that year, so we went over as a class." She stated knowingly. "I told you already, I'm too boring for anything else."

"You are not boring Elle, you are sensible."

"Same difference."

"Can I ask something, it is something Luke said to me before, then Ben and Hugh mentioned it too?" Danielle looked at him. "How does someone so sensible end up taking the risks you do, coming to England, taking on being a paramedic, then taking on being a safety officer? They are such risks, sensible people don't take those sorts of risks."

"I also put a lot into this relationship." Tom frowned. "You are not exactly the safest bet Tom. An actor? And here I am allowing myself love you, putting faith in you I have never given to a man before."

Tom leant a bit closer to her, wanting nothing more than to kiss her hand. "I cannot thank you enough for doing that, I promise I will show you it is worth it."

"It better be, you're the first man I ever said 'I love you' to outside of my dad." She smiled walking off, leaving Tom staring at her as she did. She walked through to the scanning area, taking out all her electronics and keys so to go through the machine. To her relief, it did not buzz, so she collected her belongings again and waited for him.

When they were through, they made their way through the cafes and restaurants and shops towards the gate they were required, since a small British flight seldom required much waiting. "Really?"

"Really what?" She asked, not looking at him.

"I am the first?"

"I told you already Tom, there wasn't many before you, and I was young and not really understanding of what was needed in a relationship, looking back, no, I never knew anything about love before you, nor did I mention anything regarding it."

"So, there is just me?"

"Just you." She confirmed, looking at him.

"But I…" He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Tom, don't." He eyed her warily. "I know you have, you admitted it before, remember. That's fine, I don't care. Well, I care, since it means you have known heartache, but I don't need you to say I am 'the one and only person you have loved' I am not an idiot."

"Does it make me sound easy?"

"Does loving make you sound easy, you're an idiot." She laughed. "No, it doesn't, it makes you sound human. Now, enough, we are still in public, it is quiet, but there is still a few people around."

Since they had booked separately to avoid detection, they were forced to sit away from each other for the short flight. Tom got caught listening to some soccer fan reel abuse at his soccer team for the journey, no matter how high he put up his headphones, while Danielle was sitting next to a man who was, if he was telling the truth, two years younger than her and very interested in her cleavage. Politely, Danielle laughed him off for the majority of the journey, but she felt Tom's less than happy glance more than once.

"He was a bit much," Tom commented as he opened the door of the hire car for Danielle.

"Which one, we both had a bad travel partner." Danielle laughed, having seen Tom's less than pleased face at his own travel companion.

"True, but that guy was staring at you the whole way," Tom growled.

"I see."

"I'm not jealous, you were not leading him on and were trying to get him to leave you alone," Tom commented.

"Of course." Danielle nodded. "I think he said something about being away for a while and I being, and this is me guessing since the Scottish twang can get very strong that I reminded him of his first girlfriend, but with bigger breasts."

"How did you resist the urge to slap him?"

"I had to remember it would give Luke heart failure."

"He would be honoured at your thinking about him." Tom chuckled. "So, you remember my father."

"Stern, working-class Scot, hard to forget."

"After the summer, he…said things, things I did not want to hear, and you can tell from him, he is not one to sugar coat, he was vicious, if not brutally honest."

"So things are tense?"

"Yes, so much so…well, we agreed the best thing to do is for you and I to stay at a B&B."

"Were you planning to tell me this anytime before bedtime tonight Tom?"

"I did not know how to broach it."

"How do you feel? About not staying with him."

"Honestly, relieved. I disappointed him so much, I confirmed everything that he thought acting was, I fucked up incredibly with regards him."

"Well, that is part of why we are here, though I have to say, I don't think for one moment he will censor himself with me here, but at least he is honest like that."

"Thank you, Elle." Tom gently took her injured hand in his and kissed it. "You are always so understanding, so willing to help."

"I'm a glutton for punishment." She grinned as they made their way to the B&B not too far from the town Tom's father lived in.

*

"Dad," Tom smiled meekly as the Hiddleston patriarch opened his front door. James Hiddleston was a good three inches shorter than his son, and his old age meant he was stooped further, but to Danielle, that only made Tom's fear all the funnier more than anything.

"So she really is gone?" James commented. "Thank fuck, though she seems to have taken your dignity with her." He turned and made his way back into his home, heading to the living room where there was a warm fire scorching the small space. "Ms Hughes, it is good to see you again."

"As it is you, Dr Hiddleston." She smiled politely.

"You will not stop that, will you?"

"Can't say that I will." She smirked, causing the older man to chuckle before pointing to Danielle and looking at Tom. "She'll keep you on the straight and narrow, this one."

"I need it." Tom acknowledged. "How are you, dad?"

"Well, it's been raining for longer than I care to count, but overall, no point in complaining. Now, be a good lad and get the tea." Tom nodded, relieved his father seemed somewhat normal, or what was so for the man, and rose to his feet; Danielle followed suit. "No so fast lassie, you are to stay here, I have a few words I want to have with you." Danielle nodded and swallowed as Tom looked between his father and Danielle anxiously. "Now Thomas." Tom turned and left. "He may be thirty-five, but he is still not too old for a clip across the ear."

"No better man for it either."

"You seem to have your head screwed on some bit."

"That is debatable Dr Hiddleston, I thought it a good idea to go out with your son."

James chuckled at that, "Is what Sarah said true, you got rid of her in the end?" Danielle made a head gesture that signified she had some part in it. "Thank you. Sarah will tell you, I nearly had her cowering in a corner for what she allowed him do to my granddaughter, flaunting her in public like that, like some fucking prized dog, and after years of everyone keeping everything about our family private, he flaunted them around like that, Diana should have never allowed it, I never was as angered."

"I can only imagine." Danielle nodded, knowing that the best thing to do was allow him to rant for a few moments, feeling that he only wanted to make himself heard more than anything.

"Is it odd for you being here Lass?" Danielle cocked her head slightly at the question. "You are Diana's ally after all."

Danielle raised her hands. "Whoa, okay, it's been what twenty-five years, there are no ally's, you are two people who were once married, you have three children and a grandchild, if you hold onto something after all this time then beware, because that is cancerous. I am a good friend of Diana's. I love her, she is the mother I have needed since my mam died, but that in no way impacts on any relationship I would like to form with you as Tom's father."

James studied her for a moment, Danielle knowing that whatever opinion the scientist had of her as Emma's friend, being Tom's significant other held a different set of criteria she was required to fill to be deemed good enough. She had shown she was trustworthy, that she would not divulge family secrets when she was Emma's friend, that was in her favour. "Your mother is dead?"

"Both parents are, no siblings, hence coming over here, as well as getting to know Diana and Emma so well."

"Diana always had a heart for those who need it." James acknowledged.

"She saved me, I was so lost when they died, I rushed away from everything, to a small area of England, too scared to stay at home, and there was this lovely woman that just insisted I join her for tea, would not take no for an answer, then insisted I tell her who I was, in full, pushing and pushing, picking at a thread that was barely hanging on, she could see it, she seemed to know I needed to get it out, and when she pulled enough, it all came out, how lost I was, and she sat there, hugging me, telling me I was okay. She means the world to me, so I will not hear an unfair bad word against her, but you are Tom's father, you are the other half of the reason he and Emma, two of the most important people I have ever had in my life, exist, you aided to mould and shape them, so you matter also."

"Many would argue not, Diana raised them, I left."

"You were there for the formative years, they are your children too."

"What is your opinion of me?"

"Honestly?" James nodded. "Strict, straight-backed, brutally honest, feelings be damned, say it as it is, probably not as favoured as Diana because of it, for as strict as she no doubt was, you were the authoritative parent, but you care deeply about your children, nothing you have done has been without thinking about them, when Tom told you about his plans to be an actor, I don't think you did not want to do it out of anything but concern, you wanted him to achieve his potential, you did not think that standing around looking and talking at a camera was the way to do so, but when he showed you the fruits of his work, you seem to have respected that, and last summer," James huffed in disgust, "Your actions were that of a concerned father and grandfather, of a man who cared for his family and their privacy, I cannot respect that enough, you had the balls to say what Diana was too frightened to say."

"I thought you said you would not hear a word against her."

"I said I would not hear an unfair word against her, that is a fault, not wanting to cause an issue, allowing that farce go on."

"My son has done well with you, Lass, the only issue is, does he realise that that streak in you, that strong will you have, will not always go his way, and if there is one thing that Tom is not used to having these days, is people going against him in any way."

"I love Tom, but the day I notice myself change in a manner I do not think benefits me most of all as a person, I am leaving, nor would I expect him to stay for me if he feels the same."

"Good, no one should change for anyone else. Diana and I took longer than we should have to figure out that, a woman of her background and a man of mine had little reason to be married, but I would not take it back, no matter how much I want to clip that boy's ear."

"From what I gather, you and Diana see things better away from one another, I mean, you are not at risk of being best friends in the next twenty minutes, but you both clearly care for your children and grandchild and I dare say would be quite vehemently willing to fight their corners."

"You gathered right there." James nodded. "Speaking of my son, where is he with that tea?"

"Eavesdropping from the door," Danielle stated. Sure enough, a moment later, Tom came into view, causing James to nod in acknowledgement of her accurate assumption.

"Well?" James half demanded gruffly.

"Sorry, I did not wish to interrupt," Tom responded meekly as he placed the tray with everything needed on the table.

"I assume you were listening intently, though."

"Yes, dad."

"I swear to God boy, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, you had better not blacken my door, cause thirty-five or fifty-five, I will redden your arse for you."

"I swear."

"And no tagging on this poor lass, she is too good for that, good copped on head on her, though that has to be questioned, considering." he gave his son a look that only caused Danielle to laugh, James giving her a fond glance as he did so.

"Thank you, James."

"What is it with all three of my children and their love of foreign accents? Indian and two Irish." James noted.

"Sure says the Scot that married an English woman." Danielle pointed out, laughing slightly as she did.

"Fair point to you there." James acknowledged, reaching forward and getting some tea for himself.

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Monday, first period is American History. This class is not too bad, the content is interesting enough to keep him engaged most of the time, and the majority of his classmates seem to have taken the hint that he prefers to be left alone and drifted on to other things. Some have even offered friendly smiles or comments. One had even let him borrow her notes when he had had to miss a class once. Kurt, Heather MacNamara and Heather Chandler are all in the class with him, but they lost interest in him a few weeks ago most likely due to his lack of a reaction. Deep breaths, like he’s been taught. In for eight, out for eight, pretend they’re not there. His hand still curled into a fist under the table whenever they came in his direction but no one ever saw it. Still, all in all, his first class of the week isn’t too bad.

Not too bad. It’s a phrase he’s found himself using more and more lately. He’s used it to describe a number of things so far; a good handful of his classes, the cafeteria food, a select few of his classmates, Claire, even the town itself. So many things have moved up to ‘not too bad’.  And there are certain things he would go beyond ‘not too bad’ for. It’s a good feeling. Really good, in fact. The idea of having so many things to actually enjoy in one place. To not look at everything with low expectations or see them all as ‘could be worse’. It’s nice, actually enjoying things. Even if it does mean Claire has that annoyingly proud smile on her face and no doubt gushes over it all with his social worker. He guesses that’s a small price to pay.

“Hey.” A small voice next to him draws him out of his thoughts. It’s a little surprising; the only two people who would come up to him are probably Martha and Veronica and neither one of them are in this class. Still, he doesn’t dwell on it as he turns around slightly and lowers his book, expecting it to be someone who sits in the back row with him and needs to borrow notes or something. Instead, he finds little Heather MacNamara, who clutches her yellow binder close to her chest like she’s scared someone might snatch it right out of her hands. As if anyone would dare. She’s a Heather, which means she is untouchable.

“Hi,” he says, slight caution in his voice. He’s only spoken to this girl once, and even then she was more interested in talking to Veronica than him. Even if she had given him a grateful smile when he handed her those frozen peas. The shiner is gone entirely now, probably hidden under concealer and foundation, but there’s still a red cut on her chin that’s only nasty if you look at it up close.

“Is anyone sitting here?” She gestures to the empty seat beside him. He looks down at it and up at her, taking in her hunched shoulders and anxious looking brown eyes, the way her perfect teeth bite into her lip. He also realises that she isn’t wearing any lipstick.

“No,” he answers, waving his hand at it.

“Could I sit here?” she asks just as he is about to go back into his book. She pulls on her skirt and the sleeves of her jacket, seeming unable to be still. “It’s okay if you don’t-”

“It’s fine,” he says. He leans over and pulls the chair out for her. “Be my guest, no one sits here.”

“Thanks,” she sighs. She hurries into the chair and starts pulling out her stuff, arranging them in neat lines on her desk. He watches her out of the corner of her eye and looks up to where he’s used to seeing her; three rows from the front. The prime real estate. Close enough to see the board closely and appear engaged but far back enough to chat and pass notes and zone out without having to worry about getting called on. He can’t help but wonder what made her trade that for this cosy little spot near the back with him, but he does have his suspicions.

Said suspicions grow stronger when the door opens and Heather Chandler steps in, blonde curls tightly pulled back and pushed up slightly, held by, of course, that red scrunchie. Her eyes survey the room as she enters and they find MacNamara immediately, narrowing as they do so. JD finds himself sitting up, his hand moving automatically to slide his bookmark in. Chandler’s gaze makes something flicker inside him; it’s either annoyance, anxiousness or a combination of both. Whatever it is, it makes his chest tighten as Chandler stalks over to MacNamara’s desk.

“Heather?” she says bluntly, tapping a nail on her new desk. “Heather? I’ve been trying to call you all weekend. What’s your damage?” MacNamara rolls one hand into a fist and squeezes tightly with the other, small noises coming out of her mouth, much to Chandler’s impatience. “Is this about that shit from the Halloween party?” MacNamara nods quickly, still looking right ahead of her. Chandler rolls her eyes, letting out a long, deliberate sigh. “Look Heather, you fell. It happens. Now are you coming or what?”

MacNamara shrinks back into the chair. Chandler towers over her, her shadow half covering Mac’s timid face. MacNamara grips the chair tightly as her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. A goldfish trying to stand up to a shark. Half-words and tiny grunts come out of her mouth, getting louder and faster and closer together, hopefully building up to something. JD finds himself on her side, anxiously waiting for her to send the red shark flying out of the ocean.

“I don’t want to sit with Kurt,” she manages to get out, her voice shaking. That simple sentence leaves her breathless. JD wants to look at Chandler to see her next move, but he finds he can’t leave MacNamara.

“What?” Chandler sighs. “Come on. That was three days ago. Get over it already.” MacNamara flinches like Chandler just slapped her, her little pink lips forming a pout and beginning to tremble. JD clenches his fist under the table, panic flaring up as well as anger. Deep breath time.

“No,” she answers. Even though she sounds one degree away from whining, she also sounds powerful. Maybe that’s just because she’s calling out the head bitch. “The way you acted sucked.”

“Oh so you’re going to sit here?” she asks, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raising. She nods her blonde head in JD’s direction. “Next to psycho trench coat kid?”

“Hey, Heather. Buzz off.” Her dark eyes jump from MacNamara and land sharply on JD. Of course he’s seen that type of look before; he may not have moved around as much as he used to, but he’s been around enough to see more queen bees than he would care to see in his lifetime, but something’s different about Chandler. Something about the winged eyeliner framing her burning eyes. Or maybe it’s because she made it personal. Either way, he shrugs casually, flicking over the page in his book like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Don’t you have some puppies to torture somewhere?” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a shit eating grin Veronica would smack him for. But he reasons that he’s doing it for the greater good, so can she really judge? “Cruella.”

Chandler winds herself so tightly that JD wonders if she’ll physically snap. That her spine will break in half like a twig and she’ll just pop into a cloud made up of blonde hair, red blazer and black eyeliner. Her hands tighten on her hips, her manicured nails turning into claws. She could walk over there and rip his head from his shoulders and he wouldn’t be surprised; she exudes that superhuman strength she saves only for when someone dares to cross her. Maybe that’s exactly what she’d like to do. Instead she turns back to MacNamara, her shoulders dropping by a mere fraction, softness creeping into her marble face.

“Him or us, Heather,” she whispers. “Remember who your friends are.”

She turns on her heel and walks away, batting a smile at Ram, and sits up on her table, leaning backwards on her hands, throwing her head back and exposing her long, white neck, and the expensive necklace around it.

MacNamara seems like a deflated balloon once Chandler leaves, her slim shoulders hunched over and her blonde hair falling over them without the usual yellow bow holding it in some form of order. She turns towards JD; she doesn’t meet his eyes and her attempts at what he guesses is meant to be a grateful smile fall short. She pulls at her sleeve, trying to get it over her hand.

“Thanks,” she says in a low voice. “For standing up for me.”

“No problem,” he replies nonchalantly, going back to his book. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her heart shaped mouth turning up and she manages to smile, really smile this time, dimples and white teeth and all. And somehow, he wants to smile back. Smile back at Heather MacNamara, the girl who slut shamed his girlfriend. Sherwood Ohio gets stranger every day.

“Hey,” she whispers, handing out a packet to him, attempting to cover it with her hand so as not to attract the vultures of their American history class. “Want a Starburst?” It doesn’t take much of an internal debate. He picks out a purple one, fondly remembering the conversation he had had with Veronica a week or so ago about her sugar habits and closed the book as class started.

     *****

Sometimes Veronica really does miss the privacy of her and JD’s garden. She’s aware that she needs to stop calling it that, but she’s also aware that she can’t lie to herself and that eating lunch outside in a semi-abandoned courtyard speaks to the old hopeless romantic in her. Even when it’s cold and raining like today and the stone table she’s sitting on it poking and prickling at her legs and ass. It gave her an excuse to wear her boyfriend’s coat and cuddle until she was more than warmed up enough. And most importantly, she didn’t feel like she was wading into oncoming traffic when she was out in that garden. Sometimes crossing the cafeteria feels like having to run from one end of the highway to the other with as little collisions as possible.

“So you’ll never guess what happened in US history today,” JD says as he slides into the seat next to her. She had been sitting alone at her table for the past five minutes with Martha up in the lunch line and JD having to run down three flights of stairs just to get here. He’s still panting a little as he takes his lunch out of his bag. Some tomato pasta concoction in a plastic box.

“You were taught European history?” she asks dryly, twirling a carrot stick between her fingers.

“That would have been interesting, but no,” he chuckles before turning towards her, joined hands resting between them on the table and one leg crossed over the other. Veronica abandons her carrot stick, his posture, his serious face and the fire in her eyes drawing her into whatever story he’s about to drop on her. “Little Miss MacNamara ditched her usual seat to sit at the back.”

“She did what?” Veronica asks.

“There’s more,” he adds before she can even comment on how unusual that is; Heather hasn’t sat at the back since middle school where assigned seating placed her there. She leans on the table, almost bouncing with anticipation and intrigue. JD looks around for a minute and leans closer, as though anyone would care to listen to what they’re saying. “Chandler came over to her and started… well… being Chandler. And MacNamara said she didn’t want to sit with Ram.”

“Can you blame her?” she asks shuddering at the memory of Heather alone and crying on the street, a dark bruise standing out against her pale skin and scarlet blood on her chin.

“She’s hidden the bruise pretty well,” he says, seeming to read her mind. “Yeah, no one can blame her. So now she slums it at the back of US history with me.” He shrugs casually, twirling his pasta around his fork. “As study buddies go she isn’t bad.” Veronica nods and looks over at the Heathers’ table, noticing a distinct lack of yellow amongst the green and red. It’s odd, seeing them without MacNamara. Just Heather and Heather, as opposed to Heather, Heather and Heather. Much as she sees Chandler as the Almighty, there is something missing without the third one there. MacNamara was the diamond that sat in their crown, the shiny stone in the middle that drew people to them. Without her, all that’s left is Chandler power and Duke’s cunning and they’re a little more dull now. Or maybe that’s just her.

“You think she’ll ever go back to them?” she asks.

“You’d know better than me,” he replies. “But you didn’t.”

Apparently she didn’t need to ask, because as when Martha approaches their table, Heather Mac is behind her, both them smiling nervously.

“Hey guys,” Martha greets. “It’s okay if Heather sits with us, right?”

“Um, yeah of course,” Veronica says. Martha gives her a grateful smile before her anxious eyes move to JD, who gestures to the two seats opposite them.

“It’s a free cafeteria. Be our guests.”

“Thanks,” Heather says. They both sit down quickly, their hands moving quickly to start their lunches. Veronica is kind of amazed; these girls are like chalk and cheese, they exist in different worlds, different rungs of the social ladder, both in and out of school, one bright blonde where the other is a dark brunette, one a breakable china doll the other a teddy bear, one tight blazers and short skirts, one oversized sweaters and unmatching pants. But just now, they somehow managed to look identical; eyes looking down, fingers tapping the lunch tray, shoulders hunched over.

“So how was your movie night?” Martha asks them.

“It was, it was good,” Veronica says, hoping her voice isn’t as high as it sounds in her head. She tries to keep her eyes off Heather but looks at her just long enough to see her visibly tense, her fist curling tightly on her try. Even when JD’s fingers brush against hers under the table, she can’t relax. “I mean, we just watched a bunch of horror movies.”

“Oh, cool.” Martha glances around, picking up on the unpleasantness that had settled around the table. Veronica’s heart aches for her and the guilt she sees on her best friend’s face (Martha has always worn her heart on her sleeve, but even if she didn’t; Veronica can read her better than any book). Even when she tries to hide with her a smile, she can still see it. “I’d never be able to handle those types of movies. They’re way too gross.”

“If it makes you feel better; neither could JD.” It’s a mean way to try to diffuse the tension and she knows it; that’s why she slips her fingers in through his in an attempt to apologise. When he squeezes gently, she realises she didn’t need to. Also she wasn’t wrong.

“I could!” he squeaks indignantly.

“Was that before or after Nightmare On Elm Street scared you so bad you nearly knocked over the candy bowl?”

“Well Nightmare On Elm Street is scary!” Heather points out. “I watched it last year and had to sleep in the guest bedroom so Freddie wouldn’t find me! With the light on!” Laughter erupts from the table; even as Heather tries to pout she breaks into a grin and a fit of giggles. With the dimples in her cheeks and wide grin, Veronica struggles to see the broken, scared girl she saw on Friday night.

“We did carve a mean pumpkin though,” JD says.

“You carved it,” she reminds him.  “Though my parents did make me throw him out when he started to stink.”

“Our child?” he says, putting a hand over his heart in mock agony. It’s a pity that he doesn’t take drama, she thinks. He was born for the stage. “They made you throw out our own child?”

“I’m devastated,” she deadpans. Martha is giggling along with them but Heather has her nose scrunched up in silent confusion, even though she still tries to laugh too. “He lived a short but beautiful life in my living room. He spent it watching movies.”

“Though we sadly never got around to watching The Princess Bride,” JD adds with a look at Martha. “Sorry Dunnstock.” Martha tries to act casual, to shrug it off with an ‘it’s all right’ but Veronica can see the tiny smidge of disappointment in her eyes. The Princess Bride is her religion after all.

“Oh, is that movie any good?” Heather asks. “I always thought it looked good, but I never got around to watching it.”

Martha’s mouth hangs open in shock, her eyebrows shooting up her pale forehead. Heather crunches on a celery stick innocently, unaware that she may as well have asked Martha is the sky blue or is the Earth round.

“It’s amazing,” she tells her, excitement creeping into and lifting up her voice. “It’s the best movie ever.”

“Yeah, I saw the commercial for it on TV, it looked really cool.” Her smile dips and for a moment, she looks wistfully over in the direction of her old table. “I wanted to go see it, but… Stuff just didn’t work out, you know?” Veronica bites her lip as Heather shakes her head, her perfect curls bouncing.

“The video store has loads of copies,” Martha adds, sensing Heather’s sadness. Veronica fights a smile. Martha’s always been the empathic one. It must come with the big heart. “Me and Veronica are on a first name basis with them.”

“How did that happen?” Heather asks, an impressed smile on her face and her eyes wide.

“At least a thousand movie nights between the ages of six and sixteen,” Veronica answers. She reaches out to Martha for a high five, which she reciprocates with a broad grin.

“Wow,” Heather says, rubbing the back of her neck. “I don’t know if I could watch it though. I mean just-my dad took my TV out of my room until I get my grades back up.”

“Wait-does that kind of bribe work?” JD asks. “Because I’ve been begging Claire-my foster mom-to let me have a TV for my room and she said only if I get straight As.” He shrugs, twirling his pasta around his fork. “I think she knows I won’t get them. And she thinks that if I have a TV in my room I’ll never come downstairs.”

“That’s what my dad said,” Heathers sighs. Veronica almost sees the tension flowing out of her in a steady stream and wonders how much she’s kept all this inside herself. “But I never turn it on when I’m studying!”

“Well now that we’re back buddies, your history grades are sure to improve,” he tells her with a sly wink. “If nothing else, they can’t see you cheating back there.” Veronica turns and glares at him, smacking his shoulder lightly, but with just enough force to let him know she doesn’t approve. He holds his hands up. “I don’t cheat. Cross my heart.” She narrows her eyes. “And I would never encourage it. Of course. But it is quieter back there. Trust me, it’s a whole lot easier to focus.”

“History is okay,” she says. “But he said if I don’t get at least a B in math I won’t get my TV back.”

The phrase ‘poor little rich girl’ does cross Veronica’s mind, but she holds it back.

“And I hate math. I’ll never get any of it,” she finishes, throwing her head back in exasperation. Veronica sympathises, of course. Math is mostly a foreign language to her. Actually no, she’s good at foreign languages; her A in French is a testament to that.

“Hey, if you’re having trouble with math, maybe I could help you?” Martha offers.  Heather blinks at her in surprise, a beat of silence between them. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to-”

“No!” Heather says quickly. “I mean yes. I mean, that would be great. Thank you so much!”

“It’s nothing,” Martha says. Her cheeks turn a very faint pink, probably only visible to someone as in tune with her as Veronica herself is.

The blissful, laughter filled reprieve of lunch starts coming to an end, which means it soon becomes a matter of getting to their respective classes before the ringing of the bell. JD and Veronica thankfully have study hall together, so they deposit their bags in a quiet little nook before going to see their friends off. Martha hurries off to chemistry with a resigned sigh and a “see you guys later” while Heather runs off to gym, her yellow back swinging from her shoulder and her little heels clicking off the linoleum floor. As she watches her go, Veronica hopes she’s imagining the way her shoulders fall the further the gets away from them.

JD tugs on her hand and tickles the inside of her palm with his thumb. She smirks and pulls his arm around her waist, leaning into his chest for just a second before twirling around and leading him to the study hall.

“She’ll be okay,” he tells her, bumping his shoulder against hers. It gets a smile and a little chuckle out of her, mainly because he actually has to bend down a little to reach her. “I can look out for her in history class.”

“You’re sweet,” she replies.

“You know, it’s not your job to help everyone.” She turns and frowns at him. He simply shrugs, as though he had just handed her a ten dollar bill and not seemingly tapped into her subconscious thoughts.

“I don’t…” she begins, the words feeling uncomfortable in her mouth as her brain looks for some half-hearted rebuttal.

“Hey.” They stop walking so he can pull her into a small corner, him settled against the wall and pushing her hair away from her face, tracing her chin with his thumb. He smiles softly, taking his time and choosing everything he’s about to say carefully. “Look, you care so much about people. And it’s beautiful, Ronnie. But it’s also not your job to make the world better.” He rubs under her eye with his thumb, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t push yourself too hard.” There’s something unsaid there, something lingering behind his lips he won’t say.

Still, she breaks into a smile and nuzzles into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. There’s a warm, light feeling in her chest that Heather Chandler would probably call stupid and she’s just going to call lovely.

“You’re sweet,” she says and means it. “Really sweet.” Still with her arms wrapped around him, they turn and start making their way to study hall. Their bags may have saved their seats but people can move them to different seats-and people have, and they will almost definitely do it again.

But despite her anxiousness to get to study hall before their prime seats are stolen, something in the corner of her eye makes her slow down; a bright pink flyer on the wall, of all things. Her patent shoes dragging against the floor as it grabs her attention. The words ‘bake sale’ are written in white bubble letters across it, with a little cartoon muffin apparently dancing beside it.

“What’s up?” JD asks. She takes a moment to internally kick herself; for a second she’d forgotten JD was even there.

“Nothing,” she lies. “Just got distracted.”

“What, by this?” This time she lets the groan escape her lips as he steps over to look at it himself, their joined hands meaning he takes her with him. Up close, she sees that the poster is asking for donations for some bake sale to raise money for a preschool. She knows the preschool; in fact it’s the one she and almost everyone in the entirety of Westerberg High went to. Maybe it’s a subconscious longing for her better, more innocent years. Maybe she just likes the idea of baked goods. “It’s a good cause.”

“It’s my preschool,” she tells him, waving a hand at it. “That’s what got me.”

“Are you going to bake something?”

“I don’t know,” she says, which is a half-lie. Half lie, because she doesn’t know if she will, but maybe she’d like to. More than maybe.

“I think you should,” he says as they resume their walk to study hall, their pace picking up when they pass an old teacher with a disapproving glare.

“Really?” she asks.

“Yeah. Like I said it’s a good cause. Plus I assume it means I would get some too.”

“You only get some if you help make some,” she jokes.

“Well…”

“You want to?” she asks, looking at him sideways. There’s a secret smile he’s trying and failing to fight. “Maybe this Saturday? My parents are going out that day, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. And maybe we can make a few extra for ourselves…”

“Baking for a good cause,” he says as they slip into study hall just as the bell rings.  “What better way to spend a Saturday?”

They scurry to their claimed seats, which thankfully haven’t been moved, though Ram Sweeney does seem to be eyeing them up with intensity. In her mind, Veronica gives him the finger as she sits down. She opens her French textbook and prepares to start attacking the past perfect tense, spending the next ten minutes going through it, quickly at first and then faltering a little, then a little more, and then a little less. As she works, a little note lands on her desk, handwriting completely familiar written on the back of it. When she looks up, JD is nonchalantly highlighting some page about the Civil War, only just barely looking at the note.

One question; brownies, cupcakes or cookies? Beside each option is a little tick box and a drawing of said option. Coloured in with glitter pen of all the things. JD still doesn’t look at her, but there’s a proud glint in his dark eyes.

She checks brownies and hands it back to him, this time slipping it under the table and depositing it on his lap with a large amount of grace and an unbelievable amount of luck, her own addition written along the bottom in a mirror image of his own writing.

If you’re going to pass notes in class, be subtle about it.

It’s only next period when she goes off to French that she finds his response, tucked into the pocket of her blazer.

Like this?

And she’s just glad he’s not around to see the mile-wide grin on her red face.

                                                                                                *****  

Not for the first time, Martha wishes she had offered to tutor Heather at her own house. Or the library. That was probably the best option. That way, she wouldn’t have to try to cope with the girl who is rich enough to buy and sell her dad’s job walking around her subpar house, and Martha wouldn’t have to be standing on Heather’s startlingly white porch and feel dwarfed by her own house stretching and towering over her.

The red brick house seems to extend on forever, reaching up to the sky and wide enough to fit three of Martha’s house in it. When she presses the doorbell, it’s a sharp shrill that lasts for longer than any other one she’s encountered. She wipes her shoes on the black welcome mat at the door, hoping to rub away any unseen dirt before-

“Hi!” Too late. The door opens up, revealing Heather in, as usual, a short yellow skirt and although she seems to have ditched the blazer in favour of a white and yellow sweater that hangs a little past her fingertips, and her hair tied in a messy braid. Heather herself look impossibly small inside her house. Even with the grace and strength with which she carries herself almost all the time, the house dominates over her, making her look slightly out of place. Or maybe Martha was just projecting herself onto her. “Come on in.”

The hall inside is black and white marble, making it look like a chessboard and pale blue walls with a spiralling staircase leading upstairs. But rather than going up there, Heather leads her the other way, into the kitchen. She moves differently than she does at school, Martha notices. There’s far less bravado in her own house, maybe because she knows she doesn’t need to scare anyone here. It’s only Martha here and she’s already plenty scared of her. She’s faster too, her steps quick compared to the leisurely stroll through the halls she and her friends (former friends, she corrects herself) practically own.

“You want anything?” she asks, opening up the fridge.

“Oh, I’m okay, thanks,” Martha says.

“You sure?” she asks. She turns around and holds up a can of Diet Coke. “No alcohol, I promise.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Heather hands her the can and holds onto one for herself, kicking the door shut. “Is it okay if we study down here? My dad thinks it’s easier for me to focus when I’m not in my room.”

“Yeah that’s fine.” Heather smile and Martha follows her over to the kitchen table-round with polished dark wood. Heather’s math notes are already covering half of it.

“I tried to get started a little before you got here,” she confesses, pushing them all into one haphazard pile.

“Okay.” She sits down, pulling her own textbook and notes, significantly more organised than Heather’s, out of her back. She feels too big for the dainty chair, especially as Heather folds one leg underneath herself beside her. Maybe the library was the better option. “So… Where do you want to start?”

“Oh, I wrote it down,” she says, searching through her notes. It takes a while, but she pulls a page out triumphantly. “Uh… limits. That’s what I need the most help with. I just don’t get any of it.”

“Okay.” Martha opens up her textbook to that chapter and Heather copies. Martha hopes the doodles in the margins were done by the book’s previous owner, otherwise Heather might find herself in hot water with the Math department. “Okay, so see for this first question? What did you get for that?”

“Um… I got that the limit is six.” Martha tries her hardest not to cringe, especially when she sees Heather’s crestfallen expression. But she’s off. She’s way off. “That wasn’t right, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” she says gently. “But that’s okay, we can work on it. How did you start it?”

They start working through the problems together, Heather’s face getting more scrunched up in confusion by the minute despite her nodding and insisting that she gets it. Martha delicately goes back to the beginning, searching in her brain for another way to explain it. She retrospectively wonders why on Earth she offered to tutor her. She might be good at math, but she’s clueless when it comes to this kind of stuff. Actually talking to people. If socialising was a class, she’d get an F. Lower than an F, probably.

She tries one last approach. The pained look on Heather’s face hurts her more than her own feelings of insecurity. The wide eyes and wringing hands and lack of breath are far too familiar to her, even if they look alien on Heather. She hesitates for a moment, remembering who she’s with and how far beneath her she is (and frankly, what this girl has done to her), but it all disappears in an instant as she looks at Heather, how she starts to pick at her perfect nails and pulls on her blonde curls. Instinct takes over and she reaches out, at first to take her hand, but settles for her shoulder instead, thinking better of it.

“Hey,” she says softly. Heather looks away from the book and up to her, chewing her lip. “It’s okay. I know this stuff’s hard. Not everyone gets it the first time around.”

“You did.”

“Yeah,” she admits. “But we all have things we’re good at. I’m good at math, but I suck at so much other stuff. JD’s good at English. Veronica’s good at French. And you’re an amazing cheerleader. So it’s okay if you don’t get math after the first go.” Heather is, probably for the first time since kindergarten, speechless. “So… one more try?”

“Yeah. One more try.”

Martha ignores the flutter in her chest and gets back to work. She explains the logic behind it again, remembering to break down the more complex parts, demonstrating one of the questions for her. Heather tries to tackle the second question on her own, her knuckles almost white as she grips her pen. Martha wants to look away, but she keeps her eyes on Heather and her furrowed brow, her mouth rolled into the thin line. The other girl’s shoulders are so tense she half-worries she might shatter like a porcelain doll.

Martha’s never seen her like this. She’s only ever seen her with her head up and her shoulders back, sparkling from head to toe with the accessories she picks out every morning and those little heels of hers that are so bright they’re close to golden. She’s seen her lounging in the lunch hall and laughing, seen her on the top of the cheerleading pyramid, her chest out, her smile. The epitome of happiness and confidence; everything Martha wishes she could be but isn’t. She had just started assuming that Heather was an endless stream of sunlight. Albeit a rather mean, judgemental and aloof sunlight-one that could burn and blind a person just as much as it could shine on them. But now she’s beside her, almost all the light stripped away, hidden behind a dark cloud of her father’s making.

Maybe there’s more to this girl than she thought.

“Okay. I did it.” She’s panting as though she’s just ran a marathon and she slides the notebook over to Martha. Unlike her, Heather turns her head away, her hand clenching and unclenching. Although she can’t see her, Martha can imagine her closing her eyes tightly. Her anxiety is infectious and creeps into Martha as she looks over the work, as though there’s a live wire connecting the two of them. But that feeling starts to fade when Martha compares Heather’s answer with the one at the back of the book.

“Heather?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is already laced with disappointment.

“You got it right.”

“I did what?” Heather whips around, her mouth open in awe.

“You got the answer right.” She pushes the book over to her so she can see for herself. “And all the working out too.” Heather’s mouth hangs open, she splutters out some kind of laugh and looks up at Martha, her brown eyes shining. Just like her anxiety, her happiness is also infectious. “Why don’t we try the rest of the questions?”

She gets most of them right. Some minor mistakes, some big ones, but she gets enough of them right for it to be considered a pass. Her eyes glitter when Martha tells her and she bounces up and down on the seat. Heather asks if she’s sure, that there’s no mistakes or she didn’t get mixed up. When Martha assures her she didn’t, it’s like she won the lottery.

“I can do math!” she exclaims. “I can do math. Thank you so much, Martha!”

Heather throws her arms around her, burying her in a tight embrace. Martha is nearly knocked off the chair, but she steadies them just in time. Heather pulls away from her, her cheeks pink, her eyes uncharacteristically shy.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her mouth half-hidden by her hands. “I got too excited.”

“It’s okay.” The hug left her breathless and she’s not entirely sure that it’s all down to the suddenness of it. “We’ve still got some time left. Why don’t we try the next chapter? Area under curves?”

“Sure… that’d be great.” Martha turns to the right chapter and Heather flips her notebook over, pages flapping and turning until she finds her own notes. Heather is like a little puppy when she listens to her explaining it; her eyes wide, bouncing up and down on the chair. She’s tempted to say she’s adorable, which is a word she never pictured herself using for the Heather MacNamara that she’d grown up with. But this isn’t the Heather MacNamara that she’s grown up with.

                                                                                       *****

“Do you think one bag of plain flour is enough?” Veronica asks, turning to JD. He’s leaning on the handle of their shopping cart, the aisles busy enough to early Saturday morning. “What did the recipe say?”

“85 grams.” His voice is strained; he’s leaning so hard on the trolley that his breath is cut off and his feet are just about off the ground.

“Okay, the one is more than enough.” She drops one bag into the cart next to the tin of cocoa powder and a carton of eggs since Veronica isn’t sure how many she a) has at home and b) is allowed to use. “What else do we need?”

“The golden caster sugar,” JD answers, pushing the cart with a little too much enthusiasm. They probably would have been better off getting a basket given how little they actually have to get, but JD is having more fun than he should zooming around on the cart and honestly, so is she. They scour the aisles looking for everything else; butter, cocoa powder and three different varieties of chocolate. Just before they head to the cashier, JD takes a little packet off the shelf and tosses it in. A packet of white chocolate stars.

“What?” he asks when she smirks at him. “We could eat them ourselves if you don’t want to decorate. Just thought they’d be pretty.” She stretches up on her tiptoes and lightly kisses his cheek.

“Nerd,” she whispers, laughing.

They run into the kitchen almost as soon as Veronica opens her front door, JD unpacking their paper bags from the store while Veronica rummages around her kitchen, pulling out long forgotten bowls and wooden spoons and scales, not see since her Girl Scout days.

“Okay, what does the first instruction say?” she asks, tying back her hair and rolling up her sleeves. JD hums while drumming the sides of his hands into her back. She wonders if it’s a sneaky attempt at giving her a massage because if it is, it’s working.

“Cut butter into cubes. Put butter and chocolate into bowl and melt over simmering water.” She takes charge of that while JD sets about greasing baking trays, weighing out ingredients and preheating Veronica’s oven. After the chocolate’s cooled, she starts sifting together flour and cocoa powder while JD cracks the eggs and weighs out sugar, his movements the most precise and careful she’s ever seen with him.

“What?” he says when he notices her looking at him.

“Nothing,” she says. “Just… you’re looking very focussed on those eggs.”

“Well there’s a trick to getting them right.”

“Is there?” she laughs, raising an eyebrow. “And where exactly did you learn that trick?”

“Hey, I can cook!” he reminds her. She nods, her smile dipping against her will as she remembers a scene in another kitchen, years ago, when she was wearing a green dress and jean jacket and he stood on top of a stool at his stove to make her pasta. Something heavy settles in her stomach at the memory and her skin prickles. That was one of the last days she saw him when they were kids, and it was the day she learned about his dad. She hadn’t learned much in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough to make her twelve year old self worried. Even now, with the seemingly content home life he was with Claire, she wonders if all that’s gone and forgotten now. She heavily doubts it. “Hey, Ronnie, still with me?”

“Yeah,” she says, shaking her head and putting on a smile. “Sorry. Miles away.”

“One of my old foster placements…. The last one I had before I came here, actually,” he goes on. “They started sending me to this cooking class on the weekends. I don’t know, something about working through my issues in the medium of baking.” He chuckles, cracking the last egg and letting it flow into the bowl.

“Did it work?” she asks tentatively. She always feels like she’s walking blindfolded where his past is concerned, unable to see where the line is.

“I don’t know,” he admits, shrugging. “I think it did. I know I liked it. I know I was good at it. I even made one of the littler kids a birthday cake at one point.” He pauses for a minute, an all too innocent smile creeping across his face. “Unrelated, but your birthday’s in January, right?” She laughs, caressing the back of his head gently.

“Yes. And I while I like all cakes, I am partial to red velvet.”

She kisses his cheek while he laughs and goes to get the electric hand mixer out of the cupboard. The blades are still shining under the kitchen lights, the paintwork so perfect it looks like it just came out of the store.

“Hey,” she says. “Want to guess how long we’ve had this for?”

“Uh… two years? Three?” He raises an eyebrow, his face scrunched in confusion. She can’t blame him; it was a kind of ridiculous question.

“Ten,” she replies, setting it on the counter.

“Damn,” he says. “Your parents really take care of their stuff.”

“Not really,” she admits. “We used it once because I wanted to make cupcakes once when I was seven. And then another time when my grandma came over and mom insisted on making a meringue. And then she was put away in the cupboard and never used again until now.” She plugs it into the wall, the still spotless white chord piling up in a corner on the table. She sticks it into the combination of eggs, flour and sugar and turns it on-

Only for the mixture to explode on them; white puffs of flour jumping up from the bowl and attacking them. Her shaking fingers flick the switch off, her mouth hanging open in shock as she tries to catch her breath. Beside her, JD’s black top now has what she can only describe as a small white explosion across it, and he’s biting his lip to try (and fail) to stop himself from giggling.

“Maybe turn the power down a little?” he suggests in between laughs.

“Yeah.” Her voice is much higher than she would have expected. She looks at the power dial, and when she sees it turned up to “max”, she bursts into laughter herself. “Maybe just a little.” She takes a look down at herself and sees a light dusting of flour across her shirt.

“You look like you were mugged by a snow fairy,” JD comments, leaning on the table.

“Oh you want to go there?” she jokes. “You look like a snowman punched you in the stomach.”

“Oh, Ronnie,” he says, putting his hand to his chest. “Don’t be cold about it.”

Veronica has to lean on the table. She rolls her lips into a thin line, her sides shaking with laughter, her hands clenching into fists. She feels physical pain in her chest and it’s not just from her trying her hardest not to laugh.

“That was funny.”

“That was painful,” she corrects him with a grin. “Come on, these brownies aren’t going to mix themselves.”

“Should I run for cover?”

With the power far down, she puts the mixer into the bowl and flicks it on; it turns quickly but gently, folding the mixture together and turning it from dark to light brown as the eggs combine with the sugar. She gives JD a smug grin.

When everything’s mixed the right way, they pour it into the baking tin. Veronica holds the tin out while JD expertly (and by that she means comically awkwardly) holds the bowl with one hand while using the rubber spatula to push it all in.

“What if I dropped this?” she asks.

“Please don’t.”

“What if you dropped that?”

“Pretty please don’t.” His dark head is bent over the baking tray as the final little trails of uncooked brownie mixture land in the tray. He grins excitedly at her as the tin fills and hands her the spatula. “Want to do the honours?” She smiles and carries it back to the table before smoothing it out with the side of the spatula. She takes a step back to admire her (their) handiwork. Even as uncooked batter, they do look gorgeous, three different types of chocolate swirling around in their little edible paradise.

“Get the oven?” she asks as she lifts it up. Heat rushes up to her face and blows her hair back as she puts it on the middle shelf before straightening up and closing the door and glancing at the clock above her oven. “Okay, we have half an hour before these have to come out of the oven.” She turns to the table, groaning at the dirty bowls and spoons and mixer blades that now beg to be washed. Funny how the recipe books don’t mention how long it’ll take to clear up everything. “We need to wash all that.”

“We can get it done fast,” he tells her, going over to the table and inspecting the big bowl. “Like, this one, come here.” She steps up to him but keeps her guard up. There’s a tremble in his voice like a ten year old planning a prank. “There’s not a lot in here. Just enough to do this-” She feels his finger swipe down her nose, and then she feels the sickly, cool texture of leftover brownie mixture. He stumbles back and laughs, the tip of his finger dark brown as proof of his little crime. Red handed, brown fingered, it’s all the same. “Sorry, but I felt I had to.”

“Very cute,” she admits, stepping closer until there’s hardly a distance between them at all. Her hand slips into the bowl and she makes sure to cover the side of her finger. He could learn a lot from her. “Almost as cute as this.” She jabs her own finger against his cheek, which soon bares a dark brown, clumpy mark. With the chocolate on his cheek and his face scrunched up, one eye open, he looks cuter than she’s seen before. When he grins, the chocolate sticks to his dimple.

“Okay, let’s be adults about this-”

“Boring.”

“Oh?” His hand moves behind her and her stomach tingles. “Your call.” Another smear of chocolate across her cheekbone, just underneath her eye.

“Adorable.” She retaliates with a line along his jaw.

Some attacks and more lines of brownie later, they run out and have to face the actual responsibility of cleaning up after themselves. The kitchen fills with the warm, mouth watering smell of brownies baking as she washes and JD dries, dancing along to some song he’s singing, momentarily using the spoon as an improv microphone.

When the half an hour is up, Veronica squats before the oven, nerves building up in her chest as she slips oven mitts on and JD opens the door. A rush of hit hair meets her again, making her stray hair blow back, and she pulls the tray out and puts it on top of the oven.

They look… not awful. Good. She’d probably go as far as to say great. Not perfect, a little uneven at the side and rising up and cracked in the centre, but they’re inviting; soft looking, springing back when she touches the top and warm, promising a soft centre.

“Not a bad job,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her head. “Told you we could do it.” She hums in agreement, running her hand along his arm and grabbing his hand.

A part of her in the deepest corner of her mind wonders if this is what her future might look like, standing with his arms wrapped around her in a different kitchen-one that they could call theirs-but she doesn’t let herself dwell on it. Not when there’s brownies in front of her and his arms around her.

“Come on,” she says, spinning out of his grasp and tugging on his hand to lead him to the counter.

Once they’re cooled, Veronica opens up the packet of chocolate stars he bought. She tastes one, letting it melt on her tongue, before taking a significant handful and handing the rest to JD. She tries to sprinkle them over fairly, although one corner does get quite a big cluster compared to the rest of her half. JD puts them on in semi-neat lines instead. It doesn’t quite look like a perfect reflection of the night sky, but they get the idea across.

“Moment of truth,” she sighs as she takes the knife out of the drawer. She cuts into it easily, revealing the soft sponge beneath, the dark brown laced with streaks of white from the melted with chocolate. She cuts it into sixteen, more or less equal, squares, setting fourteen side and saving two, warmth melting into her palms before JD lifts his.

“Cheers?” he offers, toasting her with his brownie. She taps hers against his.

“To our creation,” she says. “It’s either a masterpiece or a monstrosity.”

When she bites into it, she decides it’s the former. Well, maybe not quite, but it’s a delicate sponge, two different types of chocolate; a rich dark and creamy white (plus the stars) and a slightly crunchy top. It’s sweet and it’s chocolatey and it tastes good. That’s a masterpiece for her.

And for JD, if the exaggerated noises of appreciation are anything to go by.

“Oh come on,” she says after this third “mmm”. “They aren’t that great.”

“I think they are,” he says. “We should do this thing more often. I forgot how much fun it is.”

“I’ll take those to the bake sale tomorrow,” she tells him, nodding at the box on the counter. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her close, and she wraps her arms around him. “We did good.”

“We did,” he replies and they share a short and sweet kiss, still with chocolate streaks on their faces and flour on their chests.