Entry tags:
BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY
Surprise ♥
Title: A Thorn in Your Side
Characters/Pairing: Belladonna, Professor Utonium, no pairings
Rating: PG-13/T for mild language and emotionally heavyshit stuff
Disclaimer: Neither the Powerpuff Girls nor their FusionFall incarnations belong to me. Beyond that, this (far superior) interpretation of the FusionFall canon is the brainchild of the incomparable![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
busterella.
Summary: Trying to be someone who's dead isn't' working out for Belladonna.
Notes: Not for Busterella's contest (which everybody should still try to enter!), just for her birthday! Also largely written because of you-know-what with you-know-who (she will know what I'm talking about). Apologies, I wanted this to be longer but had to power through it in a sickness-induced delirium. More is to come, but this is what I have for you so far. The happiest of birthdays to the coolest of people. Un-beta'd.
A Thorn in Your Side
-sbj-
Belladonna awoke long before she joined the family downstairs. The morning light filtered through the screen of the sheet pulled taut over her head, as if it were trapping her in a world of hazy white. Or keeping her safe. It depended on the morning. Judging from the conversation going on downstairs, she was favoring the latter.
“Blossom, please.” A hushed voice, bell-like. “She'll hear you.”
“Maybe that'll do it.” Harsher, this one. Authoritative, and not in the way that made people want to listen. “Maybe that's a good thing. Babying her back into it doesn't seem to be helping.”
“It's only been a month!”
“It's already been a month! The world's at war, Bubbles! For Pete's sake! This identity crisis... there's no time for it!”
“Blossom, shh,” Professor Utonium said, and the entire house suddenly quieted. Belladonna held her breath, waiting for more.
Blossom—naturally—was the one to bite. “We should go wake her. We're already late.”
“I can patrol alone today,” Bubbles said.
“Absolutely not,” Blossom said. “You're supposed to go together.”
“I really don't think she's ready—”
“And that attitude isn't going to help,” Blossom snapped. “She's been with you once already.”
“Yes, but... Blossom, it's just not fair to her right now.”
A chair scraped violently against the kitchen tile, inspiring frenzied hushing.
“Blossom!” Bubbles cried.
“Shh,” the Professor said again.
“Don't. Do not. You can't... talk to me about whether it's fair or not!”
“She doesn't remember! She can't help that!”
“She knew!” Blossom hissed, and the sheets twisted in Belladonna's hands. “She knew as soon as we showed up. You saw it, I know you did. The way she looked at us? Like she'd been caught? She knew exactly who we were, and who she was.”
“Blossom—”
“The only reason she even bothered coming home because we found her, not because she wanted to,” she said, her voice hurt, bitter, vicious.
“Enough.” Bubbles' voice was deathly quiet. There might have been more, but Belladonna wasn't going to bother eavesdropping any longer. She flung the covers off and sat up, hating this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar guest room of this unfamiliar house, surrounded by strangers. Strangers who kept wanting her to be someone who didn't exist anymore.
On her way downstairs she realized this was the first morning she hadn't immediately felt the bone-deep absence of the tour bus' sagging mattress cocooning her. It felt like a betrayal. She hated herself a little more for it.
The kitchen had hushed by the time she reached it. Three faces that she still hadn't quite gotten used to greeted her. She looked at Bubbles first, whose expression was warm and apologetic. She was the easiest, because she actually tried. Then a glance—but only a glance, and a steely one besides—at Blossom, whose attempt at a neutral expression betrayed all of the hurt and anger that had been simmering inside her for the past month. And finally, the hardest.
Belladonna pushed her gaze to Professor Utonium, who had the worst poker face. The look in his eyes, the constant struggle for composure and courage—none of that had improved over the course of what now felt like too long a stay in the home of the Powerpuff Girls. If anything, he looked especially hurt this morning, probably thanks to Blossom's revelation.
Belladonna wished she could do something to dissipate that pervasive look of loss. Something to show Blossom that she was wrong, to show him that everything would be okay. But a hug felt disingenuous and she only thought in song lyrics, none of which fit. And besides... Blossom wasn't wrong. If Buttercup's sisters had never claimed her, Belladonna never would've come.
“Morning,” she mumbled, voice scratchy with sleep and her guilt eating away at her. Professor Utonium stood up, gesturing to the empty spot at the table.
“Just in time for last call,” he said cheerily. A little forced. He retrieved her plate from the microwave as she sat. She could sense the weight of Blossom's gaze.
“Morning, Buttercup.”
The Professor fumbled with some silverware. Belladonna's throat tightened and she gritted her teeth. She did not acknowledge the greeting.
“Belladonna.” Bubbles shot her a smile as she looked up. Blossom huffed and looked away. “How'd you sleep?”
Belladonna dug the sand out of her eyes and shrugged. “Okay.”
“You know, I was thinking, maybe you should skip patrol today.”
“Bubbles.”
Bubbles ignored Blossom. “You can join me next week. I'll get Princess to come with me.”
“Oh, good,” Blossom scoffed. “Someone helpful.”
“Princess has been extremely helpful and you know that,” Bubbles said, a paragon of patience.
“Here you go, sweetie,” the Professor said, setting a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Belladonna. She mumbled her thanks.
“Is she even free? How do you know she's available?”
Bubbles held up her phone. “I already texted her. She said yes.”
Blossom crossed her arms, looking doubtful. Despite their differences, Belladonna didn't blame her. She'd met Princess last week, and, to put it kindly, the girl was a total bitch.
“What did she actually say?” Blossom pressed, and Bubbles sighed as she tapped her screen.
“She said, 'Fine, if you are that desperate for company,'” Bubbles read. “See? It counts as a yes.”
Blossom watched as Belladonna pushed her food around her plate. “Maybe the three of you should go together.”
“Oh Blossom, for God's sake!” Bubbles sat back and covered her face for a brief second before re-composing herself. She leaned closer to Belladonna and said, “Please don't mind her. You should hang back, maybe go visit the band—”
The sudden burst of hope in Belladonna's chest was quickly extinguished as Blossom said, “Oh my God,” and the way she said it, the way she fucking said it.
“Take that back,” Belladonna snapped at her, and everybody stared at her for a second, stunned. Then Blossom's face hardened.
“Do you have any—any—recollection of how that pathetic loser—”
“Blossom!”
“Watch it,” Belladonna snarled, sending her chair clattering as she jumped to her feet.
“Buttercup!” Bubbles said frantically, forgetting for a second.
“My name is Belladonna!” Belladonna screamed, hating that stupid name, hating this stupid family!
“No it isn't!” Blossom shouted back. “And the sooner you give this charade up—”
“Oh, you think I'm doing this on purpose? You think I like being called a liar, being taken away from my friends—”
“We didn't 'take' you,” Bubbles whispered, and Belladonna faltered for a second.
“You know what, you're right, Belladonna,” Blossom said, practically spitting the name. “Obviously. Obviously you're not Buttercup. Because even though she was a terrible listener and never took orders and fought us all the time, she still always put us first instead of some deadbeat guy who used her when she was five years old!”
“Stop it!” Bubbles screamed, and the entire house rattled at the sound of her voice. A tiny crack split the glass of orange juice Professor Utonium had poured for Belladonna.
Now he came to Blossom's side, hands folding over her shoulders. “Blossom,” he said, his knuckles bleach-white. “You should get to work. Mojo will be waiting.”
Blossom and Belladonna glared at each other in silence. But while Belladonna's anger stood its ground, the anger in Blossom's gaze ebbed away until all that was left was misery.
“Yes,” she muttered, breaking eye contact. “You're right, Professor.” She moved away from the kitchen table and her father's hands, through the living room, towards the front door. Watching her made Belladonna's gut wrench again.
As the deadbolt clicked open, Bubbles—looking utterly lost and defeated, something Belladonna had not yet seen in the month she'd been here—lifted her head and said, her voice hollow, “People change, Blossom.”
The movement at the door paused. Then, finally, “No kidding.”
The slam of the front door echoed in the house. Belladonna excused herself and went back to bed.
***
I hate it here.
These four words became Belladonna's personal mantra for the next two hours as she tangled herself in the sheets of her borrowed bed. She tossed and turned, longing for the laughter of the gang and Ace's arms around her as they fell asleep and a time when she hadn't had to deal with being somebody she didn't know. She wanted to be home.
You are home, came the voice of dissent, and Belladonna braced herself. The guilt was relentless, but whenever these conversations started up, things always got ten times worse.
She waited. There was little point in doing so—the voice wasn't really Buttercup's, only what Belladonna imagined her former self might say, and it usually wasn't kind. But she waited, in case that person was still there, buried deep, waiting to reveal herself at just the right moment in the story to make everything right again.
There was nothing. Belladonna sat up, her stomach grumbling, but the thought of trying to eat made her sick. Her eyes swept the room. It had been a small, appreciated kindness—rather than force her to share a room with two other girls, she had been offered the guest room. The idea, she knew, had been for her to stay here until enough of her memory had returned for her to feel comfortable joining her sisters again. Unfortunately, being a guest room meant it was way too neat and devoid of personality. If there was any part of Buttercup left inside her, this room would hardly help jog her memory.
Her fingers danced along her knees as she listened to Professor Utonium, bustling in his basement—the lab, she'd learned—and she eased out from under the covers, sneaking out and down the hall to the girls' room.
The door was ajar and it creaked as she pushed it open. She darted a glance downstairs. She felt like she was sneaking around—a stranger, lurking in someone else's home.
It's your home, too.
“Not really,” she muttered to herself, but the thought gave her a little more courage, enough to actually enter. She paused, blinded for a second.
Oh holy Hell, that's a lot of pink.
Her jaw dropped, lip curling as she took it all in—the heart-shaped vanity, the enormous stuffed toys, the pink that was literally everywhere. Even the carpet, for Christ's sake. There was so much pink in here she could practically taste it. How had Buttercup ever been able to stand it?
There were three twin beds in here, each with its own wall. The bed closest to the door seemed to be Blossom's—it was clinically made, the things on the nightstand arranged meticulously, as if by the hand of an overbearing control freak. Yeah, that was definitely hers.
The stuffed toys were piled next to another bed, a small purple octopus set regally on the pillow. Well, that was a giveaway.
Which left...
Belladonna looked towards the bed in the far corner. It had been made, though since it had been empty for two years she doubted whether that was Buttercup's handiwork. Decor around this one was sparse, save for various things pinned to the wall surrounding it. Belladonna forcibly relaxed her shoulders and floated over to get a better look.
Photos, mostly. The small, credit card-sized variety that came from an instant camera. There were also quite a few blue ribbons for various athletic meets, along with concert ticket stubs and a note that had been passed back and forth between two people. The conversation didn't follow any of the notebook paper lines and kind of meandered around the page, but it was easy enough to find where it started.
Dude, I am exhausted.
Up all night fueling your porn addiction?
Yeah, in between rounds of fighting Mojo. You asshole.
You look pretty exhausted. ('Pretty' had been crossed out, and a :p face had been doodled underneath it.)
Ughhhhhh this classssssss. It's taking foreverrrrrrr. Then, in the same handwriting, Do you want to go see a movie later?
What's out?
I don't know, I'm just bored. Just trying to think of things to do.
Sure. It's a date.
OMG shut up Mitch. I was gonna invite the rest of the guys too :P
:P
That was where the conversation ended, with the day and date scribbled in the corner. Just a hair over two years ago. Belladonna peered at the pictures. There were only a couple where she was with a bunch of girls—fellow soccer and basketball teammates, it looked like—and quite a few more where she was surrounded by a bunch of the same guy friends again and again.
I wonder which one's Mitch.
She stared at one of the group photos, her attention divided between four boys, trying to sense if one of them spoke to some deep-rooted crush long buried inside her. Nothing stirred. She tried harder, trying to will the Eureka moment to come, the one that would break the dam, or at least put enough of a crack in it to let loose even a trickle of her memories.
Still nothing. None of them were Ace, so none of them mattered.
Belladonna sank to the bed with a sigh, clamping down on the lurch her heart gave. If she kept thinking of Ace—no. She had to stop. Just a few days ago she had spent an afternoon wallowing, wanting to call Ace but feeling she didn't deserve to after how she'd deceived him while at the same time feeling bitter and angry that he hadn't called her.
Pathetic loser, she thought, Blossom's words somehow seeming less cruel in this moment. But she still hated her for saying so. Like she had the right.
Belladonna felt herself getting angry and she glared defiantly at the wall again. She wasn't here right now to be pissed at Ace, or Blossom, or anybody. She was just trying to... she was trying.
She forced her attention to the one face she'd been avoiding looking at directly in all the pictures: her own. And it was her face, undeniably. The familiarity of the expressions made Buttercup less of a stranger, even without hair dye or eyeliner. Belladonna twisted a green strand of hair around her finger absentmindedly.
It was her face. It was her. Not just Buttercup-her, but Belladonna-her. A dim connection threaded between them for the first time, fragile and tentative. Yeah, she could see it. She saw that face and could imagine making it, being in a situation where she would make it. And preferring to be surrounded by guys, that was obviously something they shared. She touched a finger to her cheek—Buttercup's cheek. She grinned, trying to mirror the expression in one of the photos. Then she glanced at the vanity.
She carefully unpinned one of the photos from the wall, then floated over to the heart-shaped mirror. There were a bunch of old, worn stickers littering the heart's edge. Bubbles' work, she imagined. She seemed like a sticker kind of girl. Belladonna held the photo up between herself and the mirror and tried the expression again. It took a couple attempts to really nail it. It felt different—a little too much, a little too forced on her. She looked at the girl in the picture and then at the girl in the mirror. She let the expression on her face fade into something more comfortable, and then it hit her.
I look so much sadder than her.
Was it the circumstances? Was it because she was miserable, here, in this moment? Or was it because Buttercup was still in there, somewhere, feebly trying to reclaim her life but finding someone else there instead, someone who didn't make the right faces, who upset her father and fought with her sisters and was ruining any chance she'd ever had of being happy?
“Rrrgh!” Belladonna clutched at her hair, squeezing her eyes shut. The photo fluttered down, hitting the floor.
This isn't fair. It was her life, too. She had one. One that mattered. And it wasn't fair, when Buttercup didn't... didn't even exist anymore, hadn't for two years. It wasn't Blossom or Bubbles who had pulled her out of the ocean or given her a life or a family or a name. Finders keepers. They didn't deserve her just because they'd had her first!
But that isn't fair, either. Belladonna lowered her hands, staring at her palms, or Buttercup's palms, whatever. They'd lost their sister. Their teammate. What if one of the gang had gone missing for two years? What if Billy or Arturo disappeared, only to turn up months later with a different name and life and no memory of ever being part of the Gangreen Gang?
She shook her head. What was the point of this? All it did was riddle her with guilt, and feeling guilty wouldn't help anything, either with the gang or the girls or the war. Sympathy aside, this fact remained: Belladonna was here. Buttercup wasn't.
“My name is Belladonna,” she whispered, and then she looked at herself in the mirror. She sat up straighter, squared her shoulders, set her jaw. “I'm Belladonna. And...” She paused. “And I can't be expected to try and be someone who's already dead.”
It felt good for a second. And then she imagined that girl in the mirror with her face crumpling, snarling, banging against the glass and screaming, But I'm not dead!
“Hello?” a voice in the hall said, and Belladonna gasped, jumping to her feet. Professor Utonium knocked on the door before nudging it open. “Bellado—oh, here you are.”
“I-I'm sorry, Professor Utonium,” she stammered, reaching for the photo that she'd dropped and flying it back to Buttercup's wall. “I was just... just trying to see if I could remember anything, if—”
“Don't apologize,” he said. “I'm sorry for interrupting.” He paused, watching as she pinned the photo back in place. “Did... did it help?”
The hope in his voice tightened like a noose around her neck. She pressed her lips together and tried to look at him, but only managed to stare at his shoes, unable to handle the inevitable disappointed expression.
“I'm sorry,” he said, and that was something they had in common—they always wound up apologizing to each other. A lot. “I didn't mean to put that kind of, you know, pressure on you. I'm sorry about that.”
Belladonna shook her head. “You're... the least of it. You're really great about it, actually, Professor Utonium.”
“Professor,” he said, and she realized he was correcting her. “You can just call me Professor.”
She almost apologized for not having thought of how painful it might be for his daughter to address him so formally, like he was a stranger, but before she could he said, “And no apologizing. I'm calling a moratorium on 'I'm sorry.' At least for the moment.”
She exhaled and managed a little grin. Encouraged, he pulled over a stool and sat to stare at the wall with her.
They studied it together in silence for a moment. She shot a look at him. He was staring kind of blankly at nothing in particular, lost in some distant memory.
“Guess I was into sports, huh?”
He blinked and looked at her, then smiled. “Yes. Yes, definitely.”
“Did... did I have a favorite?”
“Well, it depended. You liked stuff that kept you moving constantly. Soccer, track and field. You liked basketball and volleyball, too.”
“Yeah. I saw the ribbons.”
“But you did other things.” The Professor pointed at one of the photos of her with the group of guys. “You all were starting a band.”
“For real?!”
“Oh, yeah,” Professor Utonium said, laughing a little. “What a coincidence, huh?”
“What was I—did I sing? Or do an instrument?”
“You liked bass guitar, but I think you were going to be the singer.” The Professor leaned in and pointed towards one of the guys—a stocky guy with broad shoulders and shaggy hair. “Mitch was going to do the bass.”
“So that big guy is Mitch,” she said, and something about the Professor's pause seemed particularly weighty. “Were we... was he my—”
The Professor laughed awkwardly. “No. Not. No. You guys were best friends forever, though. It was like... well, we figured it was going to happen eventually. Or expected it would. And then... well.” He patted the back of one hand against his other palm. “You know.”
“And then other stuff,” she said softly, staring at the girl in the photo. “Yeah.”
They shared some more silence together.
“I like the green,” he said, and she furrowed her brow. He reached for her hair, then caught himself and indicated his own. “Your hair. I like it.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh yeah? That makes you a weird parent.”
He laughed, and this one was a little nervous and a little relieved and very warm. It made her kind of happy. Though happy wasn't quite the word. Comfortable. It made her feel comfortable.
“Well, green wouldn't have been my first choice,” he admitted, and she smiled. This one-on-one stuff was nice.
“You know, um.” He wove his fingers together, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I came up here 'cause you didn't really eat much at breakfast, and are you hungry? It's lunchtime. You must be starving. And breakfast, I mean. She meant well. Blossom. She's just having a hard time. I mean, we all are. But Blossom, she likes to stress. I don't mean—no, she doesn't like to stress, but she can't help it. She's always taking on too much. And you guys... you guys were always butting heads before, you know? So I hope you're not dwelling on that, or... what I mean is, it's kinda natural for you two to fight like that. Not that fighting is natural, just.” The Professor sighed. “God, I used to be so much better at this.”
Belladonna cracked a smile, honored by the effort. “You're doing okay.”
“Thanks.”
“I'd give you a solid B.”
He winced. “Ooh! Ouch!” He clutched at his heart melodramatically, an agonized look on his face.
“Hey, it's above average!”
“You're right. Beggars can't be choosers.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, looking serious again. “I wanted to say something else. About... the band.”
Suddenly there was a block of ice in her gut. She stared at him, her smile failing.
“I wanted to let you know that... that you can go visit them, if you want,” the Professor said, his hand squeezing into a fist and opening again. He took a deep breath. “I know... I know they mean a lot to you. And... I mean, you've basically thrown yourself into the deep end of the pool here. There wasn't really a transition period. That's not fair. To you. I mean... I know you're trying.” The Professor met her eyes and his gaze held hers, steady. “I know you're trying really hard here, Belladonna.”
She broke their eye contact and stared down at her hands which—to her surprise—were shaking. She clasped them together and, for the first time since she'd come here, wished, really wished that Buttercup's memories would come back. Not just to put an end to things, and not just so she could play the martyr card, but because something in the Professor's voice spoke to something else burrowed deep within her, some inner part of her that was keening at his guidance, this love. She wanted to reunite them and make them happy and know it for herself, as well.
I know you're trying really hard, the Professor had said, but the thing was she hadn't been trying hard enough. Not like the Professor, who had talked to her like an individual instead of a girl who was supposed to be his daughter. Though he apologized all the time for it, he had never pressured her to hurry and become Buttercup again.
She could be trying harder instead of wallowing in self-pity and bitterness and resentment. She could. For the first time, she actually wanted to.
“So whatever you want to do,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “I can make some lunch. Or... you can go see the band. It's your call, Belladonna.”
That he would recognize that and make a point of saying so only solidified her resolve. The green in her hair was fading out, anyway.
“Actually... is there a drugstore nearby?”
***
“We're back!” Bubbles' voice echoed in the house, and Belladonna's shoulders tensed. She tried to ignore it and resumed setting the table for dinner. “Professor, it smells soooo good in here—”
Her voice dropped off as she rounded the corner to the kitchen, and Belladonna turned to face the girls, bracing herself. Bubbles came up to her immediately, her hands covering her mouth.
“Oh, Belladonna,” she whispered, looking crushed. “Your hair!”
“The green was fading out,” Belladonna said.
Bubbles was alternating between reaching to run a hand through it and pulling back. “You didn't have to!”
“Yeah, I know.” She took a deep breath. “That... was kinda the point.”
Bubbles' eyes started shimmering. Belladonna had guessed right—the girl recognized the olive branch, appreciated the gesture. But Blossom...
She looked at the girl still standing in the doorway, concerned that the jet-black hair might trigger her memories and make her double her efforts at making Belladonna Buttercup. But Blossom didn't seem that worried about the hair. Blossom seemed more worried about—
Suddenly the redhead came up to her, hands fumbling for something to do before cocking her arms on her hip, almost comically. Bubbles eyed her, then conscientiously backed away.
“I'm sorry,” Blossom said, leveling her gaze with Belladonna's. “About this morning.”
Belladonna found herself awash in pink again today, though this time felt way heavier and more troubled than the room upstairs. She thought of what the Professor had said and had a sudden moment of clarity.
“Whatever,” she said, shaking her head and turning away to continue setting the table. She caught the tail end of a flash of anger on Blossom's face and almost laughed to herself in disbelief. Something about it seemed very familiar. “The Professor called a moratorium on 'Sorry' earlier today.”
“It's true,” the Professor said, carrying the last dish over and taking a seat.
“So don't worry about it.” Belladonna handed Blossom a napkin and sidled towards the table. “Let's just eat.”
Blossom stared at her for a second. “Thanks,” she said, then, pointedly, but without malice, “Belladonna.”
Belladonna looked at her and pressed her lips together in a sort-of grin.
“Wow, Professor,” Bubbles said, breaking the moment just before it got awkward. She really had timing, that girl. “This looks great!”
“I had some help,” he said, glancing fondly in Belladonna's direction, and she shifted in her seat, mumbling. He lifted his glass and Bubbles immediately did the same. Blossom and Belladonna simply placed a hand each on theirs, exchanging a glance.
“Girls,” he said, and indicated Blossom and Bubbles. His eyes connected briefly with Belladonna's again, and she gripped her glass, still broken from this morning but holding strong.
“Welcome home.”
-fin-
Title: A Thorn in Your Side
Characters/Pairing: Belladonna, Professor Utonium, no pairings
Rating: PG-13/T for mild language and emotionally heavy
Disclaimer: Neither the Powerpuff Girls nor their FusionFall incarnations belong to me. Beyond that, this (far superior) interpretation of the FusionFall canon is the brainchild of the incomparable
busterella.Summary: Trying to be someone who's dead isn't' working out for Belladonna.
Notes: Not for Busterella's contest (which everybody should still try to enter!), just for her birthday! Also largely written because of you-know-what with you-know-who (she will know what I'm talking about). Apologies, I wanted this to be longer but had to power through it in a sickness-induced delirium. More is to come, but this is what I have for you so far. The happiest of birthdays to the coolest of people. Un-beta'd.
A Thorn in Your Side
-sbj-
Belladonna awoke long before she joined the family downstairs. The morning light filtered through the screen of the sheet pulled taut over her head, as if it were trapping her in a world of hazy white. Or keeping her safe. It depended on the morning. Judging from the conversation going on downstairs, she was favoring the latter.
“Blossom, please.” A hushed voice, bell-like. “She'll hear you.”
“Maybe that'll do it.” Harsher, this one. Authoritative, and not in the way that made people want to listen. “Maybe that's a good thing. Babying her back into it doesn't seem to be helping.”
“It's only been a month!”
“It's already been a month! The world's at war, Bubbles! For Pete's sake! This identity crisis... there's no time for it!”
“Blossom, shh,” Professor Utonium said, and the entire house suddenly quieted. Belladonna held her breath, waiting for more.
Blossom—naturally—was the one to bite. “We should go wake her. We're already late.”
“I can patrol alone today,” Bubbles said.
“Absolutely not,” Blossom said. “You're supposed to go together.”
“I really don't think she's ready—”
“And that attitude isn't going to help,” Blossom snapped. “She's been with you once already.”
“Yes, but... Blossom, it's just not fair to her right now.”
A chair scraped violently against the kitchen tile, inspiring frenzied hushing.
“Blossom!” Bubbles cried.
“Shh,” the Professor said again.
“Don't. Do not. You can't... talk to me about whether it's fair or not!”
“She doesn't remember! She can't help that!”
“She knew!” Blossom hissed, and the sheets twisted in Belladonna's hands. “She knew as soon as we showed up. You saw it, I know you did. The way she looked at us? Like she'd been caught? She knew exactly who we were, and who she was.”
“Blossom—”
“The only reason she even bothered coming home because we found her, not because she wanted to,” she said, her voice hurt, bitter, vicious.
“Enough.” Bubbles' voice was deathly quiet. There might have been more, but Belladonna wasn't going to bother eavesdropping any longer. She flung the covers off and sat up, hating this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar guest room of this unfamiliar house, surrounded by strangers. Strangers who kept wanting her to be someone who didn't exist anymore.
On her way downstairs she realized this was the first morning she hadn't immediately felt the bone-deep absence of the tour bus' sagging mattress cocooning her. It felt like a betrayal. She hated herself a little more for it.
The kitchen had hushed by the time she reached it. Three faces that she still hadn't quite gotten used to greeted her. She looked at Bubbles first, whose expression was warm and apologetic. She was the easiest, because she actually tried. Then a glance—but only a glance, and a steely one besides—at Blossom, whose attempt at a neutral expression betrayed all of the hurt and anger that had been simmering inside her for the past month. And finally, the hardest.
Belladonna pushed her gaze to Professor Utonium, who had the worst poker face. The look in his eyes, the constant struggle for composure and courage—none of that had improved over the course of what now felt like too long a stay in the home of the Powerpuff Girls. If anything, he looked especially hurt this morning, probably thanks to Blossom's revelation.
Belladonna wished she could do something to dissipate that pervasive look of loss. Something to show Blossom that she was wrong, to show him that everything would be okay. But a hug felt disingenuous and she only thought in song lyrics, none of which fit. And besides... Blossom wasn't wrong. If Buttercup's sisters had never claimed her, Belladonna never would've come.
“Morning,” she mumbled, voice scratchy with sleep and her guilt eating away at her. Professor Utonium stood up, gesturing to the empty spot at the table.
“Just in time for last call,” he said cheerily. A little forced. He retrieved her plate from the microwave as she sat. She could sense the weight of Blossom's gaze.
“Morning, Buttercup.”
The Professor fumbled with some silverware. Belladonna's throat tightened and she gritted her teeth. She did not acknowledge the greeting.
“Belladonna.” Bubbles shot her a smile as she looked up. Blossom huffed and looked away. “How'd you sleep?”
Belladonna dug the sand out of her eyes and shrugged. “Okay.”
“You know, I was thinking, maybe you should skip patrol today.”
“Bubbles.”
Bubbles ignored Blossom. “You can join me next week. I'll get Princess to come with me.”
“Oh, good,” Blossom scoffed. “Someone helpful.”
“Princess has been extremely helpful and you know that,” Bubbles said, a paragon of patience.
“Here you go, sweetie,” the Professor said, setting a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Belladonna. She mumbled her thanks.
“Is she even free? How do you know she's available?”
Bubbles held up her phone. “I already texted her. She said yes.”
Blossom crossed her arms, looking doubtful. Despite their differences, Belladonna didn't blame her. She'd met Princess last week, and, to put it kindly, the girl was a total bitch.
“What did she actually say?” Blossom pressed, and Bubbles sighed as she tapped her screen.
“She said, 'Fine, if you are that desperate for company,'” Bubbles read. “See? It counts as a yes.”
Blossom watched as Belladonna pushed her food around her plate. “Maybe the three of you should go together.”
“Oh Blossom, for God's sake!” Bubbles sat back and covered her face for a brief second before re-composing herself. She leaned closer to Belladonna and said, “Please don't mind her. You should hang back, maybe go visit the band—”
The sudden burst of hope in Belladonna's chest was quickly extinguished as Blossom said, “Oh my God,” and the way she said it, the way she fucking said it.
“Take that back,” Belladonna snapped at her, and everybody stared at her for a second, stunned. Then Blossom's face hardened.
“Do you have any—any—recollection of how that pathetic loser—”
“Blossom!”
“Watch it,” Belladonna snarled, sending her chair clattering as she jumped to her feet.
“Buttercup!” Bubbles said frantically, forgetting for a second.
“My name is Belladonna!” Belladonna screamed, hating that stupid name, hating this stupid family!
“No it isn't!” Blossom shouted back. “And the sooner you give this charade up—”
“Oh, you think I'm doing this on purpose? You think I like being called a liar, being taken away from my friends—”
“We didn't 'take' you,” Bubbles whispered, and Belladonna faltered for a second.
“You know what, you're right, Belladonna,” Blossom said, practically spitting the name. “Obviously. Obviously you're not Buttercup. Because even though she was a terrible listener and never took orders and fought us all the time, she still always put us first instead of some deadbeat guy who used her when she was five years old!”
“Stop it!” Bubbles screamed, and the entire house rattled at the sound of her voice. A tiny crack split the glass of orange juice Professor Utonium had poured for Belladonna.
Now he came to Blossom's side, hands folding over her shoulders. “Blossom,” he said, his knuckles bleach-white. “You should get to work. Mojo will be waiting.”
Blossom and Belladonna glared at each other in silence. But while Belladonna's anger stood its ground, the anger in Blossom's gaze ebbed away until all that was left was misery.
“Yes,” she muttered, breaking eye contact. “You're right, Professor.” She moved away from the kitchen table and her father's hands, through the living room, towards the front door. Watching her made Belladonna's gut wrench again.
As the deadbolt clicked open, Bubbles—looking utterly lost and defeated, something Belladonna had not yet seen in the month she'd been here—lifted her head and said, her voice hollow, “People change, Blossom.”
The movement at the door paused. Then, finally, “No kidding.”
The slam of the front door echoed in the house. Belladonna excused herself and went back to bed.
***
I hate it here.
These four words became Belladonna's personal mantra for the next two hours as she tangled herself in the sheets of her borrowed bed. She tossed and turned, longing for the laughter of the gang and Ace's arms around her as they fell asleep and a time when she hadn't had to deal with being somebody she didn't know. She wanted to be home.
You are home, came the voice of dissent, and Belladonna braced herself. The guilt was relentless, but whenever these conversations started up, things always got ten times worse.
She waited. There was little point in doing so—the voice wasn't really Buttercup's, only what Belladonna imagined her former self might say, and it usually wasn't kind. But she waited, in case that person was still there, buried deep, waiting to reveal herself at just the right moment in the story to make everything right again.
There was nothing. Belladonna sat up, her stomach grumbling, but the thought of trying to eat made her sick. Her eyes swept the room. It had been a small, appreciated kindness—rather than force her to share a room with two other girls, she had been offered the guest room. The idea, she knew, had been for her to stay here until enough of her memory had returned for her to feel comfortable joining her sisters again. Unfortunately, being a guest room meant it was way too neat and devoid of personality. If there was any part of Buttercup left inside her, this room would hardly help jog her memory.
Her fingers danced along her knees as she listened to Professor Utonium, bustling in his basement—the lab, she'd learned—and she eased out from under the covers, sneaking out and down the hall to the girls' room.
The door was ajar and it creaked as she pushed it open. She darted a glance downstairs. She felt like she was sneaking around—a stranger, lurking in someone else's home.
It's your home, too.
“Not really,” she muttered to herself, but the thought gave her a little more courage, enough to actually enter. She paused, blinded for a second.
Oh holy Hell, that's a lot of pink.
Her jaw dropped, lip curling as she took it all in—the heart-shaped vanity, the enormous stuffed toys, the pink that was literally everywhere. Even the carpet, for Christ's sake. There was so much pink in here she could practically taste it. How had Buttercup ever been able to stand it?
There were three twin beds in here, each with its own wall. The bed closest to the door seemed to be Blossom's—it was clinically made, the things on the nightstand arranged meticulously, as if by the hand of an overbearing control freak. Yeah, that was definitely hers.
The stuffed toys were piled next to another bed, a small purple octopus set regally on the pillow. Well, that was a giveaway.
Which left...
Belladonna looked towards the bed in the far corner. It had been made, though since it had been empty for two years she doubted whether that was Buttercup's handiwork. Decor around this one was sparse, save for various things pinned to the wall surrounding it. Belladonna forcibly relaxed her shoulders and floated over to get a better look.
Photos, mostly. The small, credit card-sized variety that came from an instant camera. There were also quite a few blue ribbons for various athletic meets, along with concert ticket stubs and a note that had been passed back and forth between two people. The conversation didn't follow any of the notebook paper lines and kind of meandered around the page, but it was easy enough to find where it started.
Dude, I am exhausted.
Up all night fueling your porn addiction?
Yeah, in between rounds of fighting Mojo. You asshole.
You look pretty exhausted. ('Pretty' had been crossed out, and a :p face had been doodled underneath it.)
Ughhhhhh this classssssss. It's taking foreverrrrrrr. Then, in the same handwriting, Do you want to go see a movie later?
What's out?
I don't know, I'm just bored. Just trying to think of things to do.
Sure. It's a date.
OMG shut up Mitch. I was gonna invite the rest of the guys too :P
:P
That was where the conversation ended, with the day and date scribbled in the corner. Just a hair over two years ago. Belladonna peered at the pictures. There were only a couple where she was with a bunch of girls—fellow soccer and basketball teammates, it looked like—and quite a few more where she was surrounded by a bunch of the same guy friends again and again.
I wonder which one's Mitch.
She stared at one of the group photos, her attention divided between four boys, trying to sense if one of them spoke to some deep-rooted crush long buried inside her. Nothing stirred. She tried harder, trying to will the Eureka moment to come, the one that would break the dam, or at least put enough of a crack in it to let loose even a trickle of her memories.
Still nothing. None of them were Ace, so none of them mattered.
Belladonna sank to the bed with a sigh, clamping down on the lurch her heart gave. If she kept thinking of Ace—no. She had to stop. Just a few days ago she had spent an afternoon wallowing, wanting to call Ace but feeling she didn't deserve to after how she'd deceived him while at the same time feeling bitter and angry that he hadn't called her.
Pathetic loser, she thought, Blossom's words somehow seeming less cruel in this moment. But she still hated her for saying so. Like she had the right.
Belladonna felt herself getting angry and she glared defiantly at the wall again. She wasn't here right now to be pissed at Ace, or Blossom, or anybody. She was just trying to... she was trying.
She forced her attention to the one face she'd been avoiding looking at directly in all the pictures: her own. And it was her face, undeniably. The familiarity of the expressions made Buttercup less of a stranger, even without hair dye or eyeliner. Belladonna twisted a green strand of hair around her finger absentmindedly.
It was her face. It was her. Not just Buttercup-her, but Belladonna-her. A dim connection threaded between them for the first time, fragile and tentative. Yeah, she could see it. She saw that face and could imagine making it, being in a situation where she would make it. And preferring to be surrounded by guys, that was obviously something they shared. She touched a finger to her cheek—Buttercup's cheek. She grinned, trying to mirror the expression in one of the photos. Then she glanced at the vanity.
She carefully unpinned one of the photos from the wall, then floated over to the heart-shaped mirror. There were a bunch of old, worn stickers littering the heart's edge. Bubbles' work, she imagined. She seemed like a sticker kind of girl. Belladonna held the photo up between herself and the mirror and tried the expression again. It took a couple attempts to really nail it. It felt different—a little too much, a little too forced on her. She looked at the girl in the picture and then at the girl in the mirror. She let the expression on her face fade into something more comfortable, and then it hit her.
I look so much sadder than her.
Was it the circumstances? Was it because she was miserable, here, in this moment? Or was it because Buttercup was still in there, somewhere, feebly trying to reclaim her life but finding someone else there instead, someone who didn't make the right faces, who upset her father and fought with her sisters and was ruining any chance she'd ever had of being happy?
“Rrrgh!” Belladonna clutched at her hair, squeezing her eyes shut. The photo fluttered down, hitting the floor.
This isn't fair. It was her life, too. She had one. One that mattered. And it wasn't fair, when Buttercup didn't... didn't even exist anymore, hadn't for two years. It wasn't Blossom or Bubbles who had pulled her out of the ocean or given her a life or a family or a name. Finders keepers. They didn't deserve her just because they'd had her first!
But that isn't fair, either. Belladonna lowered her hands, staring at her palms, or Buttercup's palms, whatever. They'd lost their sister. Their teammate. What if one of the gang had gone missing for two years? What if Billy or Arturo disappeared, only to turn up months later with a different name and life and no memory of ever being part of the Gangreen Gang?
She shook her head. What was the point of this? All it did was riddle her with guilt, and feeling guilty wouldn't help anything, either with the gang or the girls or the war. Sympathy aside, this fact remained: Belladonna was here. Buttercup wasn't.
“My name is Belladonna,” she whispered, and then she looked at herself in the mirror. She sat up straighter, squared her shoulders, set her jaw. “I'm Belladonna. And...” She paused. “And I can't be expected to try and be someone who's already dead.”
It felt good for a second. And then she imagined that girl in the mirror with her face crumpling, snarling, banging against the glass and screaming, But I'm not dead!
“Hello?” a voice in the hall said, and Belladonna gasped, jumping to her feet. Professor Utonium knocked on the door before nudging it open. “Bellado—oh, here you are.”
“I-I'm sorry, Professor Utonium,” she stammered, reaching for the photo that she'd dropped and flying it back to Buttercup's wall. “I was just... just trying to see if I could remember anything, if—”
“Don't apologize,” he said. “I'm sorry for interrupting.” He paused, watching as she pinned the photo back in place. “Did... did it help?”
The hope in his voice tightened like a noose around her neck. She pressed her lips together and tried to look at him, but only managed to stare at his shoes, unable to handle the inevitable disappointed expression.
“I'm sorry,” he said, and that was something they had in common—they always wound up apologizing to each other. A lot. “I didn't mean to put that kind of, you know, pressure on you. I'm sorry about that.”
Belladonna shook her head. “You're... the least of it. You're really great about it, actually, Professor Utonium.”
“Professor,” he said, and she realized he was correcting her. “You can just call me Professor.”
She almost apologized for not having thought of how painful it might be for his daughter to address him so formally, like he was a stranger, but before she could he said, “And no apologizing. I'm calling a moratorium on 'I'm sorry.' At least for the moment.”
She exhaled and managed a little grin. Encouraged, he pulled over a stool and sat to stare at the wall with her.
They studied it together in silence for a moment. She shot a look at him. He was staring kind of blankly at nothing in particular, lost in some distant memory.
“Guess I was into sports, huh?”
He blinked and looked at her, then smiled. “Yes. Yes, definitely.”
“Did... did I have a favorite?”
“Well, it depended. You liked stuff that kept you moving constantly. Soccer, track and field. You liked basketball and volleyball, too.”
“Yeah. I saw the ribbons.”
“But you did other things.” The Professor pointed at one of the photos of her with the group of guys. “You all were starting a band.”
“For real?!”
“Oh, yeah,” Professor Utonium said, laughing a little. “What a coincidence, huh?”
“What was I—did I sing? Or do an instrument?”
“You liked bass guitar, but I think you were going to be the singer.” The Professor leaned in and pointed towards one of the guys—a stocky guy with broad shoulders and shaggy hair. “Mitch was going to do the bass.”
“So that big guy is Mitch,” she said, and something about the Professor's pause seemed particularly weighty. “Were we... was he my—”
The Professor laughed awkwardly. “No. Not. No. You guys were best friends forever, though. It was like... well, we figured it was going to happen eventually. Or expected it would. And then... well.” He patted the back of one hand against his other palm. “You know.”
“And then other stuff,” she said softly, staring at the girl in the photo. “Yeah.”
They shared some more silence together.
“I like the green,” he said, and she furrowed her brow. He reached for her hair, then caught himself and indicated his own. “Your hair. I like it.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh yeah? That makes you a weird parent.”
He laughed, and this one was a little nervous and a little relieved and very warm. It made her kind of happy. Though happy wasn't quite the word. Comfortable. It made her feel comfortable.
“Well, green wouldn't have been my first choice,” he admitted, and she smiled. This one-on-one stuff was nice.
“You know, um.” He wove his fingers together, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I came up here 'cause you didn't really eat much at breakfast, and are you hungry? It's lunchtime. You must be starving. And breakfast, I mean. She meant well. Blossom. She's just having a hard time. I mean, we all are. But Blossom, she likes to stress. I don't mean—no, she doesn't like to stress, but she can't help it. She's always taking on too much. And you guys... you guys were always butting heads before, you know? So I hope you're not dwelling on that, or... what I mean is, it's kinda natural for you two to fight like that. Not that fighting is natural, just.” The Professor sighed. “God, I used to be so much better at this.”
Belladonna cracked a smile, honored by the effort. “You're doing okay.”
“Thanks.”
“I'd give you a solid B.”
He winced. “Ooh! Ouch!” He clutched at his heart melodramatically, an agonized look on his face.
“Hey, it's above average!”
“You're right. Beggars can't be choosers.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, looking serious again. “I wanted to say something else. About... the band.”
Suddenly there was a block of ice in her gut. She stared at him, her smile failing.
“I wanted to let you know that... that you can go visit them, if you want,” the Professor said, his hand squeezing into a fist and opening again. He took a deep breath. “I know... I know they mean a lot to you. And... I mean, you've basically thrown yourself into the deep end of the pool here. There wasn't really a transition period. That's not fair. To you. I mean... I know you're trying.” The Professor met her eyes and his gaze held hers, steady. “I know you're trying really hard here, Belladonna.”
She broke their eye contact and stared down at her hands which—to her surprise—were shaking. She clasped them together and, for the first time since she'd come here, wished, really wished that Buttercup's memories would come back. Not just to put an end to things, and not just so she could play the martyr card, but because something in the Professor's voice spoke to something else burrowed deep within her, some inner part of her that was keening at his guidance, this love. She wanted to reunite them and make them happy and know it for herself, as well.
I know you're trying really hard, the Professor had said, but the thing was she hadn't been trying hard enough. Not like the Professor, who had talked to her like an individual instead of a girl who was supposed to be his daughter. Though he apologized all the time for it, he had never pressured her to hurry and become Buttercup again.
She could be trying harder instead of wallowing in self-pity and bitterness and resentment. She could. For the first time, she actually wanted to.
“So whatever you want to do,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “I can make some lunch. Or... you can go see the band. It's your call, Belladonna.”
That he would recognize that and make a point of saying so only solidified her resolve. The green in her hair was fading out, anyway.
“Actually... is there a drugstore nearby?”
***
“We're back!” Bubbles' voice echoed in the house, and Belladonna's shoulders tensed. She tried to ignore it and resumed setting the table for dinner. “Professor, it smells soooo good in here—”
Her voice dropped off as she rounded the corner to the kitchen, and Belladonna turned to face the girls, bracing herself. Bubbles came up to her immediately, her hands covering her mouth.
“Oh, Belladonna,” she whispered, looking crushed. “Your hair!”
“The green was fading out,” Belladonna said.
Bubbles was alternating between reaching to run a hand through it and pulling back. “You didn't have to!”
“Yeah, I know.” She took a deep breath. “That... was kinda the point.”
Bubbles' eyes started shimmering. Belladonna had guessed right—the girl recognized the olive branch, appreciated the gesture. But Blossom...
She looked at the girl still standing in the doorway, concerned that the jet-black hair might trigger her memories and make her double her efforts at making Belladonna Buttercup. But Blossom didn't seem that worried about the hair. Blossom seemed more worried about—
Suddenly the redhead came up to her, hands fumbling for something to do before cocking her arms on her hip, almost comically. Bubbles eyed her, then conscientiously backed away.
“I'm sorry,” Blossom said, leveling her gaze with Belladonna's. “About this morning.”
Belladonna found herself awash in pink again today, though this time felt way heavier and more troubled than the room upstairs. She thought of what the Professor had said and had a sudden moment of clarity.
“Whatever,” she said, shaking her head and turning away to continue setting the table. She caught the tail end of a flash of anger on Blossom's face and almost laughed to herself in disbelief. Something about it seemed very familiar. “The Professor called a moratorium on 'Sorry' earlier today.”
“It's true,” the Professor said, carrying the last dish over and taking a seat.
“So don't worry about it.” Belladonna handed Blossom a napkin and sidled towards the table. “Let's just eat.”
Blossom stared at her for a second. “Thanks,” she said, then, pointedly, but without malice, “Belladonna.”
Belladonna looked at her and pressed her lips together in a sort-of grin.
“Wow, Professor,” Bubbles said, breaking the moment just before it got awkward. She really had timing, that girl. “This looks great!”
“I had some help,” he said, glancing fondly in Belladonna's direction, and she shifted in her seat, mumbling. He lifted his glass and Bubbles immediately did the same. Blossom and Belladonna simply placed a hand each on theirs, exchanging a glance.
“Girls,” he said, and indicated Blossom and Bubbles. His eyes connected briefly with Belladonna's again, and she gripped her glass, still broken from this morning but holding strong.
“Welcome home.”
-fin-