![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
More Than Human, ch10, part 1
More Than Human, ch10
part 1
part 2
Title: More Than Human
Chapter 10: Tried to Stick A Dead Body Inside of Me, or I Think You Should Know You're His Favorite Worst Nightmare
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: R/M, because they're teenagers and a good handful of them use terrible, filthy language.
Disclaimer: Pay your respect to Craig, not me.
Summary: There is no way I can make this sound original, ever. My attempt to write a believable RrB/PpG in high school fic. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. – Camus
Notes: Immense thanks to my betas, Arrows and Red, who took up the editing arms and helped me drag this blasted chapter across the Finish Line; thanks always to mathkid and juxtaposie, who helped it to the Starting Line all those years ago.
More Than Human, Pt. 2 – Senior Fall Semester
October – Tried to Stick A Dead Body Inside of Me, or I Think You Should Know You're His Favorite Worst Nightmare
-sbj-
Brick didn't turn the lights on when he wandered into the apartment, nor when he entered his room. There was something oddly comforting about the dark, the way it swallowed him, made him invisible to the world. As a general rule, he liked feeling stealthy. Tonight, though, he just liked that he could make any face he wanted, and no one could see.
He sighed, and when he opened his eyes, the lights were on, and Blossom was standing right there in his room.
He jumped, backing into his closed door while she stared at his carpet. Her hair curtained around her face, half-masking her expression, but Brick could see enough of it to feel guilty.
He cleared his throat. “Blossom? What... what are you doing here?”
She looked up at him. His breath stopped.
“I came here,” she whispered—
“To talk,” he finished quietly.
She covered the distance between them in a few quick steps, her skirt riding up as she did so. He hadn't noticed; how could he not notice a skirt like that? God, it was something.
“I don't want to fight, Brick. I'm sick of fighting with you. I don't want to.”
Brick's back flattened against the door and Blossom's arms wrapped around him, that fabulous body of hers pressed to his, and he closed his eyes and touched her cheek.
I don't want to fight you, either.
She kissed his neck, a sweet, soft movement that sparked an aching want in his chest, and he angled her face to his and kissed her back.
He felt the pressure of her hips against his, and that was a dangerous place for them to be; he thought of pushing her away but then thought better of it, and then her knee was moving up his inner thigh and the next thing he knew they were on his bed, kissing and fumbling for each other with the lights on. She felt wonderful there, with her head against his pillows and her back on the mattress she had helped him pick out.
“Brick,” she whispered, and oh, that voice. Her trembling hands traversed the span of his chest, skimmed along the line of his torso, and hesitated at the hem of his jeans. He only felt it all; he hadn't opened his eyes since they'd kissed at the door but he could practically see it all anyway, clear and vivid in his mind.
“I don't know,” she was whispering, and still her hands wandered, touching him, tugging experimentally at the belt loops of his jeans.
“I'll be careful,” he murmured frantically, when really he was thinking I don't know, either, and trying not to shake as he touched her, as he lifted her shirt just enough to let his hand dance against her bare stomach. He didn't even know where to start. He didn't know what to do.
He felt one of her hands leave his jeans, touch his hand, and gently guide it to her thigh. Her skirt had ridden up an unholy amount and he gasped as he touched her bare skin, trying to think as his hand inched up her leg, past the fabric of her skirt, to... to...
Her mouth was on his and at some point they'd shed both their tops (he couldn't remember doing that but didn't much care), and his hand left her thigh to draw down the strap of her bra. Her breasts were soft and she made a little noise when he touched that soft, soft skin, and he pressed down, his arms winding around her bare back, hugging her close, God, he'd never wanted anything this much, he'd never wanted or needed anything, anyone, this much—
“Open your eyes, Brick,” she said quietly, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder and inhaled. She smelled wonderful.
“Open your eyes,” she said again, and he gasped for breath. Suddenly he was shaking, trembling all over, and he gritted his teeth and squeezed her closer and thought, No, I can't, I can't...
“Brick,” she whispered, and her hand touched his face, brushed against his hairline as her lips found his. “Open them.”
Slowly, slowly, Brick opened his eyes. It was pitch black. He couldn't see anything.
Something felt wrong. He felt heavy, slow. He stared at the darkness, trying to figure out where she'd gone. He couldn't feel her body against his anymore.
Brick forced himself up and rubbed at his eyes, suppressing a yawn as he looked blearily around his room. It was dark; he still couldn't quite see. A dull panic wrestled for purchase in him, but it had to fight through all his exhaustion and confusion as he stared at the dark and searched for her. Maybe she was in the bathroom.
“Blossom?” he tried, his voice cracking and heavy with sleep as he said it, and as soon as it left his mouth he felt stupid, like a needy five-year-old. He closed his mouth; it was thick and dry and felt gross. He'd kissed her with this mouth?
He looked back down at his bed, picturing her there against his sheets and feeling his insides coil. She wasn't here, and that dull panic was growing, expanding rapidly in his chest. He furrowed his brow and reached out his hand, brushing it against his mattress, and suddenly it hit him.
“Fuck,” he gasped, horrified as he stared wide-eyed at his empty bed and knowing in an instant that no, Blossom wasn't here. Blossom hadn't been here at all.
***
The bed creaked as Boomer swung his legs over and made for the corner of his room that housed his acoustic. The mere act of picking it up helped to slow his heartbeat. He sighed as he settled onto the floor and eased the guitar into his lap.
He'd had this dream before. A lot, even. Sometimes it started with him in the water, sometimes he just stood, watching it fill in around him until it crested over his head, fully submerging him. There was never any light, but that was okay. He didn't have trouble breathing, he didn't panic, he just stood there. It was fine. It felt fine.
His hands trailed the strings, plucking idly at them. C. F#. His heart started racing again.
I'll just...
He had left his phone on the bed, so he set his guitar down and floated back, pawing through the sheets until it tumbled out, bouncing onto the carpet.
The phone rang, one, two, three, four rings, and right before it entered the fifth someone picked up.
“Boomer?”
At the sound of her sleep-heavy, bewildered voice, Boomer exhaled.
“Hey,” he said, her image in his head coming into focus.
“Are you—Boomer, it's, like, almost four in the morning—”
There was a commotion on the other end, a hissed, “Give me that,” and then, “Boomer? What the fucking fuck?”
Buttercup.
“Language,” he heard a groggy Blossom reprimand.
“I swear to God, you better get some sleep, because when you get up I'm gonna go over there and kick your fucking ass for ruining mine,” Buttercup snarled, and then hung up.
Boomer lowered his phone and sat there for awhile, cradling it in his hands.
He'd had this dream before. A lot. Sometimes it started with him in the water and sometimes he just stood as it filled in around him. There was never any light and he was always alone.
But tonight.
He looked up.
Tonight he had looked up and seen a figure just beyond the glassy surface far above him, the image vague and features indiscernible. The infinite depths of the water had swallowed her name out of his mouth, and he'd woken up.
He looked and looked. All there was to see here, though, was the ceiling fan of his room.
***
Butch shot up in bed, eyes narrowed as he looked around. The shadows stayed where they were, though, and after a second, he flopped back down. Then he flopped to the left. Then to the right.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
“Rrrrrrrgh.” He sat up with a groan, then darted an accusing glare at his lower half.
“This is your fault,” he said. Then, after a moment, “Fuck you.”
Do other guys have to deal with this shit? The last time he'd asked his brothers if they ever got midnight boners, Brick had left the room and Boomer had said, “Sometimes.”
“Do they wake you up?”
Boomer had wrinkled his face. “What? Is yours, like... making noise or something?”
No, it did not make noise. It was just annoyingly persistent. And usually Butch didn't mind taking care of it—he had a good fantasy or two in mind when it came to doing so, in fact. But between the party and the dream...
He sighed, pulling up his knees and thumping his forehead against them. In the dream he'd been sitting on a fence—
I don't really wanna think about this right now.
He stared at his lap, the mess of sheets hiding his erection, and wondered why it wouldn't subside, even when confronted with the dream-memory of watching his brother sitting with Blossom and the real-memory of watching that same brother kiss his best friend at last week's party. If anything, that double-whammy punch should've been a guaranteed boner killer. Should've. But, well, he was a teenager, and there'd been more—
“Ugh,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut as it throbbed. She'd been there, too. She'd been on the fence with him, back pressed against his own, with that crazy dream-physics at work because no two people could ever sit on a fence back to back. Nobody ever made fences like that, that wasn't how fences worked. Dreams were fucking stupid.
He sat up again, backing up until he had smushed the pillows against the wall. After a second, he let one of his hands drift down next to him.
Here, nobody's hand met his. There was no gentle, tentative touch at first, no firm, solid squeeze as his gaze moved past the yard and up into the sky. Here, he stared into the darkness of his room, remembering Buttercup tying cherry stems at last week's party, the way her cheeks had been slightly sucked in, the way her lips had wrapped around the cherry every time she pulled one out of her mouth, how sometimes he had glimpsed a sliver of her tongue in between stems. And then there was their sparring match, and it had kinda been like this, where Butch was staring up into the darkness but unable to tear his attention away from Buttercup's face and the bit of her bra he could see.
Butch sank back onto the bed and edged his hands under the sheets.
***
This is bad.
Brick hadn't had a non-lucid dream in years. He'd forgotten how dreams... could confuse you when you weren't in control of them.
This is bad, he thought again, running his hands through his hair as paced his room, sleep be damned. This is so very bad. What did it mean that he'd had a real dream, one that he hadn't been able to recognize as a dream and then take control of? It was like another nail in the coffin that housed Brick's self-control. When he thought about it, there were things that should've been dead giveaways that it hadn't really been happening. His room had been off. It hadn't really looked like his room at all: it'd been missing the desk, the window, and the shelves. There'd only been the bed. How had she gotten in without a window, and without him seeing her on the way back to his place? And she'd worn a skirt, which was wrong, because at the party she'd been in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Not to mention the party itself had actually taken place last week.
And then there was the stuff that had... that had happened...
Brick swallowed and closed his eyes, trying to focus on getting dressed. If nothing else, he should've known then. He should've known that they'd never happen like that.
Because we shouldn't, he thought fervently to himself. Never, that was something that'd never happen because there was no way and besides, Brick wouldn't ever let that happen. It would ruin everything he'd worked for.
Thinking that made Brick feel better, made him feel a little more in control of things. He sighed and looked back at his bed, barely illuminated in the dim light of dawn.
She'd felt so warm and real and wonderful. It was as if she'd really been there. Here. He thought of her whispering, “Open your eyes,” and he wished he hadn't listened to her.
He stared, watching as sunlight gradually shortened the shadows in his room. Eventually he heard a rustling in the kitchen and decided that was as good a time as any to make an appearance.
To Brick's surprise, Butch turned out to be the rustler.
“What are you doing awake?”
“Done sleeping. You look like shit.”
“Fuck off,” Brick muttered, rooting through the cabinets. “God damn it, I keep forgetting to buy some fucking cereal.” He paused and looked back at Butch, who was whistling as he dug the milk out of the fridge. “What's got you in such a good mood this morning?”
“Tugged one out.”
Brick slammed the cabinet doors shut. “Welp, there goes my appetite.”
“And it's just such a beautiful Saturday morning.” Butch tipped his head back as he chugged the milk straight out of the gallon jug.
“Christ, that's disgusting.” Brick gagged, grabbing a marker off the counter and scribbling Butch's name on the jug as he drank. “That's yours.”
Butch set the jug down and sneered. “Mission accomplished! I am an Evil Mastermind. Sorry Brick, you've just been demoted.”
Boomer shuffled into the room then, taking his place groggily at the counter. “Ugh.”
Butch looked from Boomer to Brick, then pointed. “You look like shit and you look like ass. Did I miss something last night?”
Boomer glared at him. “What are you so happy about?”
Brick mimed the motion and jerked his head in Butch's direction, to which Boomer responded, “Welp, so much for my appetite.”
“Like brother, like brother,” Brick said. “Boomer, you look like you haven't slept in weeks.”
“Feels like it.” Boomer ran a hand over his face and stared at the counter.
“Masturbate,” Butch said. “Seriously. That shit helps.”
“Is anybody talking to you, jackass?” Boomer snapped.
“Butch, since you're such a morning kind of guy, why don't you go out and get me some coffee?”
“Only because I care about your well-being so much,” Butch said, snatching Brick's wallet off the counter and pocketing it as he flew to the door. As he flung it open he tossed back, “I'm such a good—Buttercup?”
Buttercup, whose mitt had been lifted to bang on the door, blinked at Butch. Her eyes were still tinged and muddy with sleep, and from the look of her rumpled tank top and loose pants she hadn't changed out of her pajamas. She caught sight of Boomer at the counter and muscled her way into the apartment.
“Oh, shit,” Boomer said, suddenly alert, and tried to take off as Buttercup stalked towards him. She grabbed him as he made a desperate attempt to fly away and dragged him into his room, kicking the door shut. The sounds of a heated scuffle, punctuated by the occasional thump and crash of something breaking, seeped through.
Brick turned his eyes skyward and asked the ceiling, “What the shit is up with this morning?”
“Hey!” Butch, no trace of that morning's smile on his face, shouted at Boomer's closed door. “What the fuck are you two doing in there?”
“I swear, I turn my back for one second...” Brick and Butch looked up to find Bubbles entering the apartment now, arms laden with grocery bags and looking much fresher and more together than Buttercup, clad in a cozy-looking dress. “Good morning,” she said brightly to her boyfriend's siblings, and set her burden down on the kitchen counter before floating to Boomer's door. “Buttercup! Leave him—”
The door flew open and a sleep-addled Buttercup trudged out without so much as a grunt at her sister. Bubbles blew her hair out of her face and moved into the bedroom to collect and comfort her poor, victimized boyfriend.
Buttercup headed for the kitchen, angling her head in what might have passed for a nod to Brick. She spotted the milk on the counter and picked it up, staring at Butch's name scribbled on the side.
“Butch, I'm having some,” she announced in a scratchy morning voice, and uncapped it and chugged.
“Way to ask permission,” Butch said, moving to the kitchen counter and staring at Buttercup's neck as she swallowed. Still drinking, she started rummaging through the bags Bubbles had brought over, only setting down the near-empty jug to start pulling out eggs and sausages.
“I'm hungry,” she muttered, to no one in particular. She looked up and blinked slowly at Brick and Butch. “You guys want breakfast?”
The boys exchanged a glance. Buttercup tugged a pan out of the cabinet and cranked the stove on, then rooted through the bags for a loaf of bread, stuffing a few slices in her mouth to keep herself occupied while the pan heated.
“Buttercup, you're making breakfast for Boomer, too,” Bubbles scolded as she walked an achy, wincing Boomer back out of his room.
Buttercup tossed two slices of bread on the counter. “There. Breakfast.”
Bubbles sat Boomer down at the breakfast bar and sighed, taking the slices and moving into the kitchen to jam them in the toaster.
After what felt like a protracted pause where Boomer sat unblinking at the breakfast bar and Butch and Brick only stared at the two girls in their kitchen, Brick moved to look in the bags.
“Is, um. Is there any cereal?” he asked.
“Oh, Brick, I'm sorry, no,” Bubbles said. Her voice was genuinely apologetic, but then she suddenly looked up at him as if she thought better of sympathizing. Despite that, she still asked, “Would you like me to go out and get some?”
“No, that's okay,” he said hastily.
Butch had edged to Buttercup's side and was now leaning on the counter next to the stove, watching as she cooked the sausage patties and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. His gaze drifted to her chest, and he only had the sense to rip his eyes away when he dimly realized from the way the fabric was hugging her curves that she wasn't wearing a bra.
“How do you like your eggs, Butch?” she mumbled, yawning.
He stared at the tiled counter for a second, then smirked at her. “Fertilized.”
She immediately started snorting with laughter and smacked him. “You fuck.”
Boomer's toast finished, and Bubbles loaded the toaster up again before buttering the first two pieces and carrying them over to Boomer. She cooed at him to eat.
Brick fidgeted, looking between the two couples and the open door and daring to feel a little hopeful. But it wasn't like she had any reason to come. Why would she?
He felt uncomfortable, standing there with no one to talk to, and, as stealthily as possible, picked his wallet out of Butch's back pocket and glided to the front door. No one noticed or said “Goodbye,” not even after he clicked the door shut behind him.
***
It was the end of the school day halfway through the week. Butch had not given the dream a second thought. He shouldered his gear for lacrosse and was on his way out of the building when he heard Buttercup's voice amidst the cacophony of student conversation.
“Are you kidding? No way!”
Another voice—male, and one he didn't recognize—pleaded, “But Buttercup, Homecoming—”
Butch instantly snaked through the crowd and was at Buttercup's side in a flash. “Hey! What's up?!”
“Oh, hey Butch,” she said. The guy—one of many who appeared to be beseeching her—lit up as his eyes fell on Butch. Butch narrowed his own back.
“Hey, you could help us too!” he exclaimed.
“Don't listen to him,” Buttercup muttered.
Butch suddenly realized the guy was actually one of many guys gazing hopefully at him and Buttercup. A few of them were in football uniforms.
“Look, Homecoming's coming up—”
“I don't do guys,” Butch interrupted.
The guy gawked at him. “Dude, you are not remotely my type. Also, fucking rude.”
“They want our help pranking the school we're playing for Homecoming,” Buttercup explained to Butch, then turned back to the group. “Except the school would know it was me instantly, you idiots. No dice.”
One of the guys said, “Aw, Buttercup, you're exaggerating—”
“I cut it close last year for you guys,” she growled. “I'm not going down for you fuckers, and neither is this one.” She grabbed Butch's arm and started dragging him down the hall to the athletics building. “Come on.”
“Aw, Buttercup!” the football team whined as a chorus in one voice, and Butch looked wistfully back.
“Aw, Buttercup,” he whined. “That sounds like fun!”
“Don't you dare think about helping them,” Buttercup warned. “Everybody expects me to pull some crazy prank, so the first thing they're going to do when weird shit starts going down is come interrogate me.”
“But Buttercup—”
“No 'but's!'”
“It sounds like fun!”
“You bring it up again and I'll rip your face off,” she snarled. “Now quit dragging your God damn feet and go to practice!”
***
Avoid, avoid, avoid. That was the game Brick and Blossom were playing with each other.
Or one of us, at least, he thought bitterly as the final bell rang and the rest of the English class rose as one body to go. Blossom was first out the door, despite being on the opposite end of the room, but Brick imagined it was encouraged by the fact that she sat next to him.
He gathered his stuff up in a more subdued manner, taking his time and allowing himself to feel mildly irritated. Sure, he'd asked her to forget it had happened, but he hadn't asked her to treat him like dirt. Or lower.
But you brought this on yourself. His face soured as he walked down the hall. What'd he expect? Blossom had been hurt.
Brick's steps carried him to the general vicinity of the studio. They were supposed to practice on their own. Frankly, he didn't expect it to happen, but he wasn't about to let the reason be because he hadn't had the guts to show up.
There were only two girls there, chatting in hushed tones at one wall.
“She was, like, eighty years old or something.”
“And stealing? And they haven't caught her? Well, good for her.”
“Girls.” Blossom emerged from the locker room and snapped at the two girls. “Be more efficient. You can chat while you warm up.” She caught sight of Brick, who was leaning against the mirrors, and, after a second, strode toward him.
“Brick, I'm afraid I'm practicing with the girls today.”
Brick tried to keep the rolling of his eyes subtle and did not succeed. “Big surprise there,” he muttered.
Blossom narrowed her eyes at him. “I've been spending too much time practicing the couples dances and as a result have been shirking my responsibilities as Dance Major. I need to prep with the Company for our Homecoming performance.”
The smart thing to do was to let it go and leave.
He stretched a thin smile on his face and said, “We've got a full show to put on. In November. Where we are doing seventy percent of the legwork. Literally.”
“The Homecoming game is in October, which comes before November, Brick.” She bit out his name through gritted teeth and a tense smile of her own to match. “Do the math.”
He bit back the impulse to start screaming and took a deep breath. “You already have set time to work with the Company during the school day on a daily basis. You have a class. Our stuff has to happen outside of the schedule and the prep work I can do alone is a bit limited, seeing as it is a dance routine involving a partner.”
“I'm busy.”
“I'll wait.” He dropped his stuff with a dramatic, violent thump that echoed in the silent studio. Both of them became abruptly aware of the very large, very quiet audience surrounding them.
Blossom gave a very quiet sigh, shifted her weight, then said in a calmer tone, “Fine. After I'm done with the girls. But you can't wait in here.”
He stared. “I wait in here all the time.”
“Okay, yeah, and you're distracting every time,” she muttered, and for a second his anger waned.
Then she said, “I need the girls to be focusing on me, not the boy watching a bunch of girls in leotards dancing in front of him,” and Brick blinked.
“What are you—”
“I am saying you need to leave!”
With an irritated groan he spun on his heel and stalked to the doors, many girls backing away as he did so. The doors were those stupid spring-loaded school ones that wouldn't slam. They were stupid. Doors were stupid. Stupid like her.
Brick stood outside on the concrete for a second, trying to get his rage to settle.
The door suddenly opened behind him, and he turned.
“Brick.”
“Yeah?”
“You forgot your stuff,” Blossom said, and dropped his books on the ground.
“What the fuck?!” he snapped, but she had already disappeared back into the building.
One well-placed kick sent his books and papers flying, well into and across the parking lot. It would require an embarrassing reclamation later, but Brick was too pissed off to care. His fists were already glowing red.
He zipped around the corner to face the outside wall of the studio and fantasized about doing it, his arms lifted and stretching towards that concrete wall. The mirrors would shatter inside; hell, the whole fucking wall would be gone. And then she'd gape at him and he would say, “Oh, sorry. Am I being too 'distracting?'” That would show her. That would shut her the fuck up. That would give her a real reason to be infuriated with him.
She didn't get it. She didn't understand his goals, his needs, his wants. She was born into a charmed life, where she was perfect and people loved her and everybody told her so. Heroes were like that. The only people they had to watch out for were the bad guys. The bad guys had to watch out for everybody else, including the other bad guys.
It wasn't that Brick wanted her life, or to be loved and accepted. He couldn't give a rat's ass about any of that stupid shit. But she didn't get it. Clearly she thought that whatever reason he had for cutting that off—that whatever-it-was thing that had happened last month—wasn't good enough, because she was Blossom and she was a Powerpuff Girl and she was used to getting everything she wanted. Brick had spent his entire life in servitude to others. Whatever he wanted, he bled for.
She had it so easy. She didn't get it. She didn't fucking get it.
Brick stared at the concrete, his vision glowing red at the edges where his fists stayed raised, itching to blast a giant fucking hole in the wall of her stupid fucking studio. Eventually the red faded, and he lowered his arms.
Stupid girl.
Brick crossed his arms and let his x-ray vision burn past that concrete wall, into the studio. Blossom had her back to the mirrors as she addressed the Company. Brick saw her pause and tense at the abrupt sensation of being watched, and she turned her head to glare.
One of Brick's loose papers flew across the pavement and flattened itself against his leg. He only stared at her, matching her furious glare, and in time the wind picked up again and the paper sailed off into the sky.
***
“Buttercup—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Butch dove in front of her, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and wheedled, “Pleeeeeeeaaaaaaaase?”
Buttercup kicked him in the face. “Go fuck yourself.”
The twins glanced back at Butch as he picked himself up off the mall floor and dashed back up. Mitch turned to Buttercup and said, “You guys have been at it all week. What's the deal?”
“She won't prank the team we're playing for Homecoming!” Butch said in a voice that spoke of infinite betrayal.
Floyd lit up. “Oh, dude! Last year she moved all the players' cars to the roof of their school! That was awesome!”
“You aren't doing anything this year, Buttercup?” Lloyd asked.
“I hear a lot of other people requesting punches in the face. Is that really what you guys want? Punches in the face?”
Mitch was lost in thought. “There was an elephant last year too, wasn't there?” He looked at her. “Where'd that thing come from?”
Buttercup emitted a low growl, which prompted Mitch and the twins to all jump back and give her a wide berth. Only Butch remained at her side, still begging with his hands held together in supplication.
“I will vanquish all your enemies.”
“Vanquished,” Buttercup announced. “I got that shit taken care of.”
“I will vanquish all your almost-enemies.”
“See previous answer.”
“I will... pay you lots of money?”
“Keep your dirty blood money, criminal.”
“I will be your personal sex slave!”
Buttercup halted, then angled her head veeeeeery slowly to narrow her eyes at Butch. Mitch and the twins hastily retreated another few feet back. Butch only blinked at her, hands still clasped together.
She faced forward and resumed walking. After a couple of seconds, the boys followed.
“Butter—”
She whipped around and made a threatening motion that implied someone was about to get uppercutted into the stratosphere. Mitch and the twins had already dived under a convenient bench.
“I am not pranking the other team this year,” she snarled. “And neither will you, unless you're looking to get a lot of your blood on my hands.”
Again she turned and began walking away. Butch stared after her, then one of the rusty gears in the sort-of machine that was his brain managed a turn.
“What if we pranked our own school?” he said, and this time when Buttercup paused and turned to look at him, her eyes widened and unfocused in thought, he knew he had finally gotten somewhere.
***
“You could always just tag the school,” Lloyd offered.
Buttercup immediately shook her head. “No. Too small. Plus, it counts as vandalism. An ideal prank does little to no damage to the property while still inconveniencing people. You need to minimize property damage while maximizing the pain-in-the-assness for...” Buttercup trailed off as the boys looked at her in awe. “What? I've been doing this a long time. I'm practically a pro.”
“Tar all the doors shut,” Butch said, beaming with pride at his idea.
“That's vandalism and a fire hazard.”
“So?”
“Tires on the flagpole,” Harry suggested.
All the boys murmured in agreement, but Buttercup shook her head. “No. They'd know it was me and Butch instantly. Nobody else can get that high, and it's too far from the roof of the school for a regular student to make a throw.”
“What if someone had a crane?” Floyd asked.
“Oh, duh, how could I forget? You get your crane-driving license in a week, the timing will be perfect,” Buttercup said. Floyd flipped her off.
“You know, for being the so-called 'expert,' you're doing a ton of shooting ideas down and not very much contributing,” Mitch said.
“No vandalism and nothing that could easily incriminate me or Butch, especially when I'm the one they'll be looking at—”
“I thought we took care of that with the whole 'pranking our own school' thing,” Butch said. “Won't they just think it's Farmsville High pulling the pranks?”
“Better safe than sorry. We need regular people pranks. Cars on the roof and tires on the flagpole are fun, but if we start doing things that no normal person could do, it's going to get pretty obvious pretty fast who's responsible...”
Butch sat back and studied her as she went on, her expression serious and her eyes intense. She was getting so into it. She had wanted to do this so badly.
He wondered how much of his pressuring her had had to do with him wanting to wreak some havoc, and how much of it had had to do with the recognition that she'd been the one itching to do so all along.
***
“Huzzah!” Blossom pulled away and threw up some jazz hands in a false approximation of celebration. “You made it through without screwing up today. Good for you.”
Brick glared back at her as he stalked across the studio, away from her. “Oh, fantastic news. Why don't you give me a smiley face for my trouble, you hag.”
“I'm too young to be a hag,” she scoffed.
“But Blossom! You're so mature. You act just like one.”
“Jerk.”
“Hag.”
“Your face is stupid.”
“Your bow is stupid.”
“Your cap is stupid and ugly and it smells.”
“And you're a lying little cun—”
“Language!”
There was a groan from the entrance, and Julie stepped in with a group of other girls. “Are you guys still at it? It's been almost a week!”
“Only a week?” Brick said derisively. “It feels like I've wasted half my life in here with her already.”
Blossom narrowed her eyes and shot a warning beam at his arm.
“Ow! What the fuck?!”
“Cuss again and I'll be aiming a lot lower.”
Having put up with this behavior before and after school for the better part of a week, the rest of the girls knew to give the couple a lot of room—literally. It was getting kinda crowded in the corners when they were stretching and this whole feud was impacting regular Company practice way more than anyone had expected.
Well, Julie had had enough.
“For God's sake, Brick,” she said, raising her voice so it echoed and all the small murmurs of chatter faded. “Just ask her to Homecoming already.”
The temperature dropped and a heavy silence blanketed the studio.
The gaze of hatred Brick was issuing in Julie's direction was murderous enough to give a grown man a heart attack. But Julie shared classes with Bubbles. She'd seen her in action in Art. She'd taken notes.
As she stared back at a furious Brick, he said, “What makes you think I would even consider—”
“I'm not going.”
The room turned as one to look at Blossom, who was kneeling at the boombox next to the entrance and switching out her CDs. There were no mirrors against that wall, and her hair fell forward, covering her face. The room watched her in stunned silence for a bit. She seemed very intent on picking up each CD case and reading every single line of text printed on them.
Finally Brick turned to Julie and said, “Why'd you bring it up, anyway? Haven't you got a date yet?”
Julie, who still seemed to be recovering from her less-than-successful attempt at diffusing the UST (which had only resulted in a lot of uncomfortable T), blinked and said, “Uh, no.”
“Then I'll take you,” Brick said, and the room burst into muted chatter only so it could fall into a hush again. Blossom continued to busy herself with her CDs.
Julie stammered, “I'm sorry, I didn't—”
“No, don't be,” Brick said in a soothing voice as he came up to her and clapped a hand on her shoulder, his eyes dark. “It's the least I can do.”
The bell rang, a punctuation mark at the end of his statement, and Blossom said, “Brick, you should get going. Class will be starting soon.”
He sidestepped Julie and made for the door, picking up his stuff along the way. “See you, girls.” On the way out he passed Blossom. Neither of them paused or looked at each other.
As soon as he was gone Blossom stood and turned, her eyes hard.
“How do you expect to practice when you're crowded at the walls like that? You're dancers, not cockroaches. Spread out. Let's go.”
***
“So that totally blew up in my face,” Julie muttered. Without looking up from what she was doing, Bubbles placed a soothing hand on her friend's shoulder. The rest of the Art class was filtering into the room.
“Well, you get to go to Homecoming with Brick now,” Bubbles pointed out. “Putting his, you know, entire personality aside, would you really count that as a loss?”
“Trust me, it isn't that,” Julie said, drumming her fingers on the table.
A sudden chill descended over the room, causing everyone to pause for a shudder. Bubbles looked up and said, “Brick must be on his way in,” and sure enough, the boy in question walked through the door.
“Brick,” Bubbles said, returning to the photos in her hand, “the next time you're in a bad mood, could you let me know so I can remember to bring an extra sweater? It's cold enough as it is.”
“You know, half the time I don't have one fucking clue what you are talking about,” he grumbled, and took his seat next to Bubbles with a heavy thump.
“Heard you asked Julie,” Bubbles said.
He grunted. Julie shifted on Bubbles' other side.
“Did you mean it?” Bubbles went on.
“What, does she not want to go?” He leaned forward so he could make eye contact with Julie. “Do you not want to go?”
Julie made a bit of a flailing gesture with her hand and sputtered, “I-it isn't that—”
“Try being nice to this one, Brick,” Bubbles interjected, and both Julie and Brick shot her a look. Bubbles declined to look up as she shuffled through her pictures.
Brick looked like he wanted to say something, but then changed his mind and sat back in his chair with a huff. Julie fidgeted, then looked at the blurry photos in Bubbles' hands.
“What're those all about, anyway?”
Bubbles shrugged. “Oh, just going through the stuff for my collage.”
Suddenly Boomer burst into the room and dove for Bubbles and Brick.
“Have you seen this?!” he cried, bodily lifting them up (“Hey!” Brick snapped) so he could carry them out the door. “All the bathrooms on the second floor! You gotta see this!”
The rest of the class exchanged glances, then rose as one curious horde and rushed out after Boomer. He'd flown up the nearest set of stairs, Brick protesting all the while.
“Boomer, put me the fuck down or I'll—”
Boomer deposited them in front of a boys' restroom and urged them forward. “Go see—”
“Boomer!” Bubbles gasped, horrified. “I can't go in there!”
“Oh, right,” he said, then dragged them both to the opposite door, into the girls' restroom.
There were a few girls at the sinks who turned and erupted into terrified shrieks upon spotting Boomer and Brick. Blossom, who was among them, shrieked something else.
“What are you two doing in here?!”
Boomer ignored her and pushed Bubbles toward the sinks. “Look!”
“Get out!” Blossom ordered, her voice bouncing off the tiled walls.
Brick, who was not keen on having his eardrums ruptured, made a rude gesture at her. “Gladly,” he bit, and made for the door.
“Omigosh, goldfish!” Bubbles squealed, and Brick paused.
“What?”
Bubbles was leaning over the sink and waggling a hand at the basin. “Hi, Goldie! Little Goldies! Aw, aren't you just the prettiest little things...”
His curiosity piqued, Brick started to float back, but was stopped by Blossom's hand smacking into his chest. It then fisted in his shirt.
“Get out,” she said again, her voice a low threat.
Hot anger flooded Brick's senses and he made to grab her wrist and fling it away when the bathroom was mobbed by a tidal wave of girls.
“This one, too?!”
“All of them! All of the bathrooms on this floor!”
“Yeah, the boys said it's in theirs too!”
“How'd they do it?”
“They? Do you know who did it?”
“Uh, if I knew who did it, would I be asking?”
The surge of girls knocked Brick into Blossom, who colored and tried to shove him away. He grimaced and shoved back. What resulted was an awkward shoving match, further complicated by the girls who were pouring in to coo at the sinks.
“Stop touching me!” Blossom said, her hands braced against the inside crook of his elbow. The two of them were knocked to the wall by the crowd.
“It's not like I want to!” Brick snapped, and then got shoved into her. His hands flew up to the tiled wall to stop himself from falling over, while Blossom's face went right into his chest.
Despite his anger and frustration, he felt the warmth of her breath through his shirt, the hands that brushed against his sides, and when he inhaled and smelled her shampoo his mind flew to the memory of that night.
Blossom had gone very still, flattened against the wall. Her hands felt hesitant on his body and shook a little before clenching the fabric of his shirt.
“Please leave,” she said, her voice now a hush of a whisper, and Brick tried to pull away so she couldn't feel his chest tighten and so he could look at her. He only managed an inch or so.
Her hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Please. Leave me alone.”
A moment passed before Brick tensed his arms on either side of her against the wall and shoved back. The mass of girls behind him screeched as a few of them got knocked into the opposite wall. There was a faint splash and Bubbles cried, “Boomer! You almost knocked some of them out!”
A very authoritative presence suddenly cleared its throat, and, as if on cue, a circle of girls widened around a steaming Principal Keane. She caught sight of Brick and Boomer and her narrowed gaze narrowed further.
Brick swallowed, then snatched Boomer in a flash of red and sped both of them out of the bathroom.
Bubbles pawed at her pockets for a slip of paper and mumbled to herself, “Note to self: buy sandwich bags.”
***
“Look, sweetheart,” the Professor said uneasily as he examined their kitchen. Every available flat surface had some sort of container on it, ranging from coffee mugs to Tupperware, and every last container held at least two goldfish, space permitting. “I know you want to give them a good home, and goldfish are a little more low maintenance than, say, a whale...”
“Oh Professor, that was years ago. Are you going to keep bringing it up?” Bubbles said absentmindedly. She started digging into the fine china cabinet and extracted a few wine glasses to empty her last goldfish baggie into.
“I'm sorry, Bubbles, it's just... you know, you've brought an awful lot of these home...”
“You're going to wash all these glasses and stuff when you're done, right? Because I'm not,” Buttercup said, examining the shimmering contents of their blender. “By the way, I'd move these little dudes. This isn't exactly the best place for them.”
“I unplugged it. They'll be fine. By the way, Professor, Boomer's coming over to help me install a pond in the back—”
“Excuse me,” the Professor suddenly said. “I just remembered something I need to sharpen.”
“Is there anything to drink out of in here that doesn't have a fish in it?!” Blossom appeared in the doorway holding two bottles of water. “Bubbles, how'd you even fit them in here in the first place?”
“Creatively.”
Buttercup dug a drink out of the fridge—an unopened canned soda, so as far as she knew it was mercifully goldfish free—and waved at her sisters as she floated up to their room. Once there she shut the door and gave it a few minutes before party dialing Butch and the boys.
“Yo.” Butch's voice echoed on the line.
“Sweet, I didn't know my phone could do this,” Mitch said.
“Hey, I think we lost Harry,” Floyd said.
“I haven't even said anything yet, you jackass,” Harry said. “Where's Lloyd?”
“I'm on speakerphone here with Floyd,” Lloyd said.
“Alright, so the goldfish thing worked alright,” Buttercup said. “We should do something that'll ID Farmsville High as the culprits next, though. Right now the goldfish have just thrown everyone off.”
“Shouldn't we give it a couple of days?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, but we should take a night to prep.” Buttercup looked out her window, away from the city.
“You sound like you got something in mind,” Butch said.
“I do.” She lowered her voice. “Tomorrow evening. Mitch, bring your van. Butch, you should come along too. I'll need your help.”
“With what?”
“Catching... things.”
***
Boomer fidgeted as he waited by Bubbles' locker, relaxing only when she entered his line of vision. He hurried forward to help with her books.
“Hey. How are the fish doing?”
“Great.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Thank you for helping with the pond.”
“They're all still alive?”
“It's only the second morning since I rescued them,” she said petulantly. “Surely you have more faith in my pet ownership powers?”
“I was just asking.” He laughed as they edged around the rest of the students in the crowded hall. “I didn't mean anything by it. Fish are pretty fragile, after all.”
“Pretty tasty, too,” Butch jumped in, appearing over Boomer's shoulder.
“You're here early,” Boomer said.
“Lacrosse practice. You seriously keeping all those things, Goldilocks?”
“Why, Butch? Do you want some? I suppose Axel and Rose could use a change of scenery—”
“Hold up. You named all of them already?” Butch said in disbelief.
“Oh my God!” screeched a girl at the end of the hallway, and then a symphony (or, well, more of a cacophony) of voices rose in pitch to join her.
Boomer cocked his head. “Is it just me, or does that squealing sound like—”
“Piggy!” Bubbles gasped.
The crowd was parting like the Red Sea for an adolescent pig, snorting and oinking its way frantically down the hall. Its body was slick with something like sweat or oil, and as it barreled past Bubbles, Boomer, and Butch, they spied a #3 painted on its side.
“Holy shit!” Butch cried.
“Oh, it's so cute!” Bubbles squealed, eliciting a look from Butch.
“I wonder what the number three stands for...” Boomer said.
Another round of screaming rose up, and a second pig, going the opposite direction this time, flew by, resembling the first pig in every way save for a spot on its nose and a #5 in place of the #3.
“Holy crap, you guys!” Buttercup streaked over the heads of the crowd to join the trio. “Did you see that?!”
A blur of pink suddenly whizzed by, screaming in Blossom's voice. “What are pigs doing in THIS SCHOOL?!” The pink blur stopped, then doubled back so it could grab Bubbles' and Buttercup's arms. “Girls, we gotta catch them all!”
“Pokemon!” Boomer sang in a small voice, earning a thwack upside the head from Butch.
“Quit embarrassing yourself,” Butch muttered.
“All of them?!” Buttercup cried. “You mean there's more than two?”
“That's what the numbers are for, aren't they?” Blossom said, then yelped as the #3 pig shot past her legs, nearly toppling her over.
“Got it!” Butch dove, his eyes dark with purpose.
“Watch it!”
“Good thing you weren't wearing a skirt today,” Buttercup pointed out, and Blossom shot her a glare.
Butch, who had wrestled the pig to the ground with no shortage of terrified pig squealing, lost his grip, and the pig continued on its voyage of terror down the hall of screaming students, bringing chaos wherever it went. Butch stood and faced the group, holding up his arms. The girls and Boomer recoiled at the mess of his shirt.
“Catching these things is gonna suck. They're all greased up.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “Hey! Who wants a hug?”
“You stay your ass over there,” Buttercup said, backing away.
Blossom ignored him and said, “Why didn't you just use your shield to catch it?”
Butch blinked. “Oh! Duh.” He turned and threw up a practice shield, whacking an approaching Brick in the face with it.
“Ha!” Buttercup laughed.
“Eep,” Butch squeaked, and flicked it off. Brick lost his footing on the slick floor and slipped, crashing into Butch, who landed on top of him.
Kim, who'd been passing by, snapped a quick photo.
“E-mail that to me,” Bubbles whispered to her friend.
“Um,” Boomer said, staring at his girlfriend.
Brick shoved his brother off of him, taking a second to examine his ruined clothes before narrowing his glowing red eyes at Butch.
Butch made frantic motions with his hands.
“I'mgonnagolookforthosepigsnow,” he explained and took off, Brick hot on his heels.
“Brick all greased up.” Buttercup sighed.
“Shame he had his clothes on, yeah?” Bubbles said.
“Hey!” Boomer cried.
“Stop that,” Blossom said.
“Girls!” A very disheveled Principal Keane was waving at them from one end of the hall. “Get those pigs!”
The girls took off, Boomer tailing after Bubbles. Buttercup passed by Butch, still fleeing a furious Brick, and for a split second they exchanged a victorious little smirk before resuming flight.
***
The Professor sighed as he stared out at their backyard, now home to four pigs. Bubbles hummed to herself as she fed her goldfish in their newly installed fish pond, courtesy of Boomer.
“Sweetheart,” the Professor called, then thought better of it and just sighed again. Instead, he read the numbers on the pigs' sides, then asked, “Where's number four?”
“Blossom's working on it,” Bubbles said.
The Professor glanced at the clock inside the kitchen. “It's almost six!”
Right on cue, Blossom flung open the front door, looking tired, irritated, and greasy. She trudged into the living room and joined the Professor at the back door, her eyes dark as she took in the four now-peaceful pigs, snorting and ambling contentedly around the yard. After a long moment, she turned and floated towards the stairs.
“Where's number four, Blossom?” Bubbles asked.
“There was no number four,” she grumbled. “I just spent an hour and a half looking for a pig that didn't even exist.” Buttercup wandered out of their room just as Blossom hit the top of the stairs. “I swear,” Blossom muttered, “when I find out who's responsible for those pigs—”
Buttercup glanced at her and said, “Well, aren't they from Farmsville?”
Blossom paused.
Buttercup shrugged and made her way to the stairs. “Hello? The Farmsville High Hogs. I mean, their star quarterback—Joe-something-or-other—his family owns the biggest pig farm. Farmsville High brings one of his pigs to every game for good luck. We're playing them for Homecoming in a week and a half. Isn't it obvious?”
Blossom watched her sister float downstairs to go say hi to the pigs, her eyes narrowing in thought.
***
“Hurry up, hurry up,” Buttercup hissed, twisting her neck to look at the clock every five milliseconds. “The bell’s gonna ring any minute now!”
“Bitch, chill,” Butch hissed back, his arms laden with stacks and stacks of paper cups. In a flash of green the entire hall floor, wall to wall, was covered with them, and then he produced two ten-gallon jugs of water from his immense backpack and passed one off to Buttercup. With superspeed, in less than two seconds every cup was filled, and they tossed the jugs to Floyd, who bolted for the nearest exit.
Buttercup and Butch exchanged a quick air-five with Harry, who had been standing watch, and who now took off up the stairs. They dashed back through the hall and across the atrium to the gym doors, fake chatting as they headed towards Principal Keane's office.
The bell rang just as they were halfway there, and the halls suddenly flooded with students. Over in the pranked hallway, there were several yelps, followed by what sounded like a few very unlucky people falling over with a muted splash.
Buttercup and Butch heard Keane’s phone ring, and within seconds she had flung the door open and was muscling her way over to the hall. By now there was a large crowd amassed at each end, and the chatter that filled the air was a mixture of shock, confusion, irritation, and awed respect.
Buttercup tugged Butch along after Principal Keane—they didn't look conspicuous; in fact, most students were following her—and she could've sworn she saw a vein pop as their principal stalked across the hall.
Mr. Bean was somewhere midway down, helping up a dripping student. “Principal Keane!” he cried. “None of us can go anywhere without making a mess!” Several other teachers and students trapped within their classrooms voiced their assent. A few teachers and students were working on picking up every cup of water, but they had to keep running back and forth between the nearest bathroom to dump them out. It would take forever.
“Holy—” Butch started, and the Principal turned to give him and Buttercup a hard look. Both of them had the most innocent of innocent expressions on their faces.
“Those Farmville punks sure know how to pull a prank,” Buttercup said, shaking her head in disbelief, and that inspired several others in the crowd to join in.
“Dude, yeah, with Homecoming next week...”
“How'd they even get in?
“...Had to be a team effort...”
Principal Keane's eyes narrowed at Buttercup and Butch. Brick came up behind them, his face sour (evidently aggravated to no end at the number of students he was having to shove out of his way), and his expression only intensified when he reached the end of the hall to find it was blocked by hundreds of water-filled paper cups.
He heaved an enormous, irritated sigh, then lifted up and floated over them down the hall.
Butch blinked. “Hey, yeah. We can do that.”
A bold girl cried, “Brick! Take me with you!”
“Grow your own powers,” he replied without so much as a glance. As he turned down another hall, continuing to float over the heads of the other students, Blossom appeared at the end opposite Butch, Buttercup, and Principal Keane.
“Oh, for—” She groaned, then put on her best I'm-in-Charge voice and commanded, “Everybody back up!” The crowd obeyed, watching as she took a deep inhale, then blew out frost across the entire hall, freezing every last cup of water. Cheering rang out, followed by several formerly imprisoned students kicking over the frozen cups as they walked out of their classes.
Principal Keane took over. “Okay, everybody! Team effort here! As you're walking through, everybody grab a cup and throw it away!”
“What are you gonna do when all the cups of ice melt into cups of water in the trash and everything floods?” Buttercup asked, and the Principal issued her a glare.
“You two,” she said, pointing at Butch and Buttercup, whose faces fell.
“What?!” Butch cried.
“Principal Keane, we weren't even—“
“Shut up and come with me.”
The two of them exchanged a look, then sighed and followed Principal Keane back to her office. After each took their seat, Blossom walked in after them.
“What are you doing here?” Buttercup asked, racking her brain for anything she may have let slip, while Butch remained stone-faced.
“Blossom told me what you said about these pranks at home last night.”
Butch's gaze darted to Buttercup, his green eyes sharp and intense with an unspoken question. Buttercup tried to remember what she'd said, then opted to play dumb. “And that was...?”
“About Farmsville High,” Blossom said. “Joe Jones' family and their pig farm. The thing is, I dropped by their place early this morning before school.”
No cameras, Buttercup thought. No guard dogs. No guards, period. Had she and Butch been spotted? Had someone been awake in the house and seen them?
“They're missing four pigs,” Blossom continued, then stared at Buttercup as if her sister had something to say.
Buttercup returned her leader's gaze with a level eye before saying, “Aaaaaand?”
Blossom blinked. “And you were right. Those pigs are the Jones', and Joe Jones is Farmsville High School's star quarterback. It's Farmsville High. They're the ones behind these pranks.”
Now Butch, too, was openly gaping at Blossom, though for reasons other than his usual reasons for gaping at her.
“You're kidding,” he said.
Buttercup felt a delirious smile breaking onto her face; she scaled it back to a smug smirk instead. “What did I tell you?”
“I wouldn't expect anything less from Principal Walter,” Ms. Keane said under her breath, drawing everyone's attention again. Her gaze had riveted itself to the upper right corner of her office, its intensity suggesting that she was lost elsewhere. “Susan always had a competitive streak, ever since the third grade... that stupid sleepover...”
Blossom cleared her throat and Ms. Keane snapped to. She glanced around her office and uncurled her fists, drumming her fingers a few times before moving on.
“Yes. Well, the point is, I wouldn't put any of these shenanigans past Farmsville High.”
“So... what are me and Butch doing here?” Buttercup asked, her gaze darting between their principal and her sister.
Blossom moved to stand by Principal Keane. “Well, under normal circumstances I wouldn't condone this sort of behavior, but given the Homecoming spirit, and Butch's and your... penchant for mischief-making...”
She seemed to struggle with the rest, as if she had to battle some inner voice, then finally looked to Ms. Keane for help.
Buttercup and Butch blinked, then, simultaneously, “What?”
***
“I gotta hand it to you guys,” Harry said, pushing another stack of pancakes to a catatonic Buttercup. “You're really pulling off this double-teaming shit like pros.”
A frazzled Butch stopped guzzling coffee long enough to throw a panicked eye across the booth at their friend. “Who said I was a pro? This pro shit is a lie. Who said that? Pro? Pro-what?”
Buttercup summoned enough energy to whack Butch half-heartedly in the solar plexus, while Harry went on, “Tires on Farmsville High's flagpole, may I remind you, was my idea.”
Mitch snorted as the twins flagged down a waiter to refill their drinks. “Gettin' a little specific there, aren't you? You suggested doing that to Townsville High.”
“Whatever. The point is, I suggested it.”
Lloyd reached over to pour some syrup on Buttercup's pancakes while Floyd tried to prod her upright with a fork. “Come on, Buttercup, you better eat something. It's nearly two in the morning.”
“Butch, you better eat something, too,” Mitch said.
“You and your food can go fuck yourself,” Butch said in a rush, bouncing his knee in the booth. He was surrounded by empty sugar packets and a miniature mountain of discarded coffee stirrers. “I just need this shit plugged into a vein and I'm good, I don't need any fucking food right now, and Jesus Christ, where are they with the coffee, I told her to just leave the fucking pot here—”
The boys knew better than to try and stop him at this point. Floyd, having given up on trying to get Buttercup to eat, moved to cut a piece of her stack for himself. As his fork headed for her plate, she snatched the butter knife and slammed it down in his path, where it stuck upright in the table.
“Don't you dare,” she threatened. A cowed Floyd retreated.
Both Buttercup and Butch were sporting dark rings under their eyes—a result of the work they'd been doing to keep both Farmsville High and Townsville High in a constant state of prank-suffering. They had considered dropping their plans for continuing to prank Townsville High, until...
Harry sat back and said, “I wonder what happened to those two Farmsville kids who tried to take credit for all our work—”
“Those little dicks,” Buttercup snarled, her eyes flashing. She dove into her pancakes with renewed vigor. “Claiming they were the fucking masterminds! Bullshit! Did you even see them? Did they look like they had the brains to put together shit that was half as good?!”
Buttercup continued to stab at her food as if it had committed a great personal injustice against her. Butch threw back the rest of his coffee, then peered into the bottom of the mug, seemingly attempting to will more coffee to appear.
“Well, we got 'em back,” Mitch said, trying to reassure her. As soon as Buttercup had gotten wind of the two Farmsville High kids who had “confessed” to the pranks, to the point of physically turning themselves in to Principal Keane, she'd called up the boys in a fit of rage. While the two guys had been in Principal Keane's office, the gang had affixed cotton balls doused with water to the entire surface area of all the Townsville High football players' cars, then done the same to the Farmsville High kids' car. Except with super glue instead.
“The death threat you scrawled on their windshield might've been going overboard, though, Buttercup,” Harry said.
“I still can't believe Farmsville High has a swimming pool and we don't,” Lloyd said covetously. “You guys got enough Jell-O?”
“What kinda fucking question is that, man, of course we've got enough—” Butch's eyes widened and he shot upright, upsetting several glasses on the table. “You! Coffee over here! Now!”
“How're you going to get a whole pool of Jell-O to solidify?” Mitch asked Buttercup.
For the briefest of moments the hint of a triumphant little smirk materialized onto Buttercup's face. “Ice breath.”
“No way!” The boys gaped at her, save for Butch, who was busy wrestling a full coffeepot away from a very flustered waiter.
“How'd you convince Blossom to help?!” Harry cried, flabbergasted.
“In the interest of the Homecoming spirit and all,” she said. “Empty the packets in the pool, stir it up, chill with the help of Blossom, and voilà! Farmsville High gets to swim laps in a cherry-flavored, gelatinous wasteland.”
The boys clapped as Buttercup yawned and took a bow. Having been asked by their own Principal to start pranking the opposing school, Buttercup and Butch had no reason to be discreet about feats that required superhuman abilities. Farmsville High had now suffered having all the tires of their football team's cars looped around the flagpole; a flock of angry chickens in the air conditioning vents; the statue of their hog mascot relocated to a local Malph's while sporting an old Townsville High cheerleading uniform, courtesy of Bubbles; and the entirety of their football field being covered with mooing, snorting, quacking, clucking, neighing, and various other noise-making livestock.
The unfortunate trade-off was lost sleep. Buttercup, still eating, was tipping forward at the same time, threatening to doze off in a pile of maple syrup-laden pancakes with some fruit compote on the side, and Butch had downed so much coffee over the past few days that, as he told the gang, he'd been “pissing brown.” He was currently throwing back mug after mug of coffee as if he were doing shots.
A knock on the glass window drew their attention, and they looked up to see Blossom, looking pretty uncomfortable about the prospect of aiding near-professional troublemakers.
“I want to be back home in bed within half an hour,” she said, her voice muffled through the glass.
“That's our cue,” Buttercup said, shoving the last forkful of pancake in her mouth. “See you guys tomorrow. Thanks for coming out. Come on, Butch.”
They zipped out, Butch clutching the coffeepot the waiter had surrendered. Within seconds he had inhaled it and was in the air with the girls, carrying what looked like two tons of Jell-O packages into the night sky.
***
What am I even doing here? Brick stared disdainfully at the Farmsville Hogs, facing off against the Townsville Townies on the field for their Homecoming game. Honestly. Who had come up with Townsville High's name? That was like naming a dog Dog. Though Brick wasn't terribly interested, the game itself wasn't bad. Apparently the real entertainment had happened before it'd started, something to do with Principal Keane and Farmsville High's principal.
Next to him, Julie was cheering with the rest of the crowd, which included some of Bubbles' Choir friends—most of the people he'd seen at the beach over the summer, in fact. Robin was the only one whose name he remembered. Mike's letter jacket was like a permanent fixture around that girl's shoulders these days.
You brought this on yourself, he thought. A sobering reminder. Julie would have to leave in a few to get ready for the Company's performance at halftime. He hadn't seen Blossom yet. Not that he was looking or anything.
His cell buzzed, and he glanced at the screen.
Hmm. He answered.
“Hi, Mrs. Morbucks. Sorry about the noise, but I can still hear you.”
“Just a brief message, anyway. Since she can't be in touch with you personally, she called to let me know you've a suit waiting for you at Sequor—it's a boutique downtown. Your brothers' are there as well.”
Penny, Brick thought, his eyes drifting across the field. “Thanks, Mrs. Morbucks. I...”
His nerves were suddenly all on end, tingling. There was a shadow moving across the field with no owner, and as Brick watched it slipped beneath the Townsville High bleachers.
“I appreciate it,” he said, and closed his phone.
“Hey,” Julie said, patting his arm. “I've got to go get ready.”
“Alright.”
After she'd disappeared into the horde of people he edged to the stairs and stole away under the bleachers.
It was uncharacteristically, oddly empty—no groups of people chatting, no couples making out—as if they'd all been driven away by some unsettling presence.
Brick hovered for a short while, looking around, then rolled his eyes and said, “You know, I already know you're here.”
“Oh, Brick, you never were any fun,” Him said as He materialized, sporting a pout.
“Whaddaya want?”
Him drifted in a lazy circle around Brick. “Just checking up on you. I worry about you, you know.”
“You tried stabbing me in the chest last time,” Brick muttered.
“That wasn't me, that was just a thing I was playing with.” Him clucked dismissively, waving a claw. “I just put it out there. It just so happened to go after you.”
“Arguing semantics, are we?” Brick said, a hard edge to his voice.
“You always did like to throw around big words to give off an intelligent air.”
“What do you want?”
“I told you! I'm checking up on you!” Him jumped close to Brick, crossing His legs and resting His chin on a claw. He adopted an expression of concern. “How's school going?”
Brick only responded with a level glare.
“Are you eating enough?”
Silence.
“Excited about Prom tomorrow?”
“It's Homecoming,” Brick automatically corrected, then cursed himself. Him was grinning, triumphant at having elicited a response.
“My mistake.”
“If this is all you're going to do,” Brick said, turning on his heel—
“Are you sleeping okay, Brick?” Him asked.
“Then I'm leaving,” Brick finished, floating away.
Him's voice was beginning to fade behind him. “Okay! It's just...”
Suddenly a slender pair of arms wove around Brick from behind, the soft figure of a girl pressed up against his back, and Blossom's voice whispered, “It's just I hear you've been having bad dreams.”
Brick twisted away and shoved it back. She made a soft ”Oof!” noise when he pushed her to the ground, and she—it rubbed an arm and looked up at him, its expression hurt and uncomprehending.
“Brick,” it said, and it looked just like her, spoke just like her, had even smelled just like her when it had pressed up against him. “Not so rough.”
“Very fucking funny,” Brick snapped. “I knew you were behind them.” Brick had been having bad dreams—terrible dreams, by his measure. He could no longer lucid dream; he hadn't been able to since that first dream about Blossom, and the worst was that even though they were on less-than-friendly terms, Brick was still dreaming about her with distressing frequency. More than once a week. Sometimes more than once a night.
It stood in Blossom's body, peering at him. “Behind what? Brick, I can't make you dream anything.”
“You are full of shit,” Brick growled.
“I can't create something out of nothing,” it said, still in Blossom's voice, but with His echoing faintly behind. It began to saunter up to Brick—unreal, how the movement of its hips even resembled hers...
It drew up to Brick and paused, considering him with her wide pink eyes. “In order for me to be able to do anything—anything at all—there has to be the slightest little sliver of doubt...”
A hand at Brick's waist, dimly. “Or fear...”
Another, sliding up his chest. “Or hurt...”
Then Blossom, drawing closer, her lips almost on his. “Or desire—”
A sudden red blast knocked it away. Brick's eyes were glowing red with anger, an anger that faltered as he took in her prone form, splayed and unmoving on the ground.
Tricks, he thought. It's all just tricks with Him.
The figure began to shudder with His laughter, and a crazed smile broke out on Blossom's face, twisting her expression into something almost grotesque. It climbed to its feet with alarming speed and an unnatural movement, and laughed at Brick.
“Brick!” it said in Him's high-pitched voice with Blossom's soft, pink mouth. “Where's your sense of humor?!”
Brick shot out from under the bleachers to the parking lot.
Laughter again, this time echoing in every molecule of air that surrounded Brick as he flew to his car. “The funniest part, you know... the best part is, Brick...”
Brick stabbed at the button on his car remote to unlock the doors.
“Even if I could, I wouldn't have to make you do or feel or dream anything,” Him's voice echoed, following Brick into his car. “I'm just a spectator. You're doing fine all by yourself.”
***
Butch spotted movement in the bushes and fired the hose. Something yowled and went streaking off across the street.
“Only a cat,” he muttered to himself. There was a door opening and slamming behind him, and he twisted to see Buttercup floating back outside, her top half enveloped by an old bomber jacket.
She shuddered and drew it tight around her shoulders. “Ugh. Much better. I was freezing out here. Spot any Farmsville guys yet?”
“Not since you were here,” he responded. For all that Buttercup was King Prankster, due to the prominence of the Powerpuff Girls' home it had become a significant prank target for opposing teams. The night of the Homecoming game was particularly popular, since the enemy assumed the Girls would all be at the game. So Buttercup and Butch were playing guard duty, hosing off would-be pranksters from her front lawn.
As Buttercup sat back down a shadow made a leap over Robin's fence that was the exact opposite of graceful. Butch spied it and shot the hose, and the cry it made when it was hit was definitely human.
“That's right, fucker, move it,” he announced. “Otherwise you're getting a blast of something green instead of something wet, and that shit'll sting.”
The guy ran off and Buttercup asked, “Was that a ninja suit?”
Butch started laughing. “It totally was! That dork!”
“No, seriously. We've had ninjas attack the house before. Believe it or not it is a giant pain in the ass.”
“Well, the dude tripped over a fence, so I'm pretty sure he wasn't a pro. Here. You want to do hose duty for awhile?”
She took the hose and gave it a few perfunctory squirts. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
He shifted in his lawn chair. “Yeah, sure.”
“The Professor give you a hard time?”
Butch made a noncommittal grunt that sounded like it was forcing the noncommittal part. Considering Butch's gender, and the fact that he was coming within three yards of the house, the Professor had insisted on talking to him. Mitch and the rest of the gang had declined to come tonight—they'd been spoken to by the Professor a while back and had a greater sense of self-preservation.
“What'd he ask you?” Buttercup prodded.
“... Nothing. Or, I, uh, don't... remember.” Butch cleared his throat and darted a glance over his shoulder back at the house.
“Seriously?”
“Could we, um, talk about something else? Because I don't remember. Um. Yeah.” When Butch had joined Buttercup out on the front lawn, he'd looked sicker than the time he'd actually been sick with the AB Virus.
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Butch's attention was still on the house, and he looked—for once in his life—a little fearful. Buttercup turned and followed his gaze to find the Professor issuing a very hard, frightening glare at Butch from the living room window.
Buttercup aimed the hose and sprayed it at the window. “Hey! Shoo, Professor! Go work on your science! Go on!”
The figure, warped through the wet glass, moved away from the window. Buttercup watched a few seconds more to make sure he was good for his word, then turned to the front again. She smacked Butch's shoulder to get him to do the same.
“Chill. Sorry about that. He's a dad.”
“Yeah...” Butch glanced at her, taking in the old jacket she was wearing. “Is that one of his?”
“Huh?”
“The jacket. He give it to you?”
Buttercup's face was suddenly shadowed and unreadable. “Nah. It was, um... Mitch's dad's.”
Butch was already quiet, but the world seemed to get a thousand times quieter in the pause that followed Buttercup's revelation. She kept her eyes trained forward, refusing to make eye contact. A car drove down their street and turned into a driveway, and she could sense its headlight beams passing over Butch's face.
He sat back in his chair, looking around. Buttercup squirted the hose into the street a couple of times.
“You still... why are you keeping it?”
She stared at her lap. “Dunno. Just... haven't given it back yet.”
“Why are you wearing it?”
“It's the warmest thing I own,” she explained, then furrowed her brow and looked up. “What do you care?”
Now it was his turn to stare at his lap. “I don't really care.”
They sat in silence for a while, Buttercup turning over the hose in her hands.
“I mean,” he started, then trailed off, unsure where to go. “I don't know. Just... this shit seems to really bum you out, is all.”
She stared at the worn leather hem of the jacket, feeling the M written on the back burning a hole between her shoulders as she sat here next to Butch.
“But it is a cold night, I guess.”
“I've been meaning to give it back. It's just... it's like...” She groaned, exasperated. “I don't know. It's like, I hate reminding him of it, you know? Especially since we're talking now. I mean, we don't talk about that shit, and I don't wanna... bring it up with him. Anymore, I mean. Like... ever.”
Butch dug the toe of his shoe into the grass. “Yeah.”
It would have been an understatement to say Buttercup was feeling a little guilty for putting his dad's jacket on. But it wasn't like she and Butch were... they were just friends.
“Nice jacket,” he said, not looking at it.
She rubbed the edge of the worn leather sleeve in one hand. “Yeah.”
***
no subject
I haven't finished yet, mostly because I am s l o w l y savoring this update. But so far I am loving it. Glad LibreOffice worked out for you. Did you ever figure out what was sucking all the processing power?
Thank you for plugging away at this and updating. It really means a lot. I've enjoyed your work for years and having something new is like Christmas coming early. There was gleeful jumping involved at work when I got the FFN email. I even called my partner to make him celebrate with me.
I'll attempt to leave a more detailed comment addressing the story itself when I finish the chapter.
Thank you so much again for updating.