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semi-fluffy/fun/funny(?) btc/bc for j00 all
until i finish polishing up bks (there is always something that needs fixin' in this fic -_-), here's a long bit of something to tide you over.
... ok, actually, i started this about half a year ago, b/c![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fauxophy was in a less than stellar mood and i wanted to alleviate some of it (or attempt to), so i wrote fic. and fic it became, and yes. well. here we go. and this puppy's a long one, by the by. for fauxophy, who is alive. much love.
title: a week of unmitigated almost-loathing, aka fwoosh, aka fwooshie
pairing: butch/buttercup (AND THIS IS A ONE SHOT, OK?!)
rating: pg-13, because butch is a pervert.
disclaimer: actually, i really do own the powerpuff girls. expect lots more friction between the ppg and rrb from now on, provided i can get over disliking the boys so much ;_;
summary: an innocent little poker game wrangles buttercup into a week of tending to butch's every little whim. hilarity (and a possible polarization in attitude) ensues. also, butch is kind of fruity and really likes coffee. what's not to love?
notes: inspired by a sailor moon fic (so sue me). forfauxophy, with love, and much love as well to cagalli_chan, my one and only beta ALTHOUGH. IF YOU PERIODICALLY VISIT THIS JOURNAL, I AM SOON TO BE IN THE BUSINESS FOR A SECOND BETA. i'll keep you guyses posted, yes? :D also, there is a deleted/alternate scene for this fic. expect it up... well, expect it up sometime later (like a week). also, there are extra titles b/c of what i wound up saving it under on my comp. extra trivia for you and all.
hey guys--the fic KILLED lj's text limit. so here's the first part, and the second part is in the next entry. capisce? capisce.
also, GRAGH. it took me over an hour to manually fill in the bold and italic text for this fic. @_@
A Week of Unmitigated Almost-Loathing
-songbirdjen
Fwoosh.
“Twenty-eight.”
Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh.
“Twenty-nine.”
Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh.
“Thirty.”
Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh.
“Thirty-o—”
“Buttercup?”
Blossom’s voice cut through her concentration, and Buttercup whirled on her sister, stilling the basketball in her hands. “What?!”
“Erm, I need to ask a favor—”
“Go for it. Just don’t break my free throw streak. Thirty-one and counting.” She dribbled the ball two times, exactly, then lifted her arms and shot. The ball arced through the air and glided effortlessly through the net. “Scratch that. Thirty-two.”
“Um, well, see, I’m in this poker game right now—”
“Uh huhhh…” Btonk, btonk, fwoosh. “Thirty-three…”
“And I’ve got this amazing hand, unbeatable, I tell you—”
Fwoosh. “Thirty-four.”
“Buttercup, are you listening? I need your help—”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Thirty-five.”
“… Ok, well, don’t you want to hear—”
“You need my help, I’ll be right there in a minute.” Fwoosh. “Thirty-six.”
Blossom exhaled and muttered, “Well, since I’m going to win anyway, I guess it doesn’t—”
“Do you mind? You’re interrupting my concentration,” Buttercup grumbled. Those last couple of shots had hit the rim on their way through the net. Not boding well. “I’ll be right there, so just hold on to your skirt, ok?”
Her sister had this uncharacteristically uneasy look on her face. Well, it could wait a minute or two, couldn’t it?
Buttercup sighed and said, “Once I hit fifty I’ll come right over. Where’re you at?”
“The gazebo over by the park lake. You sure about this?”
“Gazebo, park lake. Got it.”
Blossom shrugged. “Your funeral. But I’ve got it in the bag anyway, so you don’t have much to worry about.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just go back to your layups.”
“… Free throws, Blossom. Free throws.”
With a disinterested wave of her hand Blossom took off to the other end of the park, and Buttercup exhaled, shook herself out, and took aim again. Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh. “Thirty-seven…”
***
“You WHAT?!”
“Look, I had your permission—”
“You did not!!!”
“Hey, you said—”
“No I didn’t!!! You traitor!!!”
“Buttercup, would you just listen—”
“I am not going to—”
“Look, if you’d just listened in the first place, you wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“What?! Are you saying I did this to myself?!”
“Of course not, but the point is you gave me your consent, and—”
“Ambiguous responses do not qualify as consent!!”
“Those were—wait, did you just say ‘ambiguous?’”
“Yes!”
“How do you know the word ‘ambigu—’”
“That’s irrelevant!”
Blossom gaped at her infuriated sister. “‘Irrelevant?’” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you been reading my books from middle school?”
“Don’t change the subject!” Buttercup snarled, teeth grit. “Why don’t you tell them no?!”
Heaving the sigh of one most ungraciously burdened, Blossom looked Buttercup square in the eye and said, in all due seriousness, “I gave them my word.”
“Yeah, well I can tell you where you can tell them to shove your word—”
“Don’t be crude, Buttercup,” Blossom snapped. “But honestly, the chances that he would have a royal flush to beat out my two pair—”
“I despise you.”
“—and the stakes were so high, I mean, Brick had tossed in the permit for his parking space—”
“What kind of moron bets his space in the school lot? You have to work your butt off to get one of those—”
“Well, the whole deal was for a week. Boomer offered—”
“Look, I don’t care. What I don’t understand is how you got it in your head to bet—”
“Wow, Blossom, you work fast! Didn’t think I’d reap the benefits of my extraordinary win quite so quickly—”
Buttercup winced. Oh God, NO.
As she reluctantly turned her gaze to Butch, she heard her sister say, “Well, um, technically it doesn’t start until tomorrow—”
Buttercup silenced her with a hand. “You… are not… telling me I have to—”
“Wait on my every whim? Cater to my every fancy? Fulfill my every desire, no matter how implausible it may—”
Blossom was frantic. “Wait, you said nothing about ‘whims’ and ‘desires—’”
“Cool it, sugar, and get your mind out of the gutter. She isn’t really my type.” Butch crossed his arms and smirked. “But she’ll do fine as my… personal assistant for the week.”
With a murderous glint in her eye, Buttercup began rolling up her sleeve. “Give me twenty good reasons not to pummel you into the core of the Earth right now—”
“I think that’s a measure you should be taking up with your sister, isn’t it?”
“She can’t make me… tend to you,” Buttercup muttered, disgusted. “In fact we were just discussing—”
“Um, actually, Buttercup—”
“I thought that might happen. Luckily for me, I prepared for such an obstacle.”
Buttercup narrowed her eyes. “What—”
“If you don’t agree, Blossom is going to fill in Daddy Dear about your supposed overnight competition last—”
Horror flooded Buttercup’s face almost instantly and she whipped her head around to beseech Blossom with wide eyes. “You wouldn’t dare! And I’ll have you know those drinks were perfectly legal!”
All that was visible was a head of orange hair, strands dangling towards the ground as she hung her head. “I gave my word.”
“You’re impossible!” Buttercup’s hands shot to her face and she wailed into them, “My life is over. Over.”
“Not over. Just on loan for a week. This Friday at midnight, I shall promptly return it to you. Along with Brick’s parking space and Boomer’s week’s worth of coffee cover.”
Buttercup permitted him a suspicious look. “What the hell is a week’s worth of coffee to you?”
“Do not question the worth of my relationship with coffee,” Butch said somberly. “Its roots run far too deep for you to comprehend.” Immediately he brightened. “But maybe you can learn a thing or two after a week of fetching it for me. Bright and early Monday morning, then!”
He took off, and Buttercup looked at her sister and grumbled, “I don’t suppose you considered suicide as a deterring factor, did you?”
Back to narrowed eyes. “You have been hitting my old schoolbooks, haven’t you?”
***
Monday morning, 6:48 am.
Devoutly ignoring one’s cellular phone was very difficult to do, even with a pillow crammed over said person’s head. Buttercup had managed it for about 18 minutes before hurling her bedcovers off and reaching for her cell, angrily stabbing the ‘talk’ button. “Who the hell is this, and why are you calling me at this miserable hour?”
“You know, as much as I like an employee with a bit of spunk to them, I still think you should take a nicer tone of voice when talking with me. Nice words, please.”
Rubbing the grit from her eyes, Buttercup hissed, “I’ve got a couple of ‘nice words’ for you—”
“Lovely, do share later, in person. For now, I’d like you here—here being the front school entrance—by seven thirty. Did Blossom have you make my lunch?”
“Last night,” Buttercup grumbled into the phone, fumbling around for a pair of clean jeans.
“Oh, well then, make it seven. See you then. Be sure you wash up, too.”
Buttercup nearly crushed the phone in her hands after he hung up.
Monday morning, 7:03 am.
“You’re late,” Butch pouted, and blatantly tapped his watch. “I was expecting better service than this.”
Drops of water glittered off of Buttercup’s still wet hair as she grimaced menacingly at him. “If you’re going to bitch, you can expect no service, period.”
A sneer quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get snarky. Giving me too much lip could result in an extension of your… employment period.”
Her lips were stretched tight. “Since when?”
“You can ask your sister for the contract. Footnotes and everything.”
Object in front of you is evil, menacing mastermind who has you wrapped around his nonexistent finger, Buttercup thought feverishly to herself. Do not bludgeon repeatedly into a bloody pulp at this very instant.
She let out a slow breath and sucked it in again. “So,” she croaked, in what she assumed was a cordial manner, “is there any particular reason why you’ve called me out two hours before school starts?”
“You know, you should smile more. Run that by me again, and be cheerful about it.”
“… ”
“You wanna make it two weeks or what, toots?”
In a strained voice, Buttercup pulled in the corners of her mouth and grated through clenched teeth, “Why did you call me out here two hours early?”
“Sir.”
“… ”
That tweaked corner of his mouth was just begging to be ripped from his face and squashed against the ground.
Oh, hell. “… Sir.”
“Better.” He settled against the short concrete wall by the entrance. “Though your smile could definitely use some work. Anywho… ” Butch slipped his backpack off his shoulder and dug around in the front pocket. “I’ve got a little present for you that’s going to make your job so much easier.”
“I can barely contain my joy and rapture,” Buttercup muttered in a monotone.
“Damn skippy you can’t. Here.” Without waiting for her approval Butch pulled out a pager and clipped it to the waist of her jeans.
“What the—”
“It’s a personal beeper. Since it’s obvious you can’t tail me around from class to class, as we have different schedules, whenever I need you I’ll page you, and patiently wait for the .82 seconds it should take you to answer my call.”
“… You expect me to just drop whatever I’m doing—”
“And dash to my side, yes. Remember, for this week, I’m your first priority.”
“… Is there anything in that contract that prohibits me from saying, ‘I hate you?’”
“Hmm. No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. Because I hate you.”
“That’s great. Now go get me a cinnamon raisin bagel with honey almond cream cheese and an extra large double latte. You’ve got five minutes. Chop, chop!”
Monday afternoon, 12:47 pm.
“Uh, Buttercup?”
Buttercup lifted a sleepy head from her folded arms on the desk. “Yes, Bubbles?”
“Is there any reason why you’ve been hanging around Butch since this morning?”
Buttercup returned her head to her arms. “Because we have devilish manipulating hellspawn as archrivals and a Saint McGoody Two Shoes backstabber for a sister.”
“… Run that by me again.”
“Blackmail.”
“Oh. Well, I just thought I’d let you know, the whole school’s noticed by now, and female organizations are springing up left and right dedicated to hating you for making him unavailable.”
“Fantastic. People think we’re going out. Just what I needed to make my week.”
“Your week? Buttercup, it’s only Monday.”
“Oh God, don’t remind me.”
Monday afternoon, 1:23 pm.
“Geez, Buttercup, you don’t look too good. You oughtta get some more sleep. Can’t have my personal attendant suffering from ill sleeping habits.”
“For your information,” Buttercup snarled, “I was up late last night making your damn lunch. And in case you’ve forgotten, you ordered me here two hours early just so I could get you a stinkin’ cup of coffee—”
“Ah, I think you mean double latte, my dear.”
“You’re such a priss about coffee.”
“For the last time, double latte. But honestly, that was hours ago.” Butch started leading her in the direction of the cafeteria. “It’s lunchtime now, and I’m starved. What’ve you got?”
“Samosas.”
Butch let out a low whistle. “Hot damn, that’s fancy. Nice work.”
“It is not fancy, and it is not nice work, at least in respect to you,” Buttercup barked. “I wanted to make ‘em for myself, and it would’ve been too much of a hassle to go to the extra work to make something else for you. As far as I’m concerned, you could eat—”
“Here we are!” Butch flung open the doors to the cafeteria and gestured to Buttercup, bowing low. “After you. Find an empty table.”
“There aren’t any,” Buttercup responded after a quick glance around the crowded room.
A slow smile spread on his face. “Then persuade someone otherwise.”
There was a convulsive tic in her eye when she stalked to the smallest table, where Mitch and the twins were seated. “Mitch, move.”
The three of them cast her a foul look. “Buttercup, if you need a seat, it’s, uh, right there.”
“I want the table,” she elaborated.
“… Dude, there’s the seat. Right there.”
Buttercup squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Mitch, please, just work with me. The table.”
“Look, we had to kick off a bunch of grody freshmen to get this table! What, you think we’re just gonna say, ‘Duh, sure Buttercup! Take it!’ and get up and walk away?!”
“How are you going to walk if you don’t have any legs?”
The boys only stared at her, slack jawed. Buttercup sighed and smacked her fist in the opposite hand for emphasis. “Suit yourself.”
Monday afternoon, 4:30 pm.
Every time the pager went off, Buttercup groaned and ticked the imaginary tally marks on the wall of her mind. Twenty-nine times. All for the most mundane things, honestly. A coke. A tissue. A sharpened pencil. A dull pencil. And on and on and on… she was running out of bathroom excuses to use in her classes.
She packed her things and slammed her locker shut, thankful for the end of the school day, at least. At least.
No sooner had she stepped out the door than her pager had gone off again.
Heaving a disparaging groan, she checked his location and took off, making a mental note to suffocate Blossom in her sleep tonight.
Monday evening, 11:39 pm.
“Finally!” Buttercup huffed, flopping back on her bed. “Finished. Finished. Finished with my work, finished with his, finished with the stupid lunch, finished finished finished.”
Suddenly a tiny little rumble at her waist, followed by a series of beeps, invaded her jubilant reverie. “ERRRGH.” She yanked out her cell and dialed his number. “Yeah, whaddaya want.”
“There’s a movie tonight on cable, and our satellite’s knocked out. I need you to tape it for me.”
“What time,” she muttered.
“It starts at 12:45. I want it taped on SP speed, with no commercials. Capiche?”
Groan. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Excellent. Have it by the school entrance at… oh, 7:45. I’ll cut you some slack for tomorrow.”
“You’re too kind,” Buttercup scoffed, sarcasm evident, and hung up.
After about ten minutes spent fantasizing about Fifty Ways to Murder Butch she grudgingly got up and started to rummage for a blank tape.
Tuesday morning, 8:12 am.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Butch yawned and casually shrugged. “Was tired. Slept in for a bit. At least you got here on time. Good for you!”
Every ounce of willpower Buttercup had was focused on not feeding the boy standing in front of her his own intestines.
“Say, you got my tape?”
“Yeah, I got your damn tape.”
“Oh, well, I should’ve told you our satellite kicked back in about five minutes after I called. I don’t need it anymore.”
Willpower, Buttercup. Willpower.
“Why… ” Buttercup growled through clenched teeth, “… did you… not call… ”
“Well, it was getting late, wasn’t it?”
You’ve gotta be kidding me, Buttercup thought to herself. The expression on her face must’ve said the same thing, since Butch responded with a beatific smile.
That tic was back in her eye. “… Excuse me.”
Buttercup shot out into space and let out an Earth shattering scream.
Tuesday morning, 10:28 am.
“Buttercup, I absolutely abhor you.”
“Fantastic, Princess. Now, is there anything new you’d like to tell me?” Buttercup slipped her books into her bag and slung it over her shoulder as the bell sounded to end first period.
Princess tapped a polished shoe against the tile, twisting a lock of hair with her manicured fingers. “Other than your excruciatingly hot boyfriend, who you so do not deserve—”
Buttercup whirled on her. “What?!”
“—is waiting outside for you. God, why is it the homely ones boys always go for?”
Buttercup stared at the disgusting shade of pink on Princess’ nails. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “Have you been playing poker with Blossom lately and signing weird little contracts?”
“What? No.”
“Good.”
“What are you—AUGH!”
Tuesday morning, 10:29 am.
“Well, hello, Buttercup. Care to explain what the racket in there was?”
“I was just chatting with Princess. What are you hanging around here for?”
“My nail!” Princess shrieked from inside the classroom. “You broke my nail! I just had them done last night! Life is so unfair!!!”
“Oh, I just wanted you to get me the number of that girl who sits behind you in Biology.”
“Cherice? You want Cherice’s number?”
“Yeah, but don’t tell her it’s me asking.”
“What do you need her number for?”
Butch smirked. “Jealous, are we?”
Buttercup met his smirk with a gag. “Oh, don’t make me sick.”
“Don’t worry,” Butch assured in a soothing voice, completely ignoring her prior statement. “You’re the only girl good enough to fetch stuff for me and do my bidding.”
“Great. What an honor. Maybe I can die happy.”
“Now what use are you going to be to me dead?”
“I could haunt you, for one.”
Butch brightened. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get into my bedroom, aren’t you?!”
He said this just as they passed a crowd of girls fawning over Butch, all of whom paled at his words and shot Buttercup several renditions of the death glare.
Buttercup groaned. “Maybe I can just die, period.”
Tuesday afternoon, 1:15 pm.
“So, what’s on the menu for today, champ?” Butch inquired as they settled at their now empty table.
Buttercup made a mental note to be a million times nicer to Mitch after this was all over. “… I really, really wish you’d stop giving me pet names.”
“Aw, but you’re such a good widdle pet, yes you are!” Butch squished Buttercup’s face with both hands and chuckled.
“Dun fusch meph.”
“Oh, my. I don’t know where you got that idea—”
Buttercup shoved his hands away. “I said, ‘Don’t touch me,’ you pervert. Was your mind born in a sewer or something?”
“Close. A toilet bowl, actually. The nondescript chaotic world of evil and doom. Take your pick.”
“… I am so sorry I asked.”
“Speaking of questions, you never answered mine. What eats we got today?”
“Jambalaya.”
Butch looked like he was about to faint. “Ohhh, man alive, are you kidding me?!”
Just as Buttercup was about to snap, Well, you wanted something different, didn’t you, Butch continued and said in a euphoric voice, “Jambalaya has got to be my favorite! How did you know that? Did you know? You had to have known. You’re stalking me, aren’t you? Admit it!”
“Cut that out. I was just getting rid of some leftover rice,” Buttercup grumbled, because she certainly didn’t feel proud. No, not one bit. Not even when Butch pried the top off the container and gave a happy, contented sigh, sheer bliss lighting his face.
… Well, ok, maybe just a little pride.
Just as she was getting used to the idea of accepting a compliment from Butch, he blinked, glanced at her, then smiled that wicked grin that said he was going to ask her to do something she would absolutely hate.
“I think you should feed it to me,” he said smoothly, holding up a spoon.
Buttercup considered that if she had a running soundtrack to her life, right now would be about the time they cued the shattering of 10,000 glass light bulbs.
“No. Way.”
She could still see the smirk on his face, even when he pouted. “What’s the matter? It’s not going to embarrass me, I promise.”
“You’re not the one I’m worried about embarrassing,” she hissed, feeling her eye twitching like crazy. “Is it your sole purpose to humiliate me for the rest of this entire week?”
“Actually, I haven’t been doing as much of that as I thought I would, but thanks for reminding me,” he quipped brightly, resting his chin in his hand. “And I wouldn’t argue if I were you. You’re obligated to do this for me. If not, well, I’ve got Blossom’s cell number on speed dial and the minute I give her the call she tells the Professor the truth—”
“Ok, I get the point,” Buttercup mumbled desolately. “But… you know, a lot of rumors have been flying around about us two hanging out. A lot. And, um, if I fed you, like, right here, there would be more rumors, and then Cherice wouldn’t give you her number, and you’d miss out on all these girls who want to date you, so, you know, maybe it’s not such a good idea, right?” Buttercup could not keep the raw hope from glittering in her eyes. There was no possible way he could want people to think that about them, right?
Butch examined the spoon in his hands, visibly bored. “Well, rumors have never stopped me from getting a date before. Anyway, bottom line—” he pointed the spoon at Buttercup “—is you have a job to do. What I say goes. And I say: ‘Feed me.’”
That wicked grin spread across his face again, and she stared at the spoon a long time before begrudgingly snatching it from his hand and stabbing it into his food. She cast another look at his face, all feeling sucked out of her expression.
“Don’t forget to smile,” he chirped.
Buttercup brought the corners of her mouth into a twitching, spastic mess of a grin and pretended not to notice every last girl in the cafeteria gawking at the two of them as she reluctantly lifted the spoon to his mouth.
Wednesday morning, 9:40 am.
By now Buttercup was no longer taking notice of the numerous random objects girls kept chucking at her, so long as they weren’t sharp, heavy, nor biologically unstable. She figured the amount of paper balls thrown at her in class and the hate mail she got in her locker added up to at least one full grown redwood tree, and that in a future life these girls would pay with their bad environmental karma for wasting paper like that.
Blossom was deliberately avoiding her, she’d noticed. With good reason. It was only Wednesday, and the moment midnight rolled around Friday evening she was going to give Blossom a piece of her mind.
Or, her mind, in pieces. Lots and lots of pieces.
The happy little thought of exacting revenge on her evil, wretched sister brought an idyllic smile to her face as the teacher turned her back on the students and another storm of paper balls bombarded Buttercup’s seat.
Wednesday afternoon, 2:59 pm.
“Here’s Cherice’s number. I’ll have you know she was this close to spitting in my face and it was already hell to try and get the number from her.”
“Ooh, fantastic.” Butch plucked the slip of paper from her hand and beamed at her. “Thank you, lovely.”
The suspicious gaggle of girls standing too close by pelted Buttercup with more paper balls.
“I should thank you,” Buttercup said dryly. “I never thought I would become so popular for doing things I absolutely despise for someone I hate with a fervent passion.”
“No need to thank me, really. And did you say passion?”
“Shut up.”
“How are things going on your side of the spectrum, really?”
“Oh, just swimmingly. Not only am I on the hitlist of every heterosexual female in the school, I am worked to the bone to the point of exhaustion and have been suffering from a severe lack of sleep for the past three days. Life is just peachy keen for me,” Buttercup retorted, most bitterly.
“Well, it’s good to know you’re enjoying yourself.” A less than sincere smile flickered across his face. “So, for this afternoon—”
The scowl disappeared from Buttercup’s face. “Oh, actually, I needed to talk to you about that.”
“Mm? That so?”
“Er, yeah. I’m supposed to be leading the girls’ basketball team this afternoon in drills, so—”
“So you need the afternoon off?”
Ugh, it sounded so wretched coming from his mouth. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes, essentially.”
“Well, then… No.”
“‘No?’ Whaddaya mean, ‘No?!’ I—”
“I won’t give you the afternoon off—” he continued. “But under certain conditions I will consider allowing you to go—of course, you’ll need to ask nicely, my dear.”
As Buttercup was showered with more crumples of paper she grit her teeth and muttered, “May… I… please… be permitted to attend my team’s practice today?”
“Sir?”
“… Sir.”
“Smile?”
Buttercup tweaked the corners of her mouth.
Butch shrugged. “Close enough.”
“So I can go?”
“Hold it, I’m not finished.” Butch lifted his elbow. “You’ll have to allow me to escort you around the rest of the day.”
Buttercup gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.”
He closed her dropped jaw and grinned widely. “Try me.”
“Is it your life’s goal to humiliate me in any way, shape, form, and fashion?” she wailed.
“That, and to be waited on by you, hand and foot, for the next 2.5 days.”
“My life is so fulfilling,” Buttercup griped petulantly, eyeing his proffered arm with malice.
“Naturally. I’m in it, aren’t I?”
Wednesday afternoon, 5:38 pm.
“Whoo… ” Buttercup let out a sigh of relief as she exited the locker room. Even her teammates had been giving her scornful glares every so often during the practice. If they had to go through what she went through—
“They’d change their minds right quick, wouldn’t they?” Buttercup grunted to herself and shifted her backpack’s weight from one shoulder to both.
“Talking to yourself, are you?”
Buttercup groaned and thought fervently, Friday, you just won’t come fast enough, will you?
Butch fell into step beside her, chuckling softly. “You’ve got some pretty nice moves out there, you know.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m being serious. You didn’t flub a single shot.”
“Uh-huh—wait, were you watching?”
“Of course. Had to make sure of my personal attendant’s well-being, didn’t I?”
“Good to know you care,” Buttercup blandly returned.
“Your fountain of sincerity just never runs dry, does it?”
“Call it ‘sincerity’ if you like,” Buttercup groused.
“Excellent, that’s what I like to hear. Now, if I remember correctly, I’m supposed to be ‘escorting’ you around, aren’t I?”
“Muhhhhh… ” Buttercup groaned.
“And I feel like going to the mall!”
“Muhhhhh… ”
Wednesday evening, 8:12 pm.
“So where’d you go after basketball practice, Buttercup?”
“Bubbles, I’d really prefer you not bother me right now.” Buttercup stuck the lasagna for tomorrow’s lunch into the oven and set the timer. “I’m still reeling from my week-long bout of loathing and hatred for every living breathing thing that speaks to me.” She paused and considered. “Though if you could manage to get me five minutes alone with Blossom I might consider talking to you.”
“Um, I’m under agreement with her to not let you two anywhere near each other.”
“Damn that crafty wench.”
“Robin said she saw you and Butch at the mall. You were holding each other.”
Buttercup really, really, really hated her life. “For your information, I was under obligation to link my arm in his. It is all part of this grand, elaborate scheme to humiliate me, and so far, it’s working perfectly.”
“Buttercup, it can’t be all that bad.”
“… You’re one of those poor, deluded nitwits that actually considers me lucky, aren’t you.”
“Oh, honestly, Buttercup…”
“… ”
“… Well, ok, maybe just a little.”
“Good God, Bubbles—”
“Hey, even you have to admit he’s… ‘easy on the eyes,’ you know.”
Buttercup glared at her blonde sister. “Out of the kitchen. Now. Before I do serious bodily harm to you.”
Bubbles’ eyes had already glazed over. “I mean, those times when he wears those nice, zip-off cargoes with the button-fly—”
Her sister had not just subtly indicated that she spent enough time studying Butch’s… torso to warrant extensive knowledge about the fly of his pants!!!
“Out!!! NOW!!” Buttercup shrieked, and literally hurled Bubbles out of the kitchen.
Wednesday evening, 8:12 pm.
“Hey, Butch. Where’ve you been?”
“Butch, how could you run up fifty dollars worth of coffee on my employee credit?! I’m going to be working this off for months, and you’ve only had it three days!!!”
“Boomer, quit your bitchin’. Butch has my parking spot; I keep having to park in the apartment complex five blocks away from the school.”
“What does it matter?! You can fly!!”
Butch tossed off his jacket and said regally, “Boomer, I’ll have you know that coffee can hardly begin to describe it. There are lattes, double lattes, mocha lattes, frappuccinos—”
“‘Frappuccinos?’ The hell? Why can’t you just drink plain black coffee like a real man?”
“Brick, I wouldn’t expect you to understand the finer points of caffeinated beverages.”
“… Dude, you sound like such a fruit.”
Butch kicked a crushed soda can on the floor toward Brick’s head. “Takes one to know one.”
“Say, what’s this?” Boomer queried, tugging out a strip of paper from Butch’s jacket.
“Oh, heh. I forced that Buttercup chick to go with me to the mall after school. Speaking of which, I should be calling her up soon to pick up my dry cleaning.”
“Doesn’t that place close at 8:30?” Brick asked, chucking the soda can back at Butch, who caught it one-handed.
“Yeah. I’ll call her in ten minutes,” Butch said, smirking. “Anyway, I dragged her into a photo booth so we could take some picky-tures.”
Brick sat up. “Pictures?”
“Not those types of pictures, you pervo.”
Brick shook his head and settled back in his seat. “Dude, you ever heard that saying, ‘when life gives you lemons—’”
“Hey, I got a good deal working for me. I ain’t gonna spoil A Good Thing.”
“Yeah, looks like you got it pretty good already,” Boomer said, eyeing the photo strip approvingly. “Is that your hand on her—”
“Gimme those.” Butch snatched the photos away from his brother. “What’re ya, blind? That’s the pager I gave her.”
“Ohhh. Giving gifts now, are we?”
“Piss off, Brick, or you won’t get Cherice’s number from me.”
“You say Cherice? Well, hot damn—wait a minute. What’s it gonna cost me?”
“How ‘bout your parking spot for the rest of the semester?”
“The hell?! Her number is worth something, but it sure as hell isn’t worth premium parking for my baby.”
“Suit yourself. Boomer?”
The blonde gave him a distasteful look. “I don’t wanna work at Starbuck’s for another forty years working off your coffee bill.”
“Lattes, Boomer. Lattes.”
“Priss.”
“You sound like Buttercup.”
“Oh, you’ve got pet names for each other?”
“Shut up. Well, I guess I’ll keep Cherice’s number all to myself, then.”
He glanced from one boy to the other, equal looks of hesitant consideration mirrored on their faces. Undoubtedly reminiscing about that pretty little getup she wore on pep rally days, with the skirt and the heels and the…
“All right, then. I guess I’ve got a couple of girls to make phone calls to. See ya.”
Butch flew to his room and shut the door.
“Goddammit,” Brick and Boomer muttered simultaneously.
Wednesday evening, 8:25 pm.
“The place closes in five minutes!!!”
“Well, then you better get crackin’, right? I wanna wear one of those shirts tomorrow, so you better haul ass, little girl.”
“… ”
“You going, or what?”
There was a series of incoherent grumblings over the phone, then a click.
“Thought so,” Butch murmured to himself, and sank back onto his bed. He held Cherice’s number up to the light and traced the digits with his eyes.
“Alright, tall, dark, and beautiful, here I come.” He flipped onto his stomach and dialed.
And paused.
He stared at the seven figures on his little screen, apathetic.
Nothing doing. So he had her number. Big deal. What was she going to do?
Oh, Butch, I’d love to go out with you! You’re just so cool and awesome and sexy and a really… cool guy, you know?! This is, like, a dream come—
“Ugh, God,” Butch groaned, and dropped his phone on the mattress. After glancing at it again he sighed and poked at the buttons, deleting the number, and the screen immediately took him back to the “Most Recent Calls” menu. Listed at the top was “Slave Monkey.”
He quirked his lips. Completely involuntarily, of course.
A moment passed, and he took hold of the phone again and hit “Recall.”
Wednesday evening, 8:29 pm.
“Thanks,” Buttercup mumbled to the owner, and walked out the door with an armload of freshly laundered shirts and pants.
She practically screamed when her cell went off.
“Yeah, what do you want,” she grumbled to herself, yanking out her phone with her free hand and flipping it open. “What?”
“Got my dry cleaning yet?”
“Yeah, I got it,” she snapped, taking to the sky. “I’ll drop it off in a minute.”
“Stop and get me a smoothie before you fly over here.”
Buttercup took a deep breath and concentrated on smashing that large apartment complex in her mind to quell her anger. “What flavor?”
“Oohh… surprise me.”
“Fine,” Buttercup said shortly. “See you.”
She snapped her phone shut and redirected her course to the smoothie shop a block away.
Wednesday evening, 8:31 pm.
Butch stood up and stretched as he walked to his desk and set his phone in its charger. He tossed the contents of his other hand on the wood surface, and was greeted with seven numbers and a strip of four black and white photos. Buttercup had the same “kill me now” expression in every one of them.
After a long while of studying them both he sighed and picked up the scrap of paper. “Sorry, Cherice. See ya around.”
A flash of his eyebeams and all that was left was ash scattering in the air.
He picked up the photo strip and got set to do the same, letting his eyes trail from the first to the fourth. Top to bottom. Bottom to top.
And back again.
And again.
Suddenly he shook his head and muttered, “I’m out of my mind,” shoved the photos into his open desk drawer, slammed it shut, and walked away.
Thursday morning, 8:57 am.
“You’re telling me you want another coffee? I’ve already gotten you three of those, and school hasn’t even started yet!”
Butch crushed his empty cup in one hand and tossed it in the trash bin nearby. “Precisely. There’s enough time for one last drink.”
“You know that stuff’s going to kill you,” Buttercup admonished, crossing her arms and shifting her hips.
Butch beamed at her. “I believe it’s your job to do my bidding, not worry about my health. Now get yer pretty little self down to the coffee shop and back in time for school.”
Buttercup uncrossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Once this week is over your ass is mine.”
“Have it your way,” Butch said, nonplussed, and shrugged. “Till then, your ass is mine.” He punctuated this line with a smug quirk of the corner of his mouth.
The look on Buttercup’s face was positively venomous. He thought it suited her. “You wretched, wretched human being.”
“You gonna get my coffee or what?”
Thursday afternoon, 4:46 pm.
“Hey girls!” Buttercup & Bubbles simultaneously turned halfway down the steps of the school entrance to see Robin jogging towards them.
“Hi Robin,” Bubbles said cheerily. “How’s it going?”
“Hey,” Buttercup said, in a much less positive voice than her sister.
Robin took a curious glance at the darker haired girl. “Something the matter, Buttercup?”
“Oh, she’s just upset that she couldn’t find Blossom. Um, again,” Bubbles clarified, dismissing the matter with a wave of her hand.
There was an incoherent whine of frustration from Buttercup’s throat.
“What’s up with Blossom? What’d she do?”
“She’s pretty much the reason Buttercup’s been hanging out with Butch the entire week.”
Buttercup groaned assent.
Robin looked at Buttercup, an incredulous look on her face. “Seriously?”
At the look on her friend’s face Buttercup could’ve hugged her. Finally, a sympathetic—
“And you’re complaining?” Robin balked, jaw dropping.
Buttercup’s face contracted in disgust and she wrenched back. “Is this whole world going insane?!”
“Don’t pin this on us,” Bubbles responded, “you’re the one who’s repulsed at the idea of Butch escorting you around in public.”
“If you ever speak like that again, you’re going to be eating through a hole in your neck for the rest of your life,” Buttercup threatened maliciously.
“See what I have to put up with, Robin? This whole week it’s been nothing but, ‘Bubbles, it’s horrible, he makes me meet up with him in the mornings,’ ‘Oh, he made me go to the mall with him, Bubbles,’ or, ‘God, Bubbles, he’s making me feed him—’”
“Scratch that,” Buttercup snarled, and took a menacing step towards her sister. “You’re going to be eating through a hole in your neck for the rest of the week, which is how long I’m going to let you live.”
Robin seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Buttercup, how can you possibly be put off by that?”
“Put off? Put off?! I’m not just put off, I’m positively nauseated by it! This has been the longest week of my life! Of two lifetimes! My hope for truth and justice has been permanently jilted! My faith in my sisters, and now, my friends, has proven to be worth jack! And it doesn’t just end with this week, oh no, that would be too easy, I’m going to have to live with this for the rest of my life now, dealing with that stupid smirk of his and his stupid taunts and his stupid face—”
“Buttercup, you’ve been dealing with that ‘stupid face’ since you were five. Get over it,” Bubbles dismissed, obviously not interested in listening to a rerun of Why I Hate Butch: An In Depth Dissertation by Buttercup. “Plus, the fact that you’re even concerned with his face is a pretty obvious indication that you’re in denial—”
“Denial?!” Buttercup shrieked, ready to shed blood. “What is there to be in denial over? I think you’re the one in denial; these guys tried to knock us off when we were in kinder—Robin, what’s with you?” Buttercup asked suspiciously, seeing her friend’s face suddenly glow bright pink.
“Oh, um, nothing,” Robin said hastily, shaking her head and laughing nervously. “I just, er, thought you said something else—”
Oh God, it was official: the universe was filled with repugnant, disgusting people who stared at boys’ pants and believed kids were becoming victims of searing, passionate lust at age five.
Thoroughly shaken, Buttercup croaked, “Going. Home. Now,” and prepared to shoot down the steps just as Butch pulled up in front of the entrance in his garish white Cadillac Escalade.
Buttercup stopped dead in her tracks and willed herself not to vomit.
Butch leaned out of the driver’s side window and grinned. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said cordially to the two girls behind Buttercup, who he then turned to and sneered, “Afternoon, sugar.”
“If you call me that again, kids’ll be calling you butchered, instead of Butch,” Buttercup spat.
“You do say the sweetest things. Now hop in the car. We need to get some gas.”
Buttercup winced at hearing “we.” She turned and stared desolately at Bubbles & Robin. “Don’t you two have somewhere to go?”
“As in, home?” Bubbles returned dryly, evidently still unconvinced despite Buttercup’s most potent convictions. “Yeah, see you later… ‘sugar.’ Let’s stop for ice cream on the way home, Robin… ”
Buttercup’s eyes flared as she watched her sister walk away, tailed by their friend. “That girl is begging to be stuffed.”
“Fantastic. Now you stuff it and get in the car. You can fill me in on all the grisly details on the way to the gas station.”
Thursday afternoon, 4:51 pm.
“Now, you should know I only run this little lady on premium. If I catch you using the regular or, God forbid, unleaded, I’m going to have your head on a pike, Buttercup.”
Buttercup took the proffered gas card from him and wrinkled her face. “‘Premium?’ For Christ’s sake, it’s an Escalade, you know how much gas these things guzzle?”
“Yeah, I know, and I’m killing the environment, and I’m clubbing baby seals. Cry me a river, why don’t you.”
“I’ll cry you a river, all right,” Buttercup muttered spitefully and slid out the passenger door. “Hey, pop open the tank for me.”
The little door swung out obediently and she set about running the pump to the tank. “One more day, Buttercup,” she said quietly to herself in an effort to brighten her spirits. “One more day.”
“Aw, getting wistful, are we?” Butch appeared from the end of the trunk and leaned on the back bumper of his car. “Yeah, me too.”
“Shut up.”
Butch crossed his arms and glanced at his companion, whose eyes were devoutly focused on the task at hand.
He felt the makings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and shook it off.
The movement caught Buttercup’s gaze, and she looked up and piped amiably, “What, having an epileptic seizure? Lovely!”
Recovering quickly, Butch countered with, “Aw, did you just call me lovely?”
“Bite me,” Buttercup shot back, mock cheerfulness sucked from her expression.
“Don’t tempt me,” Butch returned, just as the bell dinged to signal a full tank.
Thursday afternoon, 4:57 pm.
“I have a test tomorrow, you know,” Buttercup said suddenly as they pulled onto her street. “A history test.”
A long quiet moment settled before Butch finally said, “Um, and…?”
“And I don’t exactly have time to run around and do shit for you tonight,” Buttercup snapped, because it was obvious. “This test is 50% of my six weeks grade. I need to do well on it.”
Butch let the statement gestate in his head for a bit before saying, “Ok.”
Buttercup groaned. “I knew—wait. What? Did you just say, ‘Ok?’”
Butch nodded. “Mm-hm.”
She squinted her eyes and peered at him from behind a black curtain of hair. “What’s the catch?”
“Oh, you know me too well.”
“What’s the blasted catch, dammit.”
He pulled up to her house and announced, “We’re ho—”
“Tell me whaMPH—”
Buttercup was interrupted by Butch’s mitt closing over her mouth as he leant in and carefully explained, “I’ll tell you when I think of it.”
He pulled away, and Buttercup didn’t know what to make of that look.
Evil people should just be subjected to a lifetime of stale cookies and educational television shows, she thought bitterly as she walked up the driveway home.
Friday afternoon, 1:19 pm.
“G’day, mate,” Butch drawled lazily as Buttercup strode up to their table, engrossed in her history text. “What’ve we got today?”
“How does a salad sound?” Buttercup asked in a monotone, still concentrated on her book.
The smile was wiped clean off of Butch’s face and he gaped at her in ill-masked horror. “… GUH?!”
“I told you, I’m really—”
“Yeah, but—” Butch suddenly clamped his mouth shut, then, after a moment of what appeared to be deep consideration, took a deep breath and said, “Er, well, that’s fine. I guess. I think. I mean—”
Buttercup snorted, and he glanced sharply at her. “What?”
“I was joking. It’s a casserole. Something quick and simple. No five star dining for you today.” Buttercup sat and pulled out the Tupperware and plastic utensils, history book still open in one hand. She gave Butch a curious look. “But that was weird. Were you actually going to accept the supposed salad?”
Butch’s eyes slid to the side and he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, slightly discomfited that he’d done something decent, particularly in regards to Buttercup.
This is not good, he thought to himself. This is not good at all.
“Yeah, eloquent as usual, I see,” Buttercup scoffed, and laid her book on the table.
“How’d your studying go,” Butch muttered noncommittally, trying to distract himself from his prior irretrievable blunder.
Buttercup groaned. “Could’ve gone better. I was up till four looking through my notes. And that bank robbery last night didn’t help much. Ate a good hour sized chunk out of my review time.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Butch said before he could stop himself.
Buttercup looked up, blinking hard. “Excuse me?”
Dammit! “Never mind. Get back to studying.” Oh, yeah. Smooth recovery from Blunder #2, indeed.
Buttercup stared at him a moment longer, then cast her attention back to her textbook. “Whatever you say.” Without looking up she pried the top of the container off and dipped a spoon into it.
Butch immediately reached over and plucked it out of her hand, eliciting the third Funny Look from Buttercup for the day. Oh, this was not going well one bit.
“What?” she inquired, a bit derisively. “Did I bring the wrong spoon?”
“Um, I can feed myself for the day. You can, er, concentrate on your studying.”
Cue Funny Look #4. Butch had already lost count of his blunders for the day.
Wide-eyed, Buttercup returned to her book and tried to concentrate on the dates and major battles of the Civil War, pushing her bafflement at Butch’s weird behavior out of her mind.
Friday afternoon, 4:43 pm.
Buttercup undid the window latch to her room and slipped in, letting her bag slither from her shoulders to the carpet. She sighed heavily and flopped onto her bed, shutting her eyes and ready for a long respite, one where she didn’t have to think about studying and tests (particularly history, though she felt she’d managed at best a B on today’s test, which really wasn’t bad) and running errands for people who topped her blacklist—
She furrowed her brow and cracked her eyes open a tad, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I barely heard from that wretch today,” she mused out loud, and tugged her cell phone from her pocket, scrolling through “Missed Calls” just to make sure.
None. He hadn’t called or paged her today at all.
“Weird,” she murmured to herself, and rolled to her side, letting her phone bounce against the mattress. Something wasn’t right. The furrow in her brow deepened. If he hadn’t bugged her all day…
There was a catch, that was clear, and she wasn’t technically free for another seven hours.
Whatever it was, it had to be one hell of a catch.
“Gruh, Buttercup, don’t think about this now,” she groaned, determined not to be pessimistic. Just half a day, and she’d be home scot free. Whatever he threw at her, she’d get through it, no sweat. Just let him try and dampen her spirits, no matter how humiliating or disgraceful or repulsive the tasks she’d have to perform—
She was starting to depress herself.
“Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” BUTTERCUP grunted firmly, and squeezed her eyes shut. She’d nap until he beeped her, at least—
Right on cue, her cell went off.
“Figures,” she griped, eyes opening as she reached for her phone.
Friday evening, 6:33 pm.
“Professor,” Buttercup called as she reached the bottom of the stairs, “I’m going out to meet some… ” she took a deep breath before saying, in a strained voice, “…friends… tonight. I won’t be eating dinner with you guys.”
The Professor popped his head out of the crack in the doorway leading to the lab and stared at Buttercup. “Aw, that’s a shame, honey. What about tomorrow? We’ve barely seen you at all this week. And Blossom’s been so keen to know where you’ve been these past few days too.”
“I’ll bet,” Buttercup muttered, tugging on her sneakers.
“So do you have any plans for tomorrow, sweetie?”
“Not yet. Um, I don’t think so.” Buttercup ran a hand through her hair. “If you wanna do one of those ‘family things’ tomorrow, I’m up for it.”
“I’ve got a seminar tomorrow around lunchtime, but maybe we can all go someplace for dinner?”
Buttercup briefly fantasized about the opportunity to get to stab Blossom in the leg with a multitude of silverware and immediately said, “Sure.”
“All right, then. Got your phone?”
“Uh, yeah.” Please, PLEASE don’t ask who I’m meeting, Buttercup prayed fervently.
“What time will you be back?”
“When do I need to be back?” Buttercup continued to pray.
“How long are you planning to be out?”
“Why do we keep talking in questions?”
The Professor raised an eyebrow. “Why do you keep answering my questions with more questions?”
“… Um?”
“Just be back by 12:30.”
Buttercup glanced at the clock, then back to the Professor. “That’s more than enough. Almost to an excess.”
The Professor raised his other eyebrow. “Have you been reading Blossom’s textbooks lately?”
“Professor, I’ll see you later.”
“Hold it! Who are you—”
Buttercup slammed the door.
The Professor shook his head and muttered, “Kids,” as he retreated back into his lab.
Friday evening, 6:34 pm.
Buttercup was locking the door just as Bubbles opened the bedroom window and hollered, “Where you headed?”
Green eyes soon met her blue ones from the lawn. “I just had this conversation with the Professor, you know.”
Bubbles tilted her head. “You changed,” she said.
“I put on a jacket,” Buttercup clarified, eyeing her sister darkly.
“That still counts as dressing up.”
“Go away. I’ll pound you after I get back from my last evening in Hell.”
“When are you supposed to meet him?”
“6:45, alright? Now if you’ll—”
“What’re you going to do?”
“What, is this 20 Questions or something?”
“Ooh, I see we’re in a hurry.”
Buttercup deigned not to respond, instead flashing Bubbles a rather vulgar gesture before zipping off towards town.
Bubbles shrugged and pulled back into the room, shutting the window. “Living proof that ‘denial’ is not just a river in Egypt,” she said out loud as she flipped on her stereo.
-end pt. 1-
this fic killed lj's text limit. go to next entry for the rest of friday evening, yes.
... ok, actually, i started this about half a year ago, b/c
fauxophy was in a less than stellar mood and i wanted to alleviate some of it (or attempt to), so i wrote fic. and fic it became, and yes. well. here we go. and this puppy's a long one, by the by. for fauxophy, who is alive. much love.title: a week of unmitigated almost-loathing, aka fwoosh, aka fwooshie
pairing: butch/buttercup (AND THIS IS A ONE SHOT, OK?!)
rating: pg-13, because butch is a pervert.
disclaimer: actually, i really do own the powerpuff girls. expect lots more friction between the ppg and rrb from now on, provided i can get over disliking the boys so much ;_;
summary: an innocent little poker game wrangles buttercup into a week of tending to butch's every little whim. hilarity (and a possible polarization in attitude) ensues. also, butch is kind of fruity and really likes coffee. what's not to love?
notes: inspired by a sailor moon fic (so sue me). for
fauxophy, with love, and much love as well to cagalli_chan, my one and only beta ALTHOUGH. IF YOU PERIODICALLY VISIT THIS JOURNAL, I AM SOON TO BE IN THE BUSINESS FOR A SECOND BETA. i'll keep you guyses posted, yes? :D also, there is a deleted/alternate scene for this fic. expect it up... well, expect it up sometime later (like a week). also, there are extra titles b/c of what i wound up saving it under on my comp. extra trivia for you and all.hey guys--the fic KILLED lj's text limit. so here's the first part, and the second part is in the next entry. capisce? capisce.
also, GRAGH. it took me over an hour to manually fill in the bold and italic text for this fic. @_@
A Week of Unmitigated Almost-Loathing
-songbirdjen
Fwoosh.
“Twenty-eight.”
Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh.
“Twenty-nine.”
Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh.
“Thirty.”
Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh.
“Thirty-o—”
“Buttercup?”
Blossom’s voice cut through her concentration, and Buttercup whirled on her sister, stilling the basketball in her hands. “What?!”
“Erm, I need to ask a favor—”
“Go for it. Just don’t break my free throw streak. Thirty-one and counting.” She dribbled the ball two times, exactly, then lifted her arms and shot. The ball arced through the air and glided effortlessly through the net. “Scratch that. Thirty-two.”
“Um, well, see, I’m in this poker game right now—”
“Uh huhhh…” Btonk, btonk, fwoosh. “Thirty-three…”
“And I’ve got this amazing hand, unbeatable, I tell you—”
Fwoosh. “Thirty-four.”
“Buttercup, are you listening? I need your help—”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Thirty-five.”
“… Ok, well, don’t you want to hear—”
“You need my help, I’ll be right there in a minute.” Fwoosh. “Thirty-six.”
Blossom exhaled and muttered, “Well, since I’m going to win anyway, I guess it doesn’t—”
“Do you mind? You’re interrupting my concentration,” Buttercup grumbled. Those last couple of shots had hit the rim on their way through the net. Not boding well. “I’ll be right there, so just hold on to your skirt, ok?”
Her sister had this uncharacteristically uneasy look on her face. Well, it could wait a minute or two, couldn’t it?
Buttercup sighed and said, “Once I hit fifty I’ll come right over. Where’re you at?”
“The gazebo over by the park lake. You sure about this?”
“Gazebo, park lake. Got it.”
Blossom shrugged. “Your funeral. But I’ve got it in the bag anyway, so you don’t have much to worry about.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just go back to your layups.”
“… Free throws, Blossom. Free throws.”
With a disinterested wave of her hand Blossom took off to the other end of the park, and Buttercup exhaled, shook herself out, and took aim again. Btonk, btonk. Fwoosh. “Thirty-seven…”
***
“You WHAT?!”
“Look, I had your permission—”
“You did not!!!”
“Hey, you said—”
“No I didn’t!!! You traitor!!!”
“Buttercup, would you just listen—”
“I am not going to—”
“Look, if you’d just listened in the first place, you wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“What?! Are you saying I did this to myself?!”
“Of course not, but the point is you gave me your consent, and—”
“Ambiguous responses do not qualify as consent!!”
“Those were—wait, did you just say ‘ambiguous?’”
“Yes!”
“How do you know the word ‘ambigu—’”
“That’s irrelevant!”
Blossom gaped at her infuriated sister. “‘Irrelevant?’” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you been reading my books from middle school?”
“Don’t change the subject!” Buttercup snarled, teeth grit. “Why don’t you tell them no?!”
Heaving the sigh of one most ungraciously burdened, Blossom looked Buttercup square in the eye and said, in all due seriousness, “I gave them my word.”
“Yeah, well I can tell you where you can tell them to shove your word—”
“Don’t be crude, Buttercup,” Blossom snapped. “But honestly, the chances that he would have a royal flush to beat out my two pair—”
“I despise you.”
“—and the stakes were so high, I mean, Brick had tossed in the permit for his parking space—”
“What kind of moron bets his space in the school lot? You have to work your butt off to get one of those—”
“Well, the whole deal was for a week. Boomer offered—”
“Look, I don’t care. What I don’t understand is how you got it in your head to bet—”
“Wow, Blossom, you work fast! Didn’t think I’d reap the benefits of my extraordinary win quite so quickly—”
Buttercup winced. Oh God, NO.
As she reluctantly turned her gaze to Butch, she heard her sister say, “Well, um, technically it doesn’t start until tomorrow—”
Buttercup silenced her with a hand. “You… are not… telling me I have to—”
“Wait on my every whim? Cater to my every fancy? Fulfill my every desire, no matter how implausible it may—”
Blossom was frantic. “Wait, you said nothing about ‘whims’ and ‘desires—’”
“Cool it, sugar, and get your mind out of the gutter. She isn’t really my type.” Butch crossed his arms and smirked. “But she’ll do fine as my… personal assistant for the week.”
With a murderous glint in her eye, Buttercup began rolling up her sleeve. “Give me twenty good reasons not to pummel you into the core of the Earth right now—”
“I think that’s a measure you should be taking up with your sister, isn’t it?”
“She can’t make me… tend to you,” Buttercup muttered, disgusted. “In fact we were just discussing—”
“Um, actually, Buttercup—”
“I thought that might happen. Luckily for me, I prepared for such an obstacle.”
Buttercup narrowed her eyes. “What—”
“If you don’t agree, Blossom is going to fill in Daddy Dear about your supposed overnight competition last—”
Horror flooded Buttercup’s face almost instantly and she whipped her head around to beseech Blossom with wide eyes. “You wouldn’t dare! And I’ll have you know those drinks were perfectly legal!”
All that was visible was a head of orange hair, strands dangling towards the ground as she hung her head. “I gave my word.”
“You’re impossible!” Buttercup’s hands shot to her face and she wailed into them, “My life is over. Over.”
“Not over. Just on loan for a week. This Friday at midnight, I shall promptly return it to you. Along with Brick’s parking space and Boomer’s week’s worth of coffee cover.”
Buttercup permitted him a suspicious look. “What the hell is a week’s worth of coffee to you?”
“Do not question the worth of my relationship with coffee,” Butch said somberly. “Its roots run far too deep for you to comprehend.” Immediately he brightened. “But maybe you can learn a thing or two after a week of fetching it for me. Bright and early Monday morning, then!”
He took off, and Buttercup looked at her sister and grumbled, “I don’t suppose you considered suicide as a deterring factor, did you?”
Back to narrowed eyes. “You have been hitting my old schoolbooks, haven’t you?”
***
Monday morning, 6:48 am.
Devoutly ignoring one’s cellular phone was very difficult to do, even with a pillow crammed over said person’s head. Buttercup had managed it for about 18 minutes before hurling her bedcovers off and reaching for her cell, angrily stabbing the ‘talk’ button. “Who the hell is this, and why are you calling me at this miserable hour?”
“You know, as much as I like an employee with a bit of spunk to them, I still think you should take a nicer tone of voice when talking with me. Nice words, please.”
Rubbing the grit from her eyes, Buttercup hissed, “I’ve got a couple of ‘nice words’ for you—”
“Lovely, do share later, in person. For now, I’d like you here—here being the front school entrance—by seven thirty. Did Blossom have you make my lunch?”
“Last night,” Buttercup grumbled into the phone, fumbling around for a pair of clean jeans.
“Oh, well then, make it seven. See you then. Be sure you wash up, too.”
Buttercup nearly crushed the phone in her hands after he hung up.
Monday morning, 7:03 am.
“You’re late,” Butch pouted, and blatantly tapped his watch. “I was expecting better service than this.”
Drops of water glittered off of Buttercup’s still wet hair as she grimaced menacingly at him. “If you’re going to bitch, you can expect no service, period.”
A sneer quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get snarky. Giving me too much lip could result in an extension of your… employment period.”
Her lips were stretched tight. “Since when?”
“You can ask your sister for the contract. Footnotes and everything.”
Object in front of you is evil, menacing mastermind who has you wrapped around his nonexistent finger, Buttercup thought feverishly to herself. Do not bludgeon repeatedly into a bloody pulp at this very instant.
She let out a slow breath and sucked it in again. “So,” she croaked, in what she assumed was a cordial manner, “is there any particular reason why you’ve called me out two hours before school starts?”
“You know, you should smile more. Run that by me again, and be cheerful about it.”
“… ”
“You wanna make it two weeks or what, toots?”
In a strained voice, Buttercup pulled in the corners of her mouth and grated through clenched teeth, “Why did you call me out here two hours early?”
“Sir.”
“… ”
That tweaked corner of his mouth was just begging to be ripped from his face and squashed against the ground.
Oh, hell. “… Sir.”
“Better.” He settled against the short concrete wall by the entrance. “Though your smile could definitely use some work. Anywho… ” Butch slipped his backpack off his shoulder and dug around in the front pocket. “I’ve got a little present for you that’s going to make your job so much easier.”
“I can barely contain my joy and rapture,” Buttercup muttered in a monotone.
“Damn skippy you can’t. Here.” Without waiting for her approval Butch pulled out a pager and clipped it to the waist of her jeans.
“What the—”
“It’s a personal beeper. Since it’s obvious you can’t tail me around from class to class, as we have different schedules, whenever I need you I’ll page you, and patiently wait for the .82 seconds it should take you to answer my call.”
“… You expect me to just drop whatever I’m doing—”
“And dash to my side, yes. Remember, for this week, I’m your first priority.”
“… Is there anything in that contract that prohibits me from saying, ‘I hate you?’”
“Hmm. No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. Because I hate you.”
“That’s great. Now go get me a cinnamon raisin bagel with honey almond cream cheese and an extra large double latte. You’ve got five minutes. Chop, chop!”
Monday afternoon, 12:47 pm.
“Uh, Buttercup?”
Buttercup lifted a sleepy head from her folded arms on the desk. “Yes, Bubbles?”
“Is there any reason why you’ve been hanging around Butch since this morning?”
Buttercup returned her head to her arms. “Because we have devilish manipulating hellspawn as archrivals and a Saint McGoody Two Shoes backstabber for a sister.”
“… Run that by me again.”
“Blackmail.”
“Oh. Well, I just thought I’d let you know, the whole school’s noticed by now, and female organizations are springing up left and right dedicated to hating you for making him unavailable.”
“Fantastic. People think we’re going out. Just what I needed to make my week.”
“Your week? Buttercup, it’s only Monday.”
“Oh God, don’t remind me.”
Monday afternoon, 1:23 pm.
“Geez, Buttercup, you don’t look too good. You oughtta get some more sleep. Can’t have my personal attendant suffering from ill sleeping habits.”
“For your information,” Buttercup snarled, “I was up late last night making your damn lunch. And in case you’ve forgotten, you ordered me here two hours early just so I could get you a stinkin’ cup of coffee—”
“Ah, I think you mean double latte, my dear.”
“You’re such a priss about coffee.”
“For the last time, double latte. But honestly, that was hours ago.” Butch started leading her in the direction of the cafeteria. “It’s lunchtime now, and I’m starved. What’ve you got?”
“Samosas.”
Butch let out a low whistle. “Hot damn, that’s fancy. Nice work.”
“It is not fancy, and it is not nice work, at least in respect to you,” Buttercup barked. “I wanted to make ‘em for myself, and it would’ve been too much of a hassle to go to the extra work to make something else for you. As far as I’m concerned, you could eat—”
“Here we are!” Butch flung open the doors to the cafeteria and gestured to Buttercup, bowing low. “After you. Find an empty table.”
“There aren’t any,” Buttercup responded after a quick glance around the crowded room.
A slow smile spread on his face. “Then persuade someone otherwise.”
There was a convulsive tic in her eye when she stalked to the smallest table, where Mitch and the twins were seated. “Mitch, move.”
The three of them cast her a foul look. “Buttercup, if you need a seat, it’s, uh, right there.”
“I want the table,” she elaborated.
“… Dude, there’s the seat. Right there.”
Buttercup squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Mitch, please, just work with me. The table.”
“Look, we had to kick off a bunch of grody freshmen to get this table! What, you think we’re just gonna say, ‘Duh, sure Buttercup! Take it!’ and get up and walk away?!”
“How are you going to walk if you don’t have any legs?”
The boys only stared at her, slack jawed. Buttercup sighed and smacked her fist in the opposite hand for emphasis. “Suit yourself.”
Monday afternoon, 4:30 pm.
Every time the pager went off, Buttercup groaned and ticked the imaginary tally marks on the wall of her mind. Twenty-nine times. All for the most mundane things, honestly. A coke. A tissue. A sharpened pencil. A dull pencil. And on and on and on… she was running out of bathroom excuses to use in her classes.
She packed her things and slammed her locker shut, thankful for the end of the school day, at least. At least.
No sooner had she stepped out the door than her pager had gone off again.
Heaving a disparaging groan, she checked his location and took off, making a mental note to suffocate Blossom in her sleep tonight.
Monday evening, 11:39 pm.
“Finally!” Buttercup huffed, flopping back on her bed. “Finished. Finished. Finished with my work, finished with his, finished with the stupid lunch, finished finished finished.”
Suddenly a tiny little rumble at her waist, followed by a series of beeps, invaded her jubilant reverie. “ERRRGH.” She yanked out her cell and dialed his number. “Yeah, whaddaya want.”
“There’s a movie tonight on cable, and our satellite’s knocked out. I need you to tape it for me.”
“What time,” she muttered.
“It starts at 12:45. I want it taped on SP speed, with no commercials. Capiche?”
Groan. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Excellent. Have it by the school entrance at… oh, 7:45. I’ll cut you some slack for tomorrow.”
“You’re too kind,” Buttercup scoffed, sarcasm evident, and hung up.
After about ten minutes spent fantasizing about Fifty Ways to Murder Butch she grudgingly got up and started to rummage for a blank tape.
Tuesday morning, 8:12 am.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Butch yawned and casually shrugged. “Was tired. Slept in for a bit. At least you got here on time. Good for you!”
Every ounce of willpower Buttercup had was focused on not feeding the boy standing in front of her his own intestines.
“Say, you got my tape?”
“Yeah, I got your damn tape.”
“Oh, well, I should’ve told you our satellite kicked back in about five minutes after I called. I don’t need it anymore.”
Willpower, Buttercup. Willpower.
“Why… ” Buttercup growled through clenched teeth, “… did you… not call… ”
“Well, it was getting late, wasn’t it?”
You’ve gotta be kidding me, Buttercup thought to herself. The expression on her face must’ve said the same thing, since Butch responded with a beatific smile.
That tic was back in her eye. “… Excuse me.”
Buttercup shot out into space and let out an Earth shattering scream.
Tuesday morning, 10:28 am.
“Buttercup, I absolutely abhor you.”
“Fantastic, Princess. Now, is there anything new you’d like to tell me?” Buttercup slipped her books into her bag and slung it over her shoulder as the bell sounded to end first period.
Princess tapped a polished shoe against the tile, twisting a lock of hair with her manicured fingers. “Other than your excruciatingly hot boyfriend, who you so do not deserve—”
Buttercup whirled on her. “What?!”
“—is waiting outside for you. God, why is it the homely ones boys always go for?”
Buttercup stared at the disgusting shade of pink on Princess’ nails. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “Have you been playing poker with Blossom lately and signing weird little contracts?”
“What? No.”
“Good.”
“What are you—AUGH!”
Tuesday morning, 10:29 am.
“Well, hello, Buttercup. Care to explain what the racket in there was?”
“I was just chatting with Princess. What are you hanging around here for?”
“My nail!” Princess shrieked from inside the classroom. “You broke my nail! I just had them done last night! Life is so unfair!!!”
“Oh, I just wanted you to get me the number of that girl who sits behind you in Biology.”
“Cherice? You want Cherice’s number?”
“Yeah, but don’t tell her it’s me asking.”
“What do you need her number for?”
Butch smirked. “Jealous, are we?”
Buttercup met his smirk with a gag. “Oh, don’t make me sick.”
“Don’t worry,” Butch assured in a soothing voice, completely ignoring her prior statement. “You’re the only girl good enough to fetch stuff for me and do my bidding.”
“Great. What an honor. Maybe I can die happy.”
“Now what use are you going to be to me dead?”
“I could haunt you, for one.”
Butch brightened. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get into my bedroom, aren’t you?!”
He said this just as they passed a crowd of girls fawning over Butch, all of whom paled at his words and shot Buttercup several renditions of the death glare.
Buttercup groaned. “Maybe I can just die, period.”
Tuesday afternoon, 1:15 pm.
“So, what’s on the menu for today, champ?” Butch inquired as they settled at their now empty table.
Buttercup made a mental note to be a million times nicer to Mitch after this was all over. “… I really, really wish you’d stop giving me pet names.”
“Aw, but you’re such a good widdle pet, yes you are!” Butch squished Buttercup’s face with both hands and chuckled.
“Dun fusch meph.”
“Oh, my. I don’t know where you got that idea—”
Buttercup shoved his hands away. “I said, ‘Don’t touch me,’ you pervert. Was your mind born in a sewer or something?”
“Close. A toilet bowl, actually. The nondescript chaotic world of evil and doom. Take your pick.”
“… I am so sorry I asked.”
“Speaking of questions, you never answered mine. What eats we got today?”
“Jambalaya.”
Butch looked like he was about to faint. “Ohhh, man alive, are you kidding me?!”
Just as Buttercup was about to snap, Well, you wanted something different, didn’t you, Butch continued and said in a euphoric voice, “Jambalaya has got to be my favorite! How did you know that? Did you know? You had to have known. You’re stalking me, aren’t you? Admit it!”
“Cut that out. I was just getting rid of some leftover rice,” Buttercup grumbled, because she certainly didn’t feel proud. No, not one bit. Not even when Butch pried the top off the container and gave a happy, contented sigh, sheer bliss lighting his face.
… Well, ok, maybe just a little pride.
Just as she was getting used to the idea of accepting a compliment from Butch, he blinked, glanced at her, then smiled that wicked grin that said he was going to ask her to do something she would absolutely hate.
“I think you should feed it to me,” he said smoothly, holding up a spoon.
Buttercup considered that if she had a running soundtrack to her life, right now would be about the time they cued the shattering of 10,000 glass light bulbs.
“No. Way.”
She could still see the smirk on his face, even when he pouted. “What’s the matter? It’s not going to embarrass me, I promise.”
“You’re not the one I’m worried about embarrassing,” she hissed, feeling her eye twitching like crazy. “Is it your sole purpose to humiliate me for the rest of this entire week?”
“Actually, I haven’t been doing as much of that as I thought I would, but thanks for reminding me,” he quipped brightly, resting his chin in his hand. “And I wouldn’t argue if I were you. You’re obligated to do this for me. If not, well, I’ve got Blossom’s cell number on speed dial and the minute I give her the call she tells the Professor the truth—”
“Ok, I get the point,” Buttercup mumbled desolately. “But… you know, a lot of rumors have been flying around about us two hanging out. A lot. And, um, if I fed you, like, right here, there would be more rumors, and then Cherice wouldn’t give you her number, and you’d miss out on all these girls who want to date you, so, you know, maybe it’s not such a good idea, right?” Buttercup could not keep the raw hope from glittering in her eyes. There was no possible way he could want people to think that about them, right?
Butch examined the spoon in his hands, visibly bored. “Well, rumors have never stopped me from getting a date before. Anyway, bottom line—” he pointed the spoon at Buttercup “—is you have a job to do. What I say goes. And I say: ‘Feed me.’”
That wicked grin spread across his face again, and she stared at the spoon a long time before begrudgingly snatching it from his hand and stabbing it into his food. She cast another look at his face, all feeling sucked out of her expression.
“Don’t forget to smile,” he chirped.
Buttercup brought the corners of her mouth into a twitching, spastic mess of a grin and pretended not to notice every last girl in the cafeteria gawking at the two of them as she reluctantly lifted the spoon to his mouth.
Wednesday morning, 9:40 am.
By now Buttercup was no longer taking notice of the numerous random objects girls kept chucking at her, so long as they weren’t sharp, heavy, nor biologically unstable. She figured the amount of paper balls thrown at her in class and the hate mail she got in her locker added up to at least one full grown redwood tree, and that in a future life these girls would pay with their bad environmental karma for wasting paper like that.
Blossom was deliberately avoiding her, she’d noticed. With good reason. It was only Wednesday, and the moment midnight rolled around Friday evening she was going to give Blossom a piece of her mind.
Or, her mind, in pieces. Lots and lots of pieces.
The happy little thought of exacting revenge on her evil, wretched sister brought an idyllic smile to her face as the teacher turned her back on the students and another storm of paper balls bombarded Buttercup’s seat.
Wednesday afternoon, 2:59 pm.
“Here’s Cherice’s number. I’ll have you know she was this close to spitting in my face and it was already hell to try and get the number from her.”
“Ooh, fantastic.” Butch plucked the slip of paper from her hand and beamed at her. “Thank you, lovely.”
The suspicious gaggle of girls standing too close by pelted Buttercup with more paper balls.
“I should thank you,” Buttercup said dryly. “I never thought I would become so popular for doing things I absolutely despise for someone I hate with a fervent passion.”
“No need to thank me, really. And did you say passion?”
“Shut up.”
“How are things going on your side of the spectrum, really?”
“Oh, just swimmingly. Not only am I on the hitlist of every heterosexual female in the school, I am worked to the bone to the point of exhaustion and have been suffering from a severe lack of sleep for the past three days. Life is just peachy keen for me,” Buttercup retorted, most bitterly.
“Well, it’s good to know you’re enjoying yourself.” A less than sincere smile flickered across his face. “So, for this afternoon—”
The scowl disappeared from Buttercup’s face. “Oh, actually, I needed to talk to you about that.”
“Mm? That so?”
“Er, yeah. I’m supposed to be leading the girls’ basketball team this afternoon in drills, so—”
“So you need the afternoon off?”
Ugh, it sounded so wretched coming from his mouth. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes, essentially.”
“Well, then… No.”
“‘No?’ Whaddaya mean, ‘No?!’ I—”
“I won’t give you the afternoon off—” he continued. “But under certain conditions I will consider allowing you to go—of course, you’ll need to ask nicely, my dear.”
As Buttercup was showered with more crumples of paper she grit her teeth and muttered, “May… I… please… be permitted to attend my team’s practice today?”
“Sir?”
“… Sir.”
“Smile?”
Buttercup tweaked the corners of her mouth.
Butch shrugged. “Close enough.”
“So I can go?”
“Hold it, I’m not finished.” Butch lifted his elbow. “You’ll have to allow me to escort you around the rest of the day.”
Buttercup gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.”
He closed her dropped jaw and grinned widely. “Try me.”
“Is it your life’s goal to humiliate me in any way, shape, form, and fashion?” she wailed.
“That, and to be waited on by you, hand and foot, for the next 2.5 days.”
“My life is so fulfilling,” Buttercup griped petulantly, eyeing his proffered arm with malice.
“Naturally. I’m in it, aren’t I?”
Wednesday afternoon, 5:38 pm.
“Whoo… ” Buttercup let out a sigh of relief as she exited the locker room. Even her teammates had been giving her scornful glares every so often during the practice. If they had to go through what she went through—
“They’d change their minds right quick, wouldn’t they?” Buttercup grunted to herself and shifted her backpack’s weight from one shoulder to both.
“Talking to yourself, are you?”
Buttercup groaned and thought fervently, Friday, you just won’t come fast enough, will you?
Butch fell into step beside her, chuckling softly. “You’ve got some pretty nice moves out there, you know.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m being serious. You didn’t flub a single shot.”
“Uh-huh—wait, were you watching?”
“Of course. Had to make sure of my personal attendant’s well-being, didn’t I?”
“Good to know you care,” Buttercup blandly returned.
“Your fountain of sincerity just never runs dry, does it?”
“Call it ‘sincerity’ if you like,” Buttercup groused.
“Excellent, that’s what I like to hear. Now, if I remember correctly, I’m supposed to be ‘escorting’ you around, aren’t I?”
“Muhhhhh… ” Buttercup groaned.
“And I feel like going to the mall!”
“Muhhhhh… ”
Wednesday evening, 8:12 pm.
“So where’d you go after basketball practice, Buttercup?”
“Bubbles, I’d really prefer you not bother me right now.” Buttercup stuck the lasagna for tomorrow’s lunch into the oven and set the timer. “I’m still reeling from my week-long bout of loathing and hatred for every living breathing thing that speaks to me.” She paused and considered. “Though if you could manage to get me five minutes alone with Blossom I might consider talking to you.”
“Um, I’m under agreement with her to not let you two anywhere near each other.”
“Damn that crafty wench.”
“Robin said she saw you and Butch at the mall. You were holding each other.”
Buttercup really, really, really hated her life. “For your information, I was under obligation to link my arm in his. It is all part of this grand, elaborate scheme to humiliate me, and so far, it’s working perfectly.”
“Buttercup, it can’t be all that bad.”
“… You’re one of those poor, deluded nitwits that actually considers me lucky, aren’t you.”
“Oh, honestly, Buttercup…”
“… ”
“… Well, ok, maybe just a little.”
“Good God, Bubbles—”
“Hey, even you have to admit he’s… ‘easy on the eyes,’ you know.”
Buttercup glared at her blonde sister. “Out of the kitchen. Now. Before I do serious bodily harm to you.”
Bubbles’ eyes had already glazed over. “I mean, those times when he wears those nice, zip-off cargoes with the button-fly—”
Her sister had not just subtly indicated that she spent enough time studying Butch’s… torso to warrant extensive knowledge about the fly of his pants!!!
“Out!!! NOW!!” Buttercup shrieked, and literally hurled Bubbles out of the kitchen.
Wednesday evening, 8:12 pm.
“Hey, Butch. Where’ve you been?”
“Butch, how could you run up fifty dollars worth of coffee on my employee credit?! I’m going to be working this off for months, and you’ve only had it three days!!!”
“Boomer, quit your bitchin’. Butch has my parking spot; I keep having to park in the apartment complex five blocks away from the school.”
“What does it matter?! You can fly!!”
Butch tossed off his jacket and said regally, “Boomer, I’ll have you know that coffee can hardly begin to describe it. There are lattes, double lattes, mocha lattes, frappuccinos—”
“‘Frappuccinos?’ The hell? Why can’t you just drink plain black coffee like a real man?”
“Brick, I wouldn’t expect you to understand the finer points of caffeinated beverages.”
“… Dude, you sound like such a fruit.”
Butch kicked a crushed soda can on the floor toward Brick’s head. “Takes one to know one.”
“Say, what’s this?” Boomer queried, tugging out a strip of paper from Butch’s jacket.
“Oh, heh. I forced that Buttercup chick to go with me to the mall after school. Speaking of which, I should be calling her up soon to pick up my dry cleaning.”
“Doesn’t that place close at 8:30?” Brick asked, chucking the soda can back at Butch, who caught it one-handed.
“Yeah. I’ll call her in ten minutes,” Butch said, smirking. “Anyway, I dragged her into a photo booth so we could take some picky-tures.”
Brick sat up. “Pictures?”
“Not those types of pictures, you pervo.”
Brick shook his head and settled back in his seat. “Dude, you ever heard that saying, ‘when life gives you lemons—’”
“Hey, I got a good deal working for me. I ain’t gonna spoil A Good Thing.”
“Yeah, looks like you got it pretty good already,” Boomer said, eyeing the photo strip approvingly. “Is that your hand on her—”
“Gimme those.” Butch snatched the photos away from his brother. “What’re ya, blind? That’s the pager I gave her.”
“Ohhh. Giving gifts now, are we?”
“Piss off, Brick, or you won’t get Cherice’s number from me.”
“You say Cherice? Well, hot damn—wait a minute. What’s it gonna cost me?”
“How ‘bout your parking spot for the rest of the semester?”
“The hell?! Her number is worth something, but it sure as hell isn’t worth premium parking for my baby.”
“Suit yourself. Boomer?”
The blonde gave him a distasteful look. “I don’t wanna work at Starbuck’s for another forty years working off your coffee bill.”
“Lattes, Boomer. Lattes.”
“Priss.”
“You sound like Buttercup.”
“Oh, you’ve got pet names for each other?”
“Shut up. Well, I guess I’ll keep Cherice’s number all to myself, then.”
He glanced from one boy to the other, equal looks of hesitant consideration mirrored on their faces. Undoubtedly reminiscing about that pretty little getup she wore on pep rally days, with the skirt and the heels and the…
“All right, then. I guess I’ve got a couple of girls to make phone calls to. See ya.”
Butch flew to his room and shut the door.
“Goddammit,” Brick and Boomer muttered simultaneously.
Wednesday evening, 8:25 pm.
“The place closes in five minutes!!!”
“Well, then you better get crackin’, right? I wanna wear one of those shirts tomorrow, so you better haul ass, little girl.”
“… ”
“You going, or what?”
There was a series of incoherent grumblings over the phone, then a click.
“Thought so,” Butch murmured to himself, and sank back onto his bed. He held Cherice’s number up to the light and traced the digits with his eyes.
“Alright, tall, dark, and beautiful, here I come.” He flipped onto his stomach and dialed.
And paused.
He stared at the seven figures on his little screen, apathetic.
Nothing doing. So he had her number. Big deal. What was she going to do?
Oh, Butch, I’d love to go out with you! You’re just so cool and awesome and sexy and a really… cool guy, you know?! This is, like, a dream come—
“Ugh, God,” Butch groaned, and dropped his phone on the mattress. After glancing at it again he sighed and poked at the buttons, deleting the number, and the screen immediately took him back to the “Most Recent Calls” menu. Listed at the top was “Slave Monkey.”
He quirked his lips. Completely involuntarily, of course.
A moment passed, and he took hold of the phone again and hit “Recall.”
Wednesday evening, 8:29 pm.
“Thanks,” Buttercup mumbled to the owner, and walked out the door with an armload of freshly laundered shirts and pants.
She practically screamed when her cell went off.
“Yeah, what do you want,” she grumbled to herself, yanking out her phone with her free hand and flipping it open. “What?”
“Got my dry cleaning yet?”
“Yeah, I got it,” she snapped, taking to the sky. “I’ll drop it off in a minute.”
“Stop and get me a smoothie before you fly over here.”
Buttercup took a deep breath and concentrated on smashing that large apartment complex in her mind to quell her anger. “What flavor?”
“Oohh… surprise me.”
“Fine,” Buttercup said shortly. “See you.”
She snapped her phone shut and redirected her course to the smoothie shop a block away.
Wednesday evening, 8:31 pm.
Butch stood up and stretched as he walked to his desk and set his phone in its charger. He tossed the contents of his other hand on the wood surface, and was greeted with seven numbers and a strip of four black and white photos. Buttercup had the same “kill me now” expression in every one of them.
After a long while of studying them both he sighed and picked up the scrap of paper. “Sorry, Cherice. See ya around.”
A flash of his eyebeams and all that was left was ash scattering in the air.
He picked up the photo strip and got set to do the same, letting his eyes trail from the first to the fourth. Top to bottom. Bottom to top.
And back again.
And again.
Suddenly he shook his head and muttered, “I’m out of my mind,” shoved the photos into his open desk drawer, slammed it shut, and walked away.
Thursday morning, 8:57 am.
“You’re telling me you want another coffee? I’ve already gotten you three of those, and school hasn’t even started yet!”
Butch crushed his empty cup in one hand and tossed it in the trash bin nearby. “Precisely. There’s enough time for one last drink.”
“You know that stuff’s going to kill you,” Buttercup admonished, crossing her arms and shifting her hips.
Butch beamed at her. “I believe it’s your job to do my bidding, not worry about my health. Now get yer pretty little self down to the coffee shop and back in time for school.”
Buttercup uncrossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Once this week is over your ass is mine.”
“Have it your way,” Butch said, nonplussed, and shrugged. “Till then, your ass is mine.” He punctuated this line with a smug quirk of the corner of his mouth.
The look on Buttercup’s face was positively venomous. He thought it suited her. “You wretched, wretched human being.”
“You gonna get my coffee or what?”
Thursday afternoon, 4:46 pm.
“Hey girls!” Buttercup & Bubbles simultaneously turned halfway down the steps of the school entrance to see Robin jogging towards them.
“Hi Robin,” Bubbles said cheerily. “How’s it going?”
“Hey,” Buttercup said, in a much less positive voice than her sister.
Robin took a curious glance at the darker haired girl. “Something the matter, Buttercup?”
“Oh, she’s just upset that she couldn’t find Blossom. Um, again,” Bubbles clarified, dismissing the matter with a wave of her hand.
There was an incoherent whine of frustration from Buttercup’s throat.
“What’s up with Blossom? What’d she do?”
“She’s pretty much the reason Buttercup’s been hanging out with Butch the entire week.”
Buttercup groaned assent.
Robin looked at Buttercup, an incredulous look on her face. “Seriously?”
At the look on her friend’s face Buttercup could’ve hugged her. Finally, a sympathetic—
“And you’re complaining?” Robin balked, jaw dropping.
Buttercup’s face contracted in disgust and she wrenched back. “Is this whole world going insane?!”
“Don’t pin this on us,” Bubbles responded, “you’re the one who’s repulsed at the idea of Butch escorting you around in public.”
“If you ever speak like that again, you’re going to be eating through a hole in your neck for the rest of your life,” Buttercup threatened maliciously.
“See what I have to put up with, Robin? This whole week it’s been nothing but, ‘Bubbles, it’s horrible, he makes me meet up with him in the mornings,’ ‘Oh, he made me go to the mall with him, Bubbles,’ or, ‘God, Bubbles, he’s making me feed him—’”
“Scratch that,” Buttercup snarled, and took a menacing step towards her sister. “You’re going to be eating through a hole in your neck for the rest of the week, which is how long I’m going to let you live.”
Robin seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Buttercup, how can you possibly be put off by that?”
“Put off? Put off?! I’m not just put off, I’m positively nauseated by it! This has been the longest week of my life! Of two lifetimes! My hope for truth and justice has been permanently jilted! My faith in my sisters, and now, my friends, has proven to be worth jack! And it doesn’t just end with this week, oh no, that would be too easy, I’m going to have to live with this for the rest of my life now, dealing with that stupid smirk of his and his stupid taunts and his stupid face—”
“Buttercup, you’ve been dealing with that ‘stupid face’ since you were five. Get over it,” Bubbles dismissed, obviously not interested in listening to a rerun of Why I Hate Butch: An In Depth Dissertation by Buttercup. “Plus, the fact that you’re even concerned with his face is a pretty obvious indication that you’re in denial—”
“Denial?!” Buttercup shrieked, ready to shed blood. “What is there to be in denial over? I think you’re the one in denial; these guys tried to knock us off when we were in kinder—Robin, what’s with you?” Buttercup asked suspiciously, seeing her friend’s face suddenly glow bright pink.
“Oh, um, nothing,” Robin said hastily, shaking her head and laughing nervously. “I just, er, thought you said something else—”
Oh God, it was official: the universe was filled with repugnant, disgusting people who stared at boys’ pants and believed kids were becoming victims of searing, passionate lust at age five.
Thoroughly shaken, Buttercup croaked, “Going. Home. Now,” and prepared to shoot down the steps just as Butch pulled up in front of the entrance in his garish white Cadillac Escalade.
Buttercup stopped dead in her tracks and willed herself not to vomit.
Butch leaned out of the driver’s side window and grinned. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said cordially to the two girls behind Buttercup, who he then turned to and sneered, “Afternoon, sugar.”
“If you call me that again, kids’ll be calling you butchered, instead of Butch,” Buttercup spat.
“You do say the sweetest things. Now hop in the car. We need to get some gas.”
Buttercup winced at hearing “we.” She turned and stared desolately at Bubbles & Robin. “Don’t you two have somewhere to go?”
“As in, home?” Bubbles returned dryly, evidently still unconvinced despite Buttercup’s most potent convictions. “Yeah, see you later… ‘sugar.’ Let’s stop for ice cream on the way home, Robin… ”
Buttercup’s eyes flared as she watched her sister walk away, tailed by their friend. “That girl is begging to be stuffed.”
“Fantastic. Now you stuff it and get in the car. You can fill me in on all the grisly details on the way to the gas station.”
Thursday afternoon, 4:51 pm.
“Now, you should know I only run this little lady on premium. If I catch you using the regular or, God forbid, unleaded, I’m going to have your head on a pike, Buttercup.”
Buttercup took the proffered gas card from him and wrinkled her face. “‘Premium?’ For Christ’s sake, it’s an Escalade, you know how much gas these things guzzle?”
“Yeah, I know, and I’m killing the environment, and I’m clubbing baby seals. Cry me a river, why don’t you.”
“I’ll cry you a river, all right,” Buttercup muttered spitefully and slid out the passenger door. “Hey, pop open the tank for me.”
The little door swung out obediently and she set about running the pump to the tank. “One more day, Buttercup,” she said quietly to herself in an effort to brighten her spirits. “One more day.”
“Aw, getting wistful, are we?” Butch appeared from the end of the trunk and leaned on the back bumper of his car. “Yeah, me too.”
“Shut up.”
Butch crossed his arms and glanced at his companion, whose eyes were devoutly focused on the task at hand.
He felt the makings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and shook it off.
The movement caught Buttercup’s gaze, and she looked up and piped amiably, “What, having an epileptic seizure? Lovely!”
Recovering quickly, Butch countered with, “Aw, did you just call me lovely?”
“Bite me,” Buttercup shot back, mock cheerfulness sucked from her expression.
“Don’t tempt me,” Butch returned, just as the bell dinged to signal a full tank.
Thursday afternoon, 4:57 pm.
“I have a test tomorrow, you know,” Buttercup said suddenly as they pulled onto her street. “A history test.”
A long quiet moment settled before Butch finally said, “Um, and…?”
“And I don’t exactly have time to run around and do shit for you tonight,” Buttercup snapped, because it was obvious. “This test is 50% of my six weeks grade. I need to do well on it.”
Butch let the statement gestate in his head for a bit before saying, “Ok.”
Buttercup groaned. “I knew—wait. What? Did you just say, ‘Ok?’”
Butch nodded. “Mm-hm.”
She squinted her eyes and peered at him from behind a black curtain of hair. “What’s the catch?”
“Oh, you know me too well.”
“What’s the blasted catch, dammit.”
He pulled up to her house and announced, “We’re ho—”
“Tell me whaMPH—”
Buttercup was interrupted by Butch’s mitt closing over her mouth as he leant in and carefully explained, “I’ll tell you when I think of it.”
He pulled away, and Buttercup didn’t know what to make of that look.
Evil people should just be subjected to a lifetime of stale cookies and educational television shows, she thought bitterly as she walked up the driveway home.
Friday afternoon, 1:19 pm.
“G’day, mate,” Butch drawled lazily as Buttercup strode up to their table, engrossed in her history text. “What’ve we got today?”
“How does a salad sound?” Buttercup asked in a monotone, still concentrated on her book.
The smile was wiped clean off of Butch’s face and he gaped at her in ill-masked horror. “… GUH?!”
“I told you, I’m really—”
“Yeah, but—” Butch suddenly clamped his mouth shut, then, after a moment of what appeared to be deep consideration, took a deep breath and said, “Er, well, that’s fine. I guess. I think. I mean—”
Buttercup snorted, and he glanced sharply at her. “What?”
“I was joking. It’s a casserole. Something quick and simple. No five star dining for you today.” Buttercup sat and pulled out the Tupperware and plastic utensils, history book still open in one hand. She gave Butch a curious look. “But that was weird. Were you actually going to accept the supposed salad?”
Butch’s eyes slid to the side and he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, slightly discomfited that he’d done something decent, particularly in regards to Buttercup.
This is not good, he thought to himself. This is not good at all.
“Yeah, eloquent as usual, I see,” Buttercup scoffed, and laid her book on the table.
“How’d your studying go,” Butch muttered noncommittally, trying to distract himself from his prior irretrievable blunder.
Buttercup groaned. “Could’ve gone better. I was up till four looking through my notes. And that bank robbery last night didn’t help much. Ate a good hour sized chunk out of my review time.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Butch said before he could stop himself.
Buttercup looked up, blinking hard. “Excuse me?”
Dammit! “Never mind. Get back to studying.” Oh, yeah. Smooth recovery from Blunder #2, indeed.
Buttercup stared at him a moment longer, then cast her attention back to her textbook. “Whatever you say.” Without looking up she pried the top of the container off and dipped a spoon into it.
Butch immediately reached over and plucked it out of her hand, eliciting the third Funny Look from Buttercup for the day. Oh, this was not going well one bit.
“What?” she inquired, a bit derisively. “Did I bring the wrong spoon?”
“Um, I can feed myself for the day. You can, er, concentrate on your studying.”
Cue Funny Look #4. Butch had already lost count of his blunders for the day.
Wide-eyed, Buttercup returned to her book and tried to concentrate on the dates and major battles of the Civil War, pushing her bafflement at Butch’s weird behavior out of her mind.
Friday afternoon, 4:43 pm.
Buttercup undid the window latch to her room and slipped in, letting her bag slither from her shoulders to the carpet. She sighed heavily and flopped onto her bed, shutting her eyes and ready for a long respite, one where she didn’t have to think about studying and tests (particularly history, though she felt she’d managed at best a B on today’s test, which really wasn’t bad) and running errands for people who topped her blacklist—
She furrowed her brow and cracked her eyes open a tad, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I barely heard from that wretch today,” she mused out loud, and tugged her cell phone from her pocket, scrolling through “Missed Calls” just to make sure.
None. He hadn’t called or paged her today at all.
“Weird,” she murmured to herself, and rolled to her side, letting her phone bounce against the mattress. Something wasn’t right. The furrow in her brow deepened. If he hadn’t bugged her all day…
There was a catch, that was clear, and she wasn’t technically free for another seven hours.
Whatever it was, it had to be one hell of a catch.
“Gruh, Buttercup, don’t think about this now,” she groaned, determined not to be pessimistic. Just half a day, and she’d be home scot free. Whatever he threw at her, she’d get through it, no sweat. Just let him try and dampen her spirits, no matter how humiliating or disgraceful or repulsive the tasks she’d have to perform—
She was starting to depress herself.
“Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” BUTTERCUP grunted firmly, and squeezed her eyes shut. She’d nap until he beeped her, at least—
Right on cue, her cell went off.
“Figures,” she griped, eyes opening as she reached for her phone.
Friday evening, 6:33 pm.
“Professor,” Buttercup called as she reached the bottom of the stairs, “I’m going out to meet some… ” she took a deep breath before saying, in a strained voice, “…friends… tonight. I won’t be eating dinner with you guys.”
The Professor popped his head out of the crack in the doorway leading to the lab and stared at Buttercup. “Aw, that’s a shame, honey. What about tomorrow? We’ve barely seen you at all this week. And Blossom’s been so keen to know where you’ve been these past few days too.”
“I’ll bet,” Buttercup muttered, tugging on her sneakers.
“So do you have any plans for tomorrow, sweetie?”
“Not yet. Um, I don’t think so.” Buttercup ran a hand through her hair. “If you wanna do one of those ‘family things’ tomorrow, I’m up for it.”
“I’ve got a seminar tomorrow around lunchtime, but maybe we can all go someplace for dinner?”
Buttercup briefly fantasized about the opportunity to get to stab Blossom in the leg with a multitude of silverware and immediately said, “Sure.”
“All right, then. Got your phone?”
“Uh, yeah.” Please, PLEASE don’t ask who I’m meeting, Buttercup prayed fervently.
“What time will you be back?”
“When do I need to be back?” Buttercup continued to pray.
“How long are you planning to be out?”
“Why do we keep talking in questions?”
The Professor raised an eyebrow. “Why do you keep answering my questions with more questions?”
“… Um?”
“Just be back by 12:30.”
Buttercup glanced at the clock, then back to the Professor. “That’s more than enough. Almost to an excess.”
The Professor raised his other eyebrow. “Have you been reading Blossom’s textbooks lately?”
“Professor, I’ll see you later.”
“Hold it! Who are you—”
Buttercup slammed the door.
The Professor shook his head and muttered, “Kids,” as he retreated back into his lab.
Friday evening, 6:34 pm.
Buttercup was locking the door just as Bubbles opened the bedroom window and hollered, “Where you headed?”
Green eyes soon met her blue ones from the lawn. “I just had this conversation with the Professor, you know.”
Bubbles tilted her head. “You changed,” she said.
“I put on a jacket,” Buttercup clarified, eyeing her sister darkly.
“That still counts as dressing up.”
“Go away. I’ll pound you after I get back from my last evening in Hell.”
“When are you supposed to meet him?”
“6:45, alright? Now if you’ll—”
“What’re you going to do?”
“What, is this 20 Questions or something?”
“Ooh, I see we’re in a hurry.”
Buttercup deigned not to respond, instead flashing Bubbles a rather vulgar gesture before zipping off towards town.
Bubbles shrugged and pulled back into the room, shutting the window. “Living proof that ‘denial’ is not just a river in Egypt,” she said out loud as she flipped on her stereo.
-end pt. 1-
this fic killed lj's text limit. go to next entry for the rest of friday evening, yes.