Entry tags:
On sleepless nights I...
More Than Human, ch7a
part 1
part 2
Title: More Than Human
Chapter 7a: Can't Sleep, But... or Some Other Beginning's End
Pairing: Buttercup/Mitch
Rating: R/M, because they're teenagers and a good handful of them use terrible, filthy language.
Disclaimer: Pay your respect to Craig, not me.
Summary: This is the ending to a different story. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. – Camus
Notes: I still remember my own. My car felt very lonely as I drove away. I thought I'd never stop crying. Thanks to![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mathkid and juxtaposie for the close attention they paid to a fictional character's heartbreak. This is a small prequel/backstory mini-chapter, though you probably don't even have to have read the rest of TEF to follow this. Regular TEF timeline resumes next chapter.
More Than Human, Pt. 0.25 – Winter Previous
December – Can't Sleep, But... or Some Other Beginning's End
-sbj-
***
“So... you know, it wasn't bad for a first try,” Bubbles consoled Blossom in their smoldering kitchen.
Blossom pouted and looked guiltily at the stove.
Bubbles swatted out the remains of a small fire with a dish towel as she continued, “You're good at so many other things, Blossom! You don't have to be good at everything.”
“Maybe spaghetti just isn't my thing,” Blossom said hopefully.
Bubbles bit her tongue to keep from saying, Maybe cooking just isn't your thing. Bubbles loved her sister, but she had to discourage her from doing this or somebody was bound to get hurt further on down the road. Blossom in a kitchen could do more property damage than a monster fight in downtown Townsville these days.
“We've got some leftovers,” Bubbles said encouragingly. “We'll just leave that for the Professor when he comes back.”
Suddenly the door flew open, the green streak that shot through it flying fast enough to send papers flying everywhere and unstraighten paintings on the wall.
“Buttercup!” Blossom yelled crossly as her hair whipped around her face in a mess of tangles.
“Buttercup?” Bubbles said, a little gentler as she floated to the base of the stairs. “What's wrong?”
Their door slammed shut.
***
Buttercup could feel only a numbing, aching rage. She flung her jacket (his jacket, his fucking jacket) off and staggered to the vanity. She pushed aside all her sisters' bottles of nail polish and makeup, dimly hearing some of it clattering to the floor as she bent over, resting her elbows on the vanity and burying her face in her hands. Her hair curtained around her, the long strands curling and pooling along the wooden surface, and she liked that for a second, the way it hid her face, hid her from the world.
Then she remembered that she hated it long, that it was high maintenance and unmanageable at this length, and that she'd only ever grown it out like this for Mitch...
She suddenly recalled the feel of his hands running through her hair, how happy she'd feel as he'd stroke her hair back and then curl his fingers in it, smirking as he'd pull her in for a kiss—
She glared at her reflection, then caught sight of a pair of scissors.
Something inside her wanted to make it hurt just as much on the outside, so she pulled her hair away from her head as hard as she could, relishing that brief, sharp tingling in her scalp before the scissors closed and a handful of hair fell away. She snipped at the hair all around her neck, not caring about the angle or making it even, she just wanted it off, she just wanted it gone.
Her cell phone rumbled in her pocket as she let the scissors drop from her hand to the carpet, and she tugged it out. A text.
Did we just break—
She was typing her response before she even finished reading.
Yes
She tossed her cell onto the vanity and stared at it as it went to its screensaver. Her legs felt weak all of a sudden, and the world felt heavy, so fucking heavy, and she shook as she sat back down, staring numbly at her cell.
There was a knock on the door, then, both her sisters' voices, questioning.
“Buttercup?”
She didn't want to answer them. They opened the door.
“Buttercup, what's going on?” Blossom asked, her eyes widening at the sight of Buttercup's hair.
“We broke up,” Buttercup croaked stiffly, and after a second she lifted her head so her sisters could see that she wasn't crying, not one bit.
***
Bubbles rustled with something on the floor, carrying it to over the closet while Blossom unfurled a towel and wrapped it around Buttercup's neck like a backwards cape.
“Can't trust either of you with scissors, honestly,” she said softly as she brushed Buttercup's uneven hair. “Having been a victim myself, I'd know.”
Buttercup's cell phone vibrated again, once. A text. Blossom paused as she picked up the scissors.
“Do you want to get that?”
“No,” Buttercup said abruptly.
“Three days,” Bubbles said as she re-emerged from the closet. Buttercup gave her a look; her sister had said that with a very significant tone and expression.
“What's so special about three days?”
Bubbles knelt at her sister's side and crooked an arm over her lap.
“Three days to get over the crying.”
“Do I look like I'm fucking crying?” Buttercup snapped. Her cell phone vibrated again, and she glared at it.
“Language,” Blossom reprimanded, though it was more out of habit than anything else. “Hold your head still, Buttercup.”
“There's more,” Bubbles said sagely as Blossom snipped the scissors around Buttercup's head. “Three days of waiting on you, doing whatever you want—”
“Within legal reason,” Blossom interjected.
“Three days where what you need emotionally is our first priority,” Bubbles finished. Buttercup rolled her eyes.
“This from the relationship expert,” she muttered.
“I wouldn't call myself an expert,” Bubbles said as she stood again. Blossom snipped away. “But I have gone through a few breakups. And it's not like you'll mind ordering us around for three days, anyway.”
Buttercup's cell vibrated again, catching Bubbles' attention, and she reached for it. Buttercup snatched it before her sister could get it, and snapped the phone in half.
“Buttercup! Careful!” Blossom cried; the scissors had scraped along Buttercup's neck and one of the tips was now bent at an angle. Buttercup tossed the remnants of her phone back onto the vanity.
“Sorry.”
Blossom sighed as she tried the scissors; they wouldn't close now.
“Well, luckily I finished just before you jerked your head,” she said, brushing loose hair clippings onto the towel, then undoing it. “There. What do you think?”
Buttercup studied her reflection, feeling an odd emptiness in her chest.
“Better. Better than it was five minutes ago. Better than it was an hour ago, even.”
“I liked it long,” Bubbles said helpfully. “Your hair was beautiful long.”
Buttercup didn't respond. She only ran her hands through her now-short hair, scrutinizing her reflection. Bubbles fidgeted at her side.
“Sooo... what do you want to do?”
“Would you like us to give you a moment?” Blossom asked.
Buttercup braced her arms against her knees as she stood, staring at the surface of the vanity she'd stood at just this morning. Then she turned to her sisters with a sinister smile on her face.
“Did I hear right?” she sneered, and her sisters pulled back a little. That was not the face of a girl who'd just suffered tremendous heartbreak. “Three days of doing whatever I want?”
***
Bubbles was cowering on the couch already with Octi while Blossom set up the TV. Buttercup blended the last milkshake (she decided not to ask about the burnt hair smell in the kitchen) and carried them all out to the living room.
“Aw, Bubbles, stop whimpering,” she chastised, handing her a glass. “It's not even that scary.”
“I should've made rules,” Bubbles mumbled, burrowing into the cushions and crushing Octi to her chest. “I should've said, 'Nothing scary and evil that is going to make me totally unable to sleep at night.' I'm going to be crawling into your bed to sleep with you after this.”
“As a recent victim of a terrible breakup, it would satisfy me much more emotionally if you were to crawl into bed with Blossom,” Buttercup said soothingly, and Bubbles glared at her.
“Bubbles, it won't be that bad,” Blossom said, floating back to the couch and claiming her shake. “It's just a movie.”
“Yeah, look,” Buttercup said, thrusting the DVD case in Bubbles' face. “The ghost on the box isn't that scary—”
“Don't show me that!” Bubbles said in a shrill voice, hiding her face behind Octi.
“This is in Japanese?” Blossom asked, taking the box from Buttercup and examining it (she recoiled a little at the image on the cover).
“Yep,” Buttercup said, grabbing Bubbles' arm and trying to get her up. “Come on, sit with me on the floor—”
“Noooooooo!” Bubbles squealed, resisting.
“Buttercup, let her stay on the couch,” Blossom scolded. “Yeah, you went through a breakup, but this is being unnecessarily cruel. She agreed to watch this with you, and you know she hates this stuff. You want me to sit with you on the floor?”
“Nooo,” Bubbles whined, clutching at Blossom. “Don't leave me alone in the back!”
In the end, they all sat on the couch. Buttercup was less interested in the movie than she was in seeing her sisters squirm, and she nursed her milkshake as she watched them, grinning to herself. Bubbles screamed at every cut, even during the non-scary parts, just in anticipation of the possibility of seeing something horrifying. Blossom started off with a resolute, determined look on her face, obviously giving herself an internal pep talk about how this was all just a movie and it wasn't real. That face gradually broke down as the movie wore on, and Buttercup watched surreptitiously as their fearless leader chewed her lip and tried to suffocate a cushion into her chest.
“Why does she stay in that house?” Blossom moaned. “I would leave! If something like that happened, like, more than once, I'd pack it up and go, seriously. I'd even torch the place on the way out.”
“You mean you'd try to cook something before you left?” Buttercup said dryly, and Blossom glowered at her. “Anyway, shh. You're always talking during movies, trying to inject reality into them. It's kinda annoying.”
Bubbles just made wounded puppy noises. She'd moved from the corner of the couch to Buttercup's side, and was now curled up against her sister. Buttercup let her cling; she even patted her hair every time something scary happened.
“See, it wasn't that bad,” Buttercup said when the credits started to roll. Blossom shuddered, clearly disagreeing.
“Creepy ending,” she said, still hugging her cushion.
“I haaaaate youuuuu,” Bubbles practically sobbed, hitting Buttercup with Octi. “I can't believe you made me watch that! You suck! I'm going to need, like, seventy jillion lights on at night just to get to sleep now!”
Buttercup only smirked as her sister smacked her with Octi a few more times before settling back down. She turned the DVD player off and then surfed through the channels, finally settling on a sleazy reality show station (“Oh, come on, Buttercup,” Blossom groaned).
They watched it anyway, a whole three hours' worth of trashy TV. By the end of the three hours, Bubbles and Blossom had fallen asleep. It was one in the morning; they weren't as used to staying up late as Buttercup was.
Buttercup gingerly lifted Bubbles' head off her shoulder and settled her on the couch, covering her with a nearby throw. She took the empty milkshake glasses back to the kitchen, rinsing them out and then setting them in the dishwasher. She flipped off light switches (but left a lamp on in the living room, just in case Bubbles woke up and freaked out) and reclaimed her horror movie to return to her shelf upstairs. On the way up she re-straightened the paintings and pictures that hung crooked on the wall.
Upstairs she picked up all the makeup she'd shoved onto the floor and settled it back on the vanity. Long tendrils of her hair still curled on the carpet; she picked it all up to throw away and then used a mini-vac to suck up the remaining hair, plus some powder that had spilled out of one of the makeup boxes. She ignored her broken cell, still sitting on the vanity.
After a moment spent standing uneasily in their room, she went and had a quick shower. Without her sisters awake, it was harder to distract herself. She moved fast, because when she took her time her mind started to wander. Five minutes after she stepped into the bathroom, she was dressed and ready for bed. Except mentally.
She stood at one of the windows and stared out into the night for a bit. This would be a great time for a distraction, she thought. In their younger days, they could count on Mojo attempting a breakout. That wasn't so likely anymore, especially not on the same day. They could also count on frequent monster attacks back then, but with the citywide security system the Professor had been developing over the years those barely occurred once a month, now.
She wondered if Mitch was up packing.
She glanced at the clock. In another four hours or so he'd be at the airport, waiting for his flight. She'd been planning to go see him off. She wasn't so sure she'd be doing that now.
A dull ache built in her chest, and she stared at her broken cell phone, briefly wondering what he had texted her.
The front door eased open. She tensed at first, then relaxed as she recognized the Professor's step, light as he tried to avoid waking up anyone in the house with superhearing. She heard him pause in the living room, then the quiet creak of the stairs as he made his way to the second story.
She turned her back to the window and waited, facing the door. Sure enough, he paused by their room to peek in, blinking in surprise when he saw Buttercup awake. She smiled.
“Hey, Professor.”
“Hey,” he whispered. “You're still up?”
She nodded.
“I'm sorry I'm home so late. I left a message on Blossom's cell around nine.”
“Oh. We were watching a movie.”
“I just didn't want you waiting up for me.”
She shook her head.
“We were fine, Professor.”
He smiled.
“Get to bed, then. I'll see you in the morning.”
“Okay.”
He disappeared, making his way to his room. Had he seen? If he had, he would've mentioned something. She'd kept her hair long for ages. And her face. Did it show in her face? It must not have. He hadn't said anything. He hadn't noticed.
I must be less affected by this than I thought. After all, all she felt was that dull ache, which was now gradually numbing. Was this how breakups were supposed to feel? If she'd been the type of person who was comfortable with discussing feelings, she would've asked Bubbles.
She stood with her back to the window for a long time, her eyes trained on her silhouette stretching along the carpet. She could hear the Professor rustling about in his room. A few minutes after she heard him step out of the shower, she floated out into the hall, towards his bedroom. He was probably dressed at this point, but she knocked lightly anyway.
“Professor?”
“Buttercup? I thought you were going to bed.”
She swung the door open and stepped in; he was toweling his hair off in his pajamas. He paused.
“Gosh, my eyes must've been tired earlier. You cut your hair?”
She nodded. “I mean, Blossom did.”
“It looks nice.”
“I like it this way.” She glanced at his dresser, spotted his college ring, and picked it up to examine it.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, hanging his towel over the back of a chair. His brow was knit in genuine concern now.
She thought for a minute, then finally said, “Can't sleep, but...” She trailed off, unsure of how to continue, and just kept rolling the ring about in her hands.
The Professor gave her some time, then asked, “But what?”
I don't know, she thought, and for some reason that made her really sad, sadder than the act of breaking up. He was still a bit away, maybe a total of six feet, tops, so she wasn't sure how much he could see of her face. For that matter, she still wasn't sure how much her face was showing.
“I don't know,” she said softly. She ran her eyes along every facet of the ring, then placed it back on the dresser. “Me and Mitch broke up.”
Her eyes did not trail back to him, so she couldn't tell how he took the news—whether it made him relieved, or happy, or overjoyed. She only stared at his ring and the polished wood it rested on. She hadn't even been thinking of saying it, at least not like that, so unceremoniously, so nothing, like she was only telling him what she'd eaten for lunch.
She was still only numb, instead of explosive. Why wasn't she being more emotional about this?
“Oh, Buttercup.” The Professor was genuinely apologetic, concerned. “I'm sorry. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”
She turned her attention to him and gave it a second more, reflecting on the lack of stinging behind her eyes, in her heart, the lack of anger and hurt feelings. There was nothing.
“You know... yeah,” she said, a little incredulously. “That's the weird thing, but... I guess it's a good weird thing.”
No it isn't.
“I mean, I was angry earlier, but I really feel okay now.”
No you don't.
“I feel... fine.”
No you don't. This isn't okay, this isn't fine, you were in love with him for years, you should not be fine, this is not okay, you are not okay, Buttercup, you are not fucking FINE—
“I'm fine,” she said quietly, looking the Professor in the eye, and then she felt it: the sudden, hot welling of tears, the tightening in her throat, the insufferable weight of a heart heavy with grief. It was like the worst sort of ambush attack, every sense was numb with pain, with an ache she'd never, ever felt before, not in any fight, not ever.
The Professor saw it, and he closed that distance faster than she could fly (she'd never flown that fast, never), and swept his arms around her, hugging her tight as her world caved in on itself.
I am not fine.
She was sobbing into his chest, she couldn't remember not sobbing into his chest, she only felt grief, she could only remember feeling grief. Every memory of Mitch that flashed across her mind was like a knife in her chest; she couldn't stand on her own, and it was a miracle her father was there to hold her up.
The Professor was shushing her, stroking her hair (Mitch liked to do that, and that recollection only made her sob harder) as he swayed them back and forth, and she let him.
“He thought I didn't love him,” she gasped, hiccuping over her words (fuck, why was she crying like this, fuck fuck fuck). “He said I didn't, I didn't treat him like a boyfriend, that I never wanted to, to, to hold his hand, that I was all, that I wanted to keep my options open, but I didn't, I didn't, I loved him, I loved him ever since we were kids, I loved him—”
It was horrible, how crying could do this to you, how it could take over every sense and part of your body. Buttercup felt completely lost, completely out of control. She couldn't get enough air or enough strength to stand or cry enough, she couldn't cry enough, she couldn't stop crying—
“He had no idea,” she sobbed, thinking of being ten and in love with him, of being thirteen and in love with him, of just being in love with him forever and ever and never wanting anything else, anyone else but him. How had he not noticed? How could he not have known?
You don't let anything show. Mitch, her sisters, the Professor. Nobody would know if she didn't let them see. But right now it didn't matter, she didn't care, she couldn't give a flying fuck if it was her fault.
“He had no idea!” she sobbed again, practically screaming into the Professor's chest. He held her tight, stroking her hair over and over again, like Mitch except not, Mitch who she'd broken up with (Stupid stupid STUPID), who she'd loved more than anything (You should've left the arcade, you should've), who had let her wear his t-shirt and given her his jacket and kissed her in the skate park, he was leaving tomorrow for three weeks, three weeks that felt more like an eternity, and in a way it was, breakups were an eternity. Christ, this sorrow felt like it would never end.
“He had no idea how much I loved him,” she cried, over and over again as her sisters slept on downstairs and her father desperately tried to squeeze those endless tears away. “He had no idea! I loved him, Professor, I loved him so much!”
-end Ch. 7a-
part 1
part 2
Title: More Than Human
Chapter 7a: Can't Sleep, But... or Some Other Beginning's End
Pairing: Buttercup/Mitch
Rating: R/M, because they're teenagers and a good handful of them use terrible, filthy language.
Disclaimer: Pay your respect to Craig, not me.
Summary: This is the ending to a different story. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. – Camus
Notes: I still remember my own. My car felt very lonely as I drove away. I thought I'd never stop crying. Thanks to
mathkid and juxtaposie for the close attention they paid to a fictional character's heartbreak. This is a small prequel/backstory mini-chapter, though you probably don't even have to have read the rest of TEF to follow this. Regular TEF timeline resumes next chapter.More Than Human, Pt. 0.25 – Winter Previous
December – Can't Sleep, But... or Some Other Beginning's End
-sbj-
***
“So... you know, it wasn't bad for a first try,” Bubbles consoled Blossom in their smoldering kitchen.
Blossom pouted and looked guiltily at the stove.
Bubbles swatted out the remains of a small fire with a dish towel as she continued, “You're good at so many other things, Blossom! You don't have to be good at everything.”
“Maybe spaghetti just isn't my thing,” Blossom said hopefully.
Bubbles bit her tongue to keep from saying, Maybe cooking just isn't your thing. Bubbles loved her sister, but she had to discourage her from doing this or somebody was bound to get hurt further on down the road. Blossom in a kitchen could do more property damage than a monster fight in downtown Townsville these days.
“We've got some leftovers,” Bubbles said encouragingly. “We'll just leave that for the Professor when he comes back.”
Suddenly the door flew open, the green streak that shot through it flying fast enough to send papers flying everywhere and unstraighten paintings on the wall.
“Buttercup!” Blossom yelled crossly as her hair whipped around her face in a mess of tangles.
“Buttercup?” Bubbles said, a little gentler as she floated to the base of the stairs. “What's wrong?”
Their door slammed shut.
***
Buttercup could feel only a numbing, aching rage. She flung her jacket (his jacket, his fucking jacket) off and staggered to the vanity. She pushed aside all her sisters' bottles of nail polish and makeup, dimly hearing some of it clattering to the floor as she bent over, resting her elbows on the vanity and burying her face in her hands. Her hair curtained around her, the long strands curling and pooling along the wooden surface, and she liked that for a second, the way it hid her face, hid her from the world.
Then she remembered that she hated it long, that it was high maintenance and unmanageable at this length, and that she'd only ever grown it out like this for Mitch...
She suddenly recalled the feel of his hands running through her hair, how happy she'd feel as he'd stroke her hair back and then curl his fingers in it, smirking as he'd pull her in for a kiss—
She glared at her reflection, then caught sight of a pair of scissors.
Something inside her wanted to make it hurt just as much on the outside, so she pulled her hair away from her head as hard as she could, relishing that brief, sharp tingling in her scalp before the scissors closed and a handful of hair fell away. She snipped at the hair all around her neck, not caring about the angle or making it even, she just wanted it off, she just wanted it gone.
Her cell phone rumbled in her pocket as she let the scissors drop from her hand to the carpet, and she tugged it out. A text.
Did we just break—
She was typing her response before she even finished reading.
Yes
She tossed her cell onto the vanity and stared at it as it went to its screensaver. Her legs felt weak all of a sudden, and the world felt heavy, so fucking heavy, and she shook as she sat back down, staring numbly at her cell.
There was a knock on the door, then, both her sisters' voices, questioning.
“Buttercup?”
She didn't want to answer them. They opened the door.
“Buttercup, what's going on?” Blossom asked, her eyes widening at the sight of Buttercup's hair.
“We broke up,” Buttercup croaked stiffly, and after a second she lifted her head so her sisters could see that she wasn't crying, not one bit.
***
Bubbles rustled with something on the floor, carrying it to over the closet while Blossom unfurled a towel and wrapped it around Buttercup's neck like a backwards cape.
“Can't trust either of you with scissors, honestly,” she said softly as she brushed Buttercup's uneven hair. “Having been a victim myself, I'd know.”
Buttercup's cell phone vibrated again, once. A text. Blossom paused as she picked up the scissors.
“Do you want to get that?”
“No,” Buttercup said abruptly.
“Three days,” Bubbles said as she re-emerged from the closet. Buttercup gave her a look; her sister had said that with a very significant tone and expression.
“What's so special about three days?”
Bubbles knelt at her sister's side and crooked an arm over her lap.
“Three days to get over the crying.”
“Do I look like I'm fucking crying?” Buttercup snapped. Her cell phone vibrated again, and she glared at it.
“Language,” Blossom reprimanded, though it was more out of habit than anything else. “Hold your head still, Buttercup.”
“There's more,” Bubbles said sagely as Blossom snipped the scissors around Buttercup's head. “Three days of waiting on you, doing whatever you want—”
“Within legal reason,” Blossom interjected.
“Three days where what you need emotionally is our first priority,” Bubbles finished. Buttercup rolled her eyes.
“This from the relationship expert,” she muttered.
“I wouldn't call myself an expert,” Bubbles said as she stood again. Blossom snipped away. “But I have gone through a few breakups. And it's not like you'll mind ordering us around for three days, anyway.”
Buttercup's cell vibrated again, catching Bubbles' attention, and she reached for it. Buttercup snatched it before her sister could get it, and snapped the phone in half.
“Buttercup! Careful!” Blossom cried; the scissors had scraped along Buttercup's neck and one of the tips was now bent at an angle. Buttercup tossed the remnants of her phone back onto the vanity.
“Sorry.”
Blossom sighed as she tried the scissors; they wouldn't close now.
“Well, luckily I finished just before you jerked your head,” she said, brushing loose hair clippings onto the towel, then undoing it. “There. What do you think?”
Buttercup studied her reflection, feeling an odd emptiness in her chest.
“Better. Better than it was five minutes ago. Better than it was an hour ago, even.”
“I liked it long,” Bubbles said helpfully. “Your hair was beautiful long.”
Buttercup didn't respond. She only ran her hands through her now-short hair, scrutinizing her reflection. Bubbles fidgeted at her side.
“Sooo... what do you want to do?”
“Would you like us to give you a moment?” Blossom asked.
Buttercup braced her arms against her knees as she stood, staring at the surface of the vanity she'd stood at just this morning. Then she turned to her sisters with a sinister smile on her face.
“Did I hear right?” she sneered, and her sisters pulled back a little. That was not the face of a girl who'd just suffered tremendous heartbreak. “Three days of doing whatever I want?”
***
Bubbles was cowering on the couch already with Octi while Blossom set up the TV. Buttercup blended the last milkshake (she decided not to ask about the burnt hair smell in the kitchen) and carried them all out to the living room.
“Aw, Bubbles, stop whimpering,” she chastised, handing her a glass. “It's not even that scary.”
“I should've made rules,” Bubbles mumbled, burrowing into the cushions and crushing Octi to her chest. “I should've said, 'Nothing scary and evil that is going to make me totally unable to sleep at night.' I'm going to be crawling into your bed to sleep with you after this.”
“As a recent victim of a terrible breakup, it would satisfy me much more emotionally if you were to crawl into bed with Blossom,” Buttercup said soothingly, and Bubbles glared at her.
“Bubbles, it won't be that bad,” Blossom said, floating back to the couch and claiming her shake. “It's just a movie.”
“Yeah, look,” Buttercup said, thrusting the DVD case in Bubbles' face. “The ghost on the box isn't that scary—”
“Don't show me that!” Bubbles said in a shrill voice, hiding her face behind Octi.
“This is in Japanese?” Blossom asked, taking the box from Buttercup and examining it (she recoiled a little at the image on the cover).
“Yep,” Buttercup said, grabbing Bubbles' arm and trying to get her up. “Come on, sit with me on the floor—”
“Noooooooo!” Bubbles squealed, resisting.
“Buttercup, let her stay on the couch,” Blossom scolded. “Yeah, you went through a breakup, but this is being unnecessarily cruel. She agreed to watch this with you, and you know she hates this stuff. You want me to sit with you on the floor?”
“Nooo,” Bubbles whined, clutching at Blossom. “Don't leave me alone in the back!”
In the end, they all sat on the couch. Buttercup was less interested in the movie than she was in seeing her sisters squirm, and she nursed her milkshake as she watched them, grinning to herself. Bubbles screamed at every cut, even during the non-scary parts, just in anticipation of the possibility of seeing something horrifying. Blossom started off with a resolute, determined look on her face, obviously giving herself an internal pep talk about how this was all just a movie and it wasn't real. That face gradually broke down as the movie wore on, and Buttercup watched surreptitiously as their fearless leader chewed her lip and tried to suffocate a cushion into her chest.
“Why does she stay in that house?” Blossom moaned. “I would leave! If something like that happened, like, more than once, I'd pack it up and go, seriously. I'd even torch the place on the way out.”
“You mean you'd try to cook something before you left?” Buttercup said dryly, and Blossom glowered at her. “Anyway, shh. You're always talking during movies, trying to inject reality into them. It's kinda annoying.”
Bubbles just made wounded puppy noises. She'd moved from the corner of the couch to Buttercup's side, and was now curled up against her sister. Buttercup let her cling; she even patted her hair every time something scary happened.
“See, it wasn't that bad,” Buttercup said when the credits started to roll. Blossom shuddered, clearly disagreeing.
“Creepy ending,” she said, still hugging her cushion.
“I haaaaate youuuuu,” Bubbles practically sobbed, hitting Buttercup with Octi. “I can't believe you made me watch that! You suck! I'm going to need, like, seventy jillion lights on at night just to get to sleep now!”
Buttercup only smirked as her sister smacked her with Octi a few more times before settling back down. She turned the DVD player off and then surfed through the channels, finally settling on a sleazy reality show station (“Oh, come on, Buttercup,” Blossom groaned).
They watched it anyway, a whole three hours' worth of trashy TV. By the end of the three hours, Bubbles and Blossom had fallen asleep. It was one in the morning; they weren't as used to staying up late as Buttercup was.
Buttercup gingerly lifted Bubbles' head off her shoulder and settled her on the couch, covering her with a nearby throw. She took the empty milkshake glasses back to the kitchen, rinsing them out and then setting them in the dishwasher. She flipped off light switches (but left a lamp on in the living room, just in case Bubbles woke up and freaked out) and reclaimed her horror movie to return to her shelf upstairs. On the way up she re-straightened the paintings and pictures that hung crooked on the wall.
Upstairs she picked up all the makeup she'd shoved onto the floor and settled it back on the vanity. Long tendrils of her hair still curled on the carpet; she picked it all up to throw away and then used a mini-vac to suck up the remaining hair, plus some powder that had spilled out of one of the makeup boxes. She ignored her broken cell, still sitting on the vanity.
After a moment spent standing uneasily in their room, she went and had a quick shower. Without her sisters awake, it was harder to distract herself. She moved fast, because when she took her time her mind started to wander. Five minutes after she stepped into the bathroom, she was dressed and ready for bed. Except mentally.
She stood at one of the windows and stared out into the night for a bit. This would be a great time for a distraction, she thought. In their younger days, they could count on Mojo attempting a breakout. That wasn't so likely anymore, especially not on the same day. They could also count on frequent monster attacks back then, but with the citywide security system the Professor had been developing over the years those barely occurred once a month, now.
She wondered if Mitch was up packing.
She glanced at the clock. In another four hours or so he'd be at the airport, waiting for his flight. She'd been planning to go see him off. She wasn't so sure she'd be doing that now.
A dull ache built in her chest, and she stared at her broken cell phone, briefly wondering what he had texted her.
The front door eased open. She tensed at first, then relaxed as she recognized the Professor's step, light as he tried to avoid waking up anyone in the house with superhearing. She heard him pause in the living room, then the quiet creak of the stairs as he made his way to the second story.
She turned her back to the window and waited, facing the door. Sure enough, he paused by their room to peek in, blinking in surprise when he saw Buttercup awake. She smiled.
“Hey, Professor.”
“Hey,” he whispered. “You're still up?”
She nodded.
“I'm sorry I'm home so late. I left a message on Blossom's cell around nine.”
“Oh. We were watching a movie.”
“I just didn't want you waiting up for me.”
She shook her head.
“We were fine, Professor.”
He smiled.
“Get to bed, then. I'll see you in the morning.”
“Okay.”
He disappeared, making his way to his room. Had he seen? If he had, he would've mentioned something. She'd kept her hair long for ages. And her face. Did it show in her face? It must not have. He hadn't said anything. He hadn't noticed.
I must be less affected by this than I thought. After all, all she felt was that dull ache, which was now gradually numbing. Was this how breakups were supposed to feel? If she'd been the type of person who was comfortable with discussing feelings, she would've asked Bubbles.
She stood with her back to the window for a long time, her eyes trained on her silhouette stretching along the carpet. She could hear the Professor rustling about in his room. A few minutes after she heard him step out of the shower, she floated out into the hall, towards his bedroom. He was probably dressed at this point, but she knocked lightly anyway.
“Professor?”
“Buttercup? I thought you were going to bed.”
She swung the door open and stepped in; he was toweling his hair off in his pajamas. He paused.
“Gosh, my eyes must've been tired earlier. You cut your hair?”
She nodded. “I mean, Blossom did.”
“It looks nice.”
“I like it this way.” She glanced at his dresser, spotted his college ring, and picked it up to examine it.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, hanging his towel over the back of a chair. His brow was knit in genuine concern now.
She thought for a minute, then finally said, “Can't sleep, but...” She trailed off, unsure of how to continue, and just kept rolling the ring about in her hands.
The Professor gave her some time, then asked, “But what?”
I don't know, she thought, and for some reason that made her really sad, sadder than the act of breaking up. He was still a bit away, maybe a total of six feet, tops, so she wasn't sure how much he could see of her face. For that matter, she still wasn't sure how much her face was showing.
“I don't know,” she said softly. She ran her eyes along every facet of the ring, then placed it back on the dresser. “Me and Mitch broke up.”
Her eyes did not trail back to him, so she couldn't tell how he took the news—whether it made him relieved, or happy, or overjoyed. She only stared at his ring and the polished wood it rested on. She hadn't even been thinking of saying it, at least not like that, so unceremoniously, so nothing, like she was only telling him what she'd eaten for lunch.
She was still only numb, instead of explosive. Why wasn't she being more emotional about this?
“Oh, Buttercup.” The Professor was genuinely apologetic, concerned. “I'm sorry. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”
She turned her attention to him and gave it a second more, reflecting on the lack of stinging behind her eyes, in her heart, the lack of anger and hurt feelings. There was nothing.
“You know... yeah,” she said, a little incredulously. “That's the weird thing, but... I guess it's a good weird thing.”
No it isn't.
“I mean, I was angry earlier, but I really feel okay now.”
No you don't.
“I feel... fine.”
No you don't. This isn't okay, this isn't fine, you were in love with him for years, you should not be fine, this is not okay, you are not okay, Buttercup, you are not fucking FINE—
“I'm fine,” she said quietly, looking the Professor in the eye, and then she felt it: the sudden, hot welling of tears, the tightening in her throat, the insufferable weight of a heart heavy with grief. It was like the worst sort of ambush attack, every sense was numb with pain, with an ache she'd never, ever felt before, not in any fight, not ever.
The Professor saw it, and he closed that distance faster than she could fly (she'd never flown that fast, never), and swept his arms around her, hugging her tight as her world caved in on itself.
I am not fine.
She was sobbing into his chest, she couldn't remember not sobbing into his chest, she only felt grief, she could only remember feeling grief. Every memory of Mitch that flashed across her mind was like a knife in her chest; she couldn't stand on her own, and it was a miracle her father was there to hold her up.
The Professor was shushing her, stroking her hair (Mitch liked to do that, and that recollection only made her sob harder) as he swayed them back and forth, and she let him.
“He thought I didn't love him,” she gasped, hiccuping over her words (fuck, why was she crying like this, fuck fuck fuck). “He said I didn't, I didn't treat him like a boyfriend, that I never wanted to, to, to hold his hand, that I was all, that I wanted to keep my options open, but I didn't, I didn't, I loved him, I loved him ever since we were kids, I loved him—”
It was horrible, how crying could do this to you, how it could take over every sense and part of your body. Buttercup felt completely lost, completely out of control. She couldn't get enough air or enough strength to stand or cry enough, she couldn't cry enough, she couldn't stop crying—
“He had no idea,” she sobbed, thinking of being ten and in love with him, of being thirteen and in love with him, of just being in love with him forever and ever and never wanting anything else, anyone else but him. How had he not noticed? How could he not have known?
You don't let anything show. Mitch, her sisters, the Professor. Nobody would know if she didn't let them see. But right now it didn't matter, she didn't care, she couldn't give a flying fuck if it was her fault.
“He had no idea!” she sobbed again, practically screaming into the Professor's chest. He held her tight, stroking her hair over and over again, like Mitch except not, Mitch who she'd broken up with (Stupid stupid STUPID), who she'd loved more than anything (You should've left the arcade, you should've), who had let her wear his t-shirt and given her his jacket and kissed her in the skate park, he was leaving tomorrow for three weeks, three weeks that felt more like an eternity, and in a way it was, breakups were an eternity. Christ, this sorrow felt like it would never end.
“He had no idea how much I loved him,” she cried, over and over again as her sisters slept on downstairs and her father desperately tried to squeeze those endless tears away. “He had no idea! I loved him, Professor, I loved him so much!”
-end Ch. 7a-