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Chapter Text

 When Bog had stalked across the studio to see if the painting students had stolen his power tools to make canvases again he had not expected to find a small brunette hiding in the supply cupboard. She was squashed among boxes and odd bits of lumber, paint stained knees drawn up under her chin while she texted on her phone. When light fell across her she looked up, her face a picture of horror.

Not, Bog thought, an unusual reaction to seeing his face unexpectedly. He hadn't shaved for a couple days and had been up late working on his latest sculpture in order to meet the deadline, so his eyes were circled with dark rings and his expression was borderline murderous over the possibility of repeat tool theft. What was unusual was that after a moment the girl, squinting up at him through heavy layers of eyeshadow and mascara, looked relieved.

“Shh!” She held up a slender finger to her dark purple lips, her fingernails lined with yellow and red paint, “I'm hiding!” As if this explained everything.

“And I need my power tools. Get out so I can see if they're in there.”

“No way! Close the door before somebody sees me.” She ordered sharply.

“Like who?”

“Like my ex! My ride won't be here on time and he's laying in wait to be “chivalrous”. No way am I going to be stuck in a car with him driving.”

“Does your ex-boyfriend have a black eye and look like he stole his hair from a shampoo advertisement?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He's coming this way.”

“Close the door, close the door!” The girl whispered, grabbing at the edge of the cupboard, trying to do it herself. Bog didn't know why, maybe it was the urgency in the girl's voice or simply her tone of command, but he shut the cupboard door and sat down on the floor in front of it.

The perfectly coiffed young man came by, drawling, “Marianne? Marianne, darlin', are you here?” Bog recognized him as a painting student who was always working on self-portraits. Bog pulled out his cellphone and pretended to be checking his texts, looking up and glaring when the self-portrait walked too close. Once the blond wandered off again Bog tapped on the cupboard door.

“Is it Marianne who is sitting on my power tools in there?”

“Yes,” The girl replied, voice strangely hollow inside her hiding place, “Is he gone?”

“Wandered off toward pottery. Should I call campus security for you?”

“No.” The cupboard door cracked open and the girl looked out, “It's just that I promised my dad not to get suspended again and if I have to talk to Roland I'll end up punching him again.”

“Oh, so the shiner is your handiwork?” Bog was impressed. This was not a damsel in distress, but a warrior that knew discretion was the better part of valor. But she was still between him and his power tools and there was a deadline to meet. “Nice work. But you owe me now, don't you?”

“For what, asking you to be a decent human being?” Marianne retorted, “If you're thinking of asking for a date, back off, I'm not interested.”

“What? No!” The idea hadn't occurred to him, even though she was a very interesting girl. “I've had my fill of dating for a good long while, don't you worry. No, I need to finish my project, tough girl, and I thought you might lend a hand. Or at the very least get your end off my tools.”

“Depends. What are you working on?”

“Abstract sculpture.” He replied, tone curt. He and the painting students had had some creative differences in the past and he really didn't want to get into another debate right now.

“Wait, the one with all the carving and the bit that looks like someone broke a mirror over a dead log?”

“Hey, don't knock it!”

“No, I like it!”

“What?” He looked at her, baffled.

“That thing is awesome! I've been watching it grow all semester but I never ran into anyone working on it. Of course I'll help you with it.” She pushed the door open and crawled out, but fell over. “Ow. My legs are asleep.” She was wearing stained overalls with a baggy red shirt underneath, paintbrushes stuck in her pockets.

Bog sighed and grabbed her under the arms, pulling her up. She hung there, her legs bent and bare feet hanging above the floor.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” She carefully straightened her legs but found she was still not touching the floor. She leaned her head backwards to look up at the sharp face behind her. He looked down at her, trying not to think about how cute she looked upside-down. “Wow, dude, you're built like a sequoia and a toothpick at the same time.”

He rolled his eyes and dropped her, pretending that the redness in his face was just from annoyance. Marianne staggered and grabbed the top of the cupboard to keep her balance, glaring at Bog with her darkly shadowed eyes. Freed from the confines of the cupboard he could see that she was even tinier than he thought, not even coming up to his shoulder. “And you're a wee fairy princess.” He patted her short brown hair, measuring her up against himself to emphasize the height difference.

“Okay, okay, enough sparring.” She reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, leaning in posed nonchalance against him, “Are we going to create some artwork or what? I've got two hours until my ride gets here and I bet I can get more done with those power tools than you can in that time frame.”

“Oh, game on, tough girl.”

Chapter Text

 Bog's elusive power tools had indeed been in the supply cupboard and once he pulled out his tool box they quickly got to work. Marianne had not been bluffing when she had claimed to be good with tools. She had the table saw set up and the blade adjusted to the correct measurements almost as fast as Bog could read them off from his project notes.

He looked up from drilling holes for screws. “Impressive.” Bog admitted when she presented him a pile of wood pieces all cut to specification. “Darn straight.” Marianne replied, “I aced wood shop in high school, lemme tell you. My sister was hopeless, so I did all her projects too and became the only one in the class that ever got past making bird houses. What about you? What made you pick up the wood glue for the first time?”

Bog set down the drill and flexed his hands, feeling the rough patches of wood glue that he could never quite scrape off. “My dad had a construction company. I'm pretty sure when I was a baby I had a hammer instead of a rattle. Branched out to furniture and wandered my way around to sculpture the past two or three years.”

“Only three years?” Marianne circled the sculpture, hands behind her back, strands of brown hair falling across her forehead. She absently blew a strand away from her eye. “Pretty nice. What made you jump from furniture to abstract? That seems so structured and straight forward and this is . . .” She waved a hand at the assemblage before them, her expression admiring, “Pretty wild.”

“Things happened and I needed a change from structured. From predictable formulas and patterns.”

Something that didn't remind him of his father every time he picked up his tools, of afternoons working side-by-side surrounded by the smell of sawdust and glue. Of his father wasting away until he hadn't the strength to pick up a hammer anymore as the illness took its toll. Something that didn't remind him of her, standing in the workshop, saying that Bog just wasn't there for her anymore since his father got sick, that they never spent time together, that they were through.

The future had been so clear before that time, all the pieces laid out and waiting for assembly, waiting to be a chair or a table or a dresser. Something simple. Then it was all smashed to bits and he'd had to pick up the shattered pieces, and he'd built something out of them. Something cracked, lopsided, and unstable, but he'd managed to construct it and get it to stay upright. Assembled from bits and pieces of broken dreams, shored up with a grim determination and the necessity of helping his mother through the hard times.

“I hear that.” Marianne passed him screws and he began to assemble the framework of the sculpture's base. “I'm trying to change my focus—been trying a couple of months now. Same reason, tired of predictable. Been trying to do what I “ought” to, for years. But you can only pretend so long, you know?”

“I suppose.” Bog shrugged. He'd been pretending for so long that he hadn't been hurt, that nothing mattered, that he wasn't sure what he actually thought anymore. “What're you switching to?”

“Any three-dimensional department that has an opening. Anything messy.” She grabbed one end of the finished frame and helped him position it beside the sculpture. “That way Roland won't follow me and risk his golden curls.”

“Seems a bit much, changing your focus completely just to dodge an old beau.”

“Ha! It's not that much. Two years ago I was majoring in Business Studies and minoring in art at a college three states away. I transferred here after the breakup and went full on artist. My sister goes here so it's a win-win. Or it was, until Roland transferred here too.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bog put down the sander he had been refitting with new paper, “Are you telling me you broke up two years ago and he's still following you around?”

“Even after two black eyes and a sprained wrist.” Marianne agreed with a nod.

“You've been restrained.”

“Just about everyone disagrees with you there. But enough about my sordid past. Tell me about the sculpture program.”

“I'm not the one to ask.” Bog began to disassemble the drill, removing the bit and unplugging the cord. “I don't attend half the classes and never participate in the social functions. Mostly I come in at night to work.”

“Oh, my gosh,” Marianne snapped the sander back together, fresh sand paper clamped in neatly. Her dark painted lips parted over a grin and she pointed at Bog, “You're the phantom!”

“I'm the what?” Bog leaned away from the pointing finger like it was dangerous.

“The phantom of the art department! All this artwork that gets made but nobody sees anyone working on it, and all those grouchy notes that get left around! Those green post-it notes are practically your trademark. People keep them as evidence of possible paranormal activity.”

“Are you being serious?” Bog's face was screwed up in indecision, chin tilted to one side, not sure to be angry at these accusations or afraid for Marianne's mental stability if she was making this up.

“Your handwriting is terrible. Some people wonder if that's caused by the distortion of communicating from the great beyond. If someone misses more than one class in a row people say that they must have displeased the phantom and been pulled down to his candle-lit layer.”

“Grouchy? Really? All I do is ask for people to leave my stuff alone.”

“You once wrote a message that took up three post-its after somebody borrowed your glue and put it back two feet to the left of where it had been. Your curt but vivid style of writing is much admired, you know. It's like being bellowed at in jagged cursive.”

“Good grief.” Bog grumbled, hunching his shoulders and turning away to rummage through his toolbox with rather more noise and force than necessary. He paused when a thought struck him. He looked over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, “How did you know the glue was two feet to the left?”

“Hold up, now!” She grabbed up a hammer and held it in front of her like a sword, “Don't go drowning me in the lagoon already! I was merely a witness at the crime scene.”

“And if I held you upside-down and shook no purloined art supplies would fall out? A likely story.” He frowned, jagged eyebrows low over his fatigue-rimmed eyes, mouth parted to display his crooked teeth in a sneer.

“Don't you go attacking me with your eyebrows like that. Do you even have a license for those?” She brought her own eyebrows down in a scowl, drawing her mouth into a sharp upside-down crescent in imitation of Bog's expression. But she couldn't hold it long before breaking into a wry grin, “Hah, but you look just how I feel sometimes.” Bog's eyebrows lifted, confused with this response, but Marianne was going on, “I didn't take your glue. I was actually the one who made sure it got put back. Sooo sorry for being off by two feet.” She stood on her bare toes, threw out her arms and spun around, rolling her eyes as she went.

“Name names, then. Who's it that's been taking my things?” Bog folded his arms and leaned over, bringing his long pointed nose on level with Marianne's. “Point the way and I can drown all them in the lagoon and you can live.”

“So you did catch my Phantom of the Opera reference!” Marianne said triumphantly, leaning forward with folded arms, standing on her tip-toes to gain some height. “Original Leoux novel, right?”

“Maybe I saw the 1925 silent film with Lon Chaney.” Bog countered.

“Get out of town.” Marianne put her hands on his shoulders and bunched up the fabric of his gray sweatshirt in her fingers, looking up at him with shadowy but earnest eyes, “Do you have any idea how hard it is find find someone whose default Phantom movie isn't that 2005 train wreck?”

“They were all singing flat!”

“His deformity was a sunburn!”

“They never explained why you needed to keep one hand higher than your head!”

“And of course they left out The Persian, as always!”

“The Red Death costume was so dull! Compared to the 1925--”

“Where they hand-colored the film for the Masquerade scenes! I know!”

“And since when is being kidnapped by a deformed serial killer supposed to be so super-romantic?”

“Yeah, I came for the Gothic horror, what is all this totally-misunderstood-villain stuff doing here? And at the end they're just . . . making out! Urgh!”

There was a breathless pause and the two artists realized that she was still clutching the sleeves of his shirt and that they was only a few scant inches of space in-between them. Bog broke away by simply standing up straight while Marianne released him and took a step back. “Um.” They both said, fumbling through their thoughts for the thread of conversation.

Marianne's phone began to ring, a voice singing, “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, stand a little--” before she fished it out of her pocket and checked her messages. “My ride is here.” She tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, “I've got to go!” She dashed across the studio to grab her bag and cram her feet into a pair of ballet slipper style of shoes. She was at the head of the stairs when she whipped around and pointed a finger, “I never took your glue, you towering toothpick!”

“Of course you didn't, you sticky-fingered fairy princess!” He bellowed after her.

The next day Bog was at the studio first thing in the morning, coffee in hand, despite having only left it somewhere around midnight. He told himself that he needed to push ahead and finish his sculpture while he was still inspired. He also told himself that it had nothing to do with the fact that Marianne had mentioned her painting class was in the mornings.

There was no way he was actually interested in the girl. None. She was a glue-thief.

But when he saw her shoes tossed in the corner of the still empty studio his heart skipped a beat. From dread. Yes, he was just dreading finding out what she had stolen now. There was the faint buzz music and Bog followed it. To investigate the possibility of further theft. The music was coming from behind some dust covers that were hung to partition off a section of the studio.

It was rare that Bog interacted with anyone in the studio and he had never actually approached anyone first, so it was with hesitation that he scratched at the curtain and cleared his throat, “Hello?”

“The Phantom of the Opera is here!” Marianne sang, swooping her voice down low to finish, “Inside my mind!”

“Ugh.” Bog grunted, “I'll write a note about this.”

“Come in if you want, no dust mask needed.”

Pushing aside the curtain Bog saw Marianne standing on a stool, dressed in her overalls but with a purple shirt today, her hands covered in plastic gloves, a large plastic box of silver glitter tucked under one arm. The project she was working on drew his eyes immediately because it was . . . sparkling. The sarcastic greeting he was about to extend caught in his throat and came out as a choked and wordless noise. The . . the thing sitting behind the curtains was a sculpture of some kind. There were valentine hearts, flowers, streamers, cutesy sayings printed on it, and there was glitter. If direct sunlight hit the thing everyone within squinting distance would be blinded.

“What do you think?” Marianne chirped sweetly. “Isn't it coming along?”

He was thinking he had seriously misjudged her character. “It's . . . it's . . .” He motioned helplessly with his hands, “Lovely.” He spat the word out like it hurt. The object was like a wedding cake that had run into Cupid and then skidded into the children's craft section. You might expect to see something like it at a high school prom or somebody's syrupy-sweet engagement party. It was cute.

“I . . . I've got to . . . yeah.” Bog dropped the curtain and began to walk away.

“Hey!” Marianne called, not shouting but projecting in a tone of command, “Back it up!”

For the life of him Bog didn't know why, but he came back, parting the curtains again. “What?”

“It isn't mine.”

“What?”

“It's my sister's. She had to duck out and I'm putting the glitter on before the glue dries. I mean, seriously, look at this sugar-coated monstrosity. It's so thick I could choke on it.”

“But you . . .!” Bog pointed accusingly.

Marianne was biting her lips and he could see she was trying very hard not to laugh, her merriment coming out in tiny bursts. “Pfft! Your face! Absolutely priceless! Couldn't resist! The noise you made! That was the most distressed and most Scottish sound I've ever heard!”

“You played me!” He huffed.

“Yup!” She scattered a handful of glitter over the hideous object.

“Here,” Bog dropped his bag outside the curtain and stepped inside, “Let me help you with that.”

“What--?”

Bog helped himself to a handful of the glitter before Marianne could object, and for Bog a handful was a serious amount of anything. Even standing on a stool Marianne was shorter than Bog so he easily reached up and poured the glitter all over her hair. “You missed a spot.” He said with an absolutely wicked smile.

“Oh!” She gave a small shriek and stood there, silver sparkles raining down over her face and onto her shoulders. “You miserable cockroach! I have classes after this!”

“And I'm sure you'll look lovely for them, you wee fairy princess.” Bog crossed his arms, pleased with his handiwork. He was not so pleased when Marianne threw her own silvery handful right into his face. Really, he ought to have seen that coming.

Sputtering, he grabbed for the box of glitter to retaliate. In a moment they were both fighting over the box and glitter was falling fast and thick. Somehow Marianne managed to shove at least two handfuls down the back of his shirt while he poured some into the pocket on the front of her overalls. From there it devolved into throwing glitter and insults at each other.

“Marianne!” The curtain drew back.

The battle halted immediately, Marianne still holding the front of Bog's sweater in one hand, a fistful of glitter posed to be dropped, and Bog about to upend the remainder of the box over Marianne's hair. The two of them looked at the new arrival with identical expressions of guilt and horror as the stood frozen in this tableau.

“Marianne!” The newcomer said again. She was a tiny blonde girl dressed in pastel-blue overalls, a patterned scarf tied around her hair. Both her hands were held to her astonished face as she gazed over the glittering whirlwind that had been kicked up in the small space, at the two dazzling figures in the middle of it all. Finally, after several long moments, the glitter settling around them, she whispered in a stricken tone:

“I honestly don't know whether to make a Twilight or Labyrinth reference right now.”

Chapter Text

 “Bog, you would say we were friends, yeah?”

Marianne was kneeling on the studio floor stretching canvas over a wooden frame. Clamps held it all in place while she loaded the staple gun. Across the room Bog was smoothing the rough edges off of some wooden components before they were attached to the main sculpture.

He looked up at the question, lower half of his face covered by a gray dust mask, and briefly considered the question. In the months since he had met her he had never paused to try and slot their relationship into a particular category. He had begun coming in the early mornings in order to run into her and she had started showing up in the late evening, apparently to see him. They talked. A lot, actually, almost as much as they argued. And they argued about everything. What grain of sandpaper to use, what music to listen to, which was better: ice-cream of frozen yogurt. It wasn't even as if they necessarily disagreed on whichever particular topic they were chewing over, they just enjoyed picking opposing sides and fighting it out.

After the glitter battle Bog had met Marianne's younger sister, Dawn, creator of the grotesquerie that incited the conflict. A a cheerful girl, so happy and bright that Bog felt like he needed sunglasses when she was around, beaming her sunny smile at the world. She was . . . cute. Not entirely in a bad way, but he found her exhausting to be around. For her part Dawn liked Bog, which surprised him tremendously. Marianne made it clear that protecting Dawn was her life's mission, her little sister's happiness her number one priority above all others. So when Dawn decided immediately that she liked Bog—for whatever reason—it felt as if he had passed some sort of qualifying test of acquaintanceship.

In turn, Marianne had met Bog's mother. Not that he had planned on inflicting his mother on anyone, but after he came home sparkling like a disco ball she had questions and she nagged and grated until she got the answers.

“A girl!” Griselda had crowed in delight.

“A she-demon.” Bog corrected, unpacking the dinner he had picked up on his way home. “Or a djinn. I must have released her when I opened that cupboard door.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She's trouble. Though good with a table saw,” He admitted.

“Ya gonna ask her out?” Griselda smiled, her long mouth stretching ridiculously wide while she waggled her eyebrows at her son.

“No!” Bog grumbled. Every time he said three words to a woman his mother started making wedding plans. “I'm not asking anyone out. I don't want to date her. I don't want to date at all. Anyway, she'd probably punch me in the eye if I asked. That's what she did to the last guy.”

The subject was dropped and they said no more about it that evening. But bright and early the next morning, just after Bog arrived at the studio to work for a couple hours before heading to the construction site, Griselda showed up, coming through the door almost at the same time as Marianne.

Smash! Bog had dropped the box he was carrying, tools clunking and clanking across the floor boards.

“You must be Marianne!” Griselda had snagged the poor girl and was patting her face while she talked, “My little boy was telling me all about you yesterday after I asked about all that glitter! Couldn't think what he'd been up to and I never would have guessed a girl dumped a box of sparkles over his head, for goodness's sakes! You're even prettier than he said! I was just thinking I should come over and get a look at you—see if you're good enough for my little boy. Why do you hide such pretty eyes with all that makeup? Is it an artist thing?”

Marianne's black and purple framed eyes zipped over to Bog, wordlessly accusing him of unspeakable things. He threw up his hands in surrender and mouthed “No!” while shaking his head. “Mom, please,” Bog said out loud, coming over, placing his hands on his mother's shoulders and detaching her from Marianne and propelling her toward the stairs. “There is going to be a class starting soon. You can't be here.”

“Seeya, sweetie!” Griselda called back to Marianne, “You should come over for dinner sometime. I make the best beef roast and potatoes you'll ever put in your mouth!”

After Bog had bundled his mother down three flights of stairs and into her car he returned to the studio, feet dragging. With great dread he opened the door and poked his nose around it to peek inside the studio. Marianne was standing right there. He nearly hit his face with the door when he jumped.

“What just happened?” She asked, looking up at him suspiciously, her fists on her hips.

“Um . . . ah . . . how best to put it?” He scratched at his hairline with his long thick fingernails, “Ah . . . once I helped a woman change the tire on her car and my mother started picking out names for grandbabies. She does this.”

“You didn't . . .?”

“No! I'm not looking to date anybody! I had to explain about the glitter and then she decided it was about time to plan the decorations for a wedding reception!”

“Oh. Okay. Good.” Marianne tucked her hair behind her ear, “For a minute I thought . . . yeah. Nope. Good. Hah . . . Honestly, though? Dawn kind of did the same thing to me last night.”

“What?”

“Yeah! She wanted to know if I liked liked you—gah, I hate hate that phrase—and if we were going to on another date. I told her it wasn't a date, it was a border skirmish between the realms of painting and sculpture. Just swear to me that we will do everything in our combined power to make sure my sister and your mother never meet.”

That was a promise he readily made. Satisfied, Marianne had dumped her bag on a table and began setting up her canvas and paints. “Dawn's always after me to find a boyfriend, but I've had it up to my eyeballs with dating and romance. Been there, done that, didn't end well. And I hate all that cheesy, superficial stuff. Like Valentines Day! How lame is Valentines Day! Cupids and hearts. Soppy violin music and candle light . . . Who likes that stuff?”

“Not me!” Bog said fervently.

“I hate it.”

“Tch! I hate it more.”

“Oh, yeah?

The conversation turned into an argument about who hated love more. By the time they parted ways for the day they were both happily shredding the premise of “true love” and cheerfully poking holes in the logic of two people “destined to be together foreeever”. Upon parting Bog recommended an author called P.G. Wodehouse. “Basically,” Bog described it, “He wrote hundreds of books lampooning romance.” Marianne stopped by the library on the way home and checked out all the books by that author.

And since then there had been . . . a friendship.

“Have you seen this?” It was a few weeks after their first meeting and Marianne was taking a break while she waited for the first coat of primer on her canvases to dry. She sat on the back of the art department's decrepit couch, computer in her lap, but she got up and put the computer on top of Bog's workspace. “This is so fantastic. This is some sort of post-apocalyptic Secret Garden sort of stuff.”

Bog glanced at the screen. There were pictures of a swampy wooded area, the focus on some obviously artificial constructions scattered under the trees and behind bushes. The foremost picture showed a tree stump that had been carved into sweeping lines, like the stroke of a giant paintbrush. Vines grew from the ground and crawled all over the piece as if to drag it back down into the earth and moss blurred the bold lines of the carving.

Bog's sharp-tufted eyebrows drew down into a frown. “What's this?”

“Somebody from Dawn's class got lost and ended up in the middle of nowhere and found this place. It's just some little muddy patch of woods—they didn't say where but I think it's close—but it's just chocked full of all these sculptures. Really cool stuff, just sitting outside. No studio, no signs, nothing. It's completely surreal and I just love it.”

“You . . . do?” Bog really hoped his voice didn't sound as high to Marianne as it did to his own ears. Speaking of ears, he could feel the warm rush of blood dying them rosy red.

“Are you kidding? It's like something after the world ends and there's no one left to take care of things so the plants just take over. The pieces are great to start with and now they're all rotting, rusting, being shaped by nature. Just, the organic over the artificial forms, that is an intriguing contrast and it creates all these patterns that you could never in a million years think of, but now they're just happening. Can you imagine just stumbling on this place without expecting it? It'd be like walking into another world, mysterious and meaningful, but you have no context for what it means . . .”

In her enthusiasm, Marianne had leaned her elbows on the table, her shoulder brushing up against Bog's when she scooted close enough to look at the screen. Now she glanced side-ways and saw Bog had turned his bright blue eyes on her, not the screen, and he had a smug smirk plastered on his face. “Look at you!” He said, “Being all romantic over art.”

“That better be Romantic with a capital R.” She sniffed, pulled her laptop away.

He pulled it back, “No, no, tell me more, tough girl. With no context go ahead and tell me what you think the pieces mean. What about . . . that one?”

The piece was a construction of metal rods and panels, precise and structured, standing about seven feet tall. A small tree was growing inside of it now and rust flushed the surface of the metal, corroding some areas away to crumpled, leafy edges. “Okay,” Marianne considered it, “Assuming these are all from the same artist I'm going to guess that this was one of his—or hers—earlier pieces. It's stiffer than some of the others, more straight lines, almost like a building, it's . . . fighting against nature. It doesn't bend. Defiant.”

“Hm.” Bog said, expression neutral. “How about this one? Earlier or later?”

Triangles of wood were overlapped to create a spiraling shape supported by metal rods. This piece was wider and lower. Marianne could imagine standing in it and the top only coming to her waist. It was carefully geometric. “Later, a bit. It's very careful. They were trying to make it more organic, but it's still too deliberate.”

Marianne dissected several more pictures, making her guesses, and Bog got more and more quiet, hardly speaking except to say some variation of “And this one?” After about half a dozen Marianne broke off and bumped her shoulder into Bog's, “Hey, what do you think of these? I'm doing all the heavy-lifting here!”

“Me?” Bog snorted and shoved the laptop off his work, “I think they're all rubbish.”

“Ah!” Marianne stood up, “You call yourself an artist. Hah, I know what it is! You're envious of our mysterious sculptor, aren't you?”

“Oh, no, you've caught me out,” Bog rolled his eyes and put up his hands, “Truly, I fear I will never match up to the skills of this peerless craftsmanship abandoned in the middle of a forest. The genius is just too much.” He dropped his chin on his hand and looked completely unimpressed.

“I'm sorry,” Marianne sat back down on the couch and heaved a dramatic sigh, “But I want a divorce. I've found someone else, Bog. Another sculptor—a better sculptor. Someone with vision and genius and talent and all those qualities I always found lacking in you.”

“If I sign the divorce papers will you let me get back to work?”

“Don't bother, I forged your signature. We're good to go.”

For a bit they worked in silence.

“I've got to get more wood cut and drying soon,” Bog said without looking up from his work. “I'm going to go cut some down this weekend. Want to come?”

“Can I use the ax?”

“With supervision.”

“How do you supervise someone with an ax? They're the ones holding an ax. They call the shots. But I'm in. Gives me a reason to skip out on breakfast with my Dad. Afterwards want to watch some Buster Keaton?”

Saturday morning they got into Bog's ancient gray pickup truck and headed out of town, trying to beat the sunrise. They were headed for a small bit of wooded property that Bog owned. It was left over from better days, spared from being sold to pay for his father's medical bills because no one would buy the soggy bit of acreage. The dazzling pinks of the sunrise were just fading when Bog pulled off the road and parked the car.

Marianne hopped out and touched her toes a few times to work out the stiffness of the long drive. Rolling her neck and shoulders she looked around. “Hey, wait a minute . . .”

“What?” Bog pulled the ax and saw from the bed of the pickup, trying very hard to keep his face blank.

“This place . . . looks familiar. Hang on, hang on!” She took off into the trees and a moment later Bog could hear her boots slogging through the peat. A moment after that he heard her scream. A smile crept onto his face and he rubbed at his upper lip as if he could hide or wipe away the smile. When he caught up she was standing up to the ankles of her boots in water and she was in frenzy of indignation and glee. “You cockroach nerd! The post-apocalyptic secret garden! You knew this was here!”

Glass glittered, hanging from a wire sculpture that undulated in waves around the base of a tree and reached halfway up the trunk. Large chunks of half-carved wood—five feet high—were cracked from moisture and growing an assortment of mushrooms. Marianne was snapping pictures with her phone. “They didn't photograph some of the best ones! Look at this one, I bet it's one of the newest. They really got the organic textures down, I think, because I almost thought it was part of the bushes, and it's so much more relaxed, and that one . . . um.” She looked at the piece and bit her lips.

“Another work of genius? Far surpassing my own humble efforts?” Bog asked, drumming his fingers on the ax handle, carefully not look at Marianne for fear he'd start giggling.

“Um. Of course! It's . . .” She tilted her head at the blob of clay and metal crouched like a toad in the roots of a tree. It was the only ceramic piece she had seen so far and it was really not up the standards of the other pieces. “So organic. Really . . . blends in with the natural background. Yeah. Lots of . . . earth tones. A statement on . . . the human condition.”

“Uh huh?” Bog nodded, the noise a high-pitched squeak, large hand rasping against his scruffy chin in an attempt at a casual gesture.

“Bog?” Marianne looked at him.

“Earth tones?” Bog's face cracked into a huge grin, “That is—that is my one and only attempt at working in clay and it's probably the ugliest thing ever created by human hands.”

Marianne's eyes went wide. “No. No! This isn't--!” Now Bog was laughing too hard to form a reply, he just nodded through his chortling. “You—you played me!” She shrieked. “You own this stupid swamp and this is all your stuff! For the love of—I want a divorce!”

“You divorced me last week. And it isn't a swamp.”

Marianne stamped her foot, sending stagnant water splashing up around her legs. “I want a double divorce! I want alimony! I hope you enjoy marathoning Buster Keaton films by yourself because I am so done! And what is it if it's not a swamp?”

“It's a bog.”

“Oh. Oh!” Marianne couldn't get any words out, her mouth open in disbelief, her hands gripping at the air in front of her face. Bog was bent over, ax hanging limply in his hand and trailing in the water, laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing. She sloshed her boots through the water, sending murk splattering over the lanky figure. “Has our entire acquaintanceship been building up to this?! Bog shows me his bog? Laughing at me while I analyze your work? If I don't die of embarrassment I'm going to kill you, Bog!”

Splashing water over them both, she ran up to him and grabbed the ax out of his unresisting hand, pretending to threaten him with it. Still choking on laughter he held up the saw in defense. “If it helps, you were pretty spot on with you analysis!”

“Yeah?” She lowered the ax a bit.

“You figured out the order they were made and everything. My first pieces were all very architectural and I've been trying to get more organic forms and textures. It was really, well, it was very impressive.” The redness in his face was entirely from laughing so hard, he insisted to himself. It was in no way caused by his admiration and astonishment over how easily Marianne had interpreted his artwork. And the red in Marianne's cheeks was no doubt caused by her indignant fury and nothing else.

“What are they all doing out here, anyway?” Marianne shouldered the ax.

“It's sort of my dump.” Bog rubbed the back of his neck, “Stuff that didn't work out. Stuff I didn't like. It all gets put here and I let nature take over. It usually does a better job than I do.”

“That is really cool.” Marianne was looking back at the artwork. Her face was clean of makeup and somehow that made her expressions easier to read and her appreciation for the sculptures was clear. Short brown hair was wind-blow and tussled from running around, sticking up around her head. Bog really wanted to reach out and smooth down the disarrayed locks. The blush burst onto his face anew and he nervously rubbed his hands together around the handle of the saw.

Later, sitting on the pile of wood in the bed of the truck and drinking coffee from thermoses, Marianne had pulled out her phone and shown Bog pictures of the murals she had painted in her old house. “This is where we lived with my mom. She was crazy and great. All three of us would paint the walls—property value be hanged. When we got tired of it we'd paint it all over white and start again. But we made sure to take pictures of everything and date them. Are you documenting your swamp garden?”

“Mmm.” Bog hummed, wiggling his hand back and forth, “Sometimes? When I remember? And have time? Yes, I know, I really should keep better track of it.”

“We should drag Sunny down here. He's Dawn's best friend and he's in photography. I know for a fact that he'd work for doughnuts or a home-cooked meal.”

“Mmm. Maybe.” He looked at the picture of a teenage Marianne—with long hair!--standing in front of a mural with her mother and sister. Marianne's mother had blonde hair like Dawn, but something about her expression told him that she was really a lot more like Marianne as far as personality went. “You've been inflicted with my mother, am I going to get the third-degree from yours?”

Marianne scratched at her shoulders. “She died. A few years ago.” She stood up, “We should get going, right? Let's get this wood dried and ready for carving!”

“Bog, you would say we were friends, yeah?”

Pulling his face mask off, Bog looked at Marianne. He was almost—but never completely—used to the way his heart skipped a beat when he looked at her. “Yeah, I guess I'd say we were friends. If this is a lead up to asking to borrow money then you're out of luck. Two more days until payday and I've got just enough left for gas and maybe half a sandwich.”

“Be at peace.” Marianne waved her hands, “Your wallet is safe from me, always and forever. No, I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Mmhm?”

She put a staple into the canvas frame before answering. It jammed up and she frowned at it, reaching for the pliers to pull it back out. Focused on pulling the bit of metal free, she said, “I was wondering if you'd come with my to the art department party.”

“Party?” Bog groaned, scraping his fingers gently over the piece of sandpaper he'd be using.

“Yes. As my date.”

Chapter Text

 Bog hit his knees on the underside of the table in his rush to turn around in his chair and face Marianne. She really couldn't be asking what he thought she was asking. She would never . . . he would never . . . would they? There were some strangled noises from Bog before he managed to ask, “Are you . . . asking me out?”

“No!” Marianne crossed her arms in front of herself in an X and shook her head, “No, no, no, no!”

Bog sat twisted around in his chair, face mottled with red, gaze locked with Marianne, who was still kneeling on the floor across the room with her arms crossed, her cheeks scarlet. Neither of them moved or spoke for almost a solid minute, the gears of their brains having ground to a sudden halt.

“. . . no?” Marianne said uncertainly, lowering her arms at last and brushing back her hair. “I led into that wrong. Argh! Please don't laugh at me or I'll combust from shame and set this whole place on fire.”

“I'm—I'm not laughing.” Bog held out his hands, fingers spread out, “Just . . . listening.”

“Okay, okay.” Marianne stood up, scratching awkwardly at the back of her shoulders through her shirt. “Let me try this again. How would you like to cheese off Roland to maximum levels?”

There had only been a handful of brief encounters between Bog and Roland in the past few months, but it had been more than enough to cement Bog's poor opinion of the square-jawed nuisance. The first time they met Roland had asked if Bog was a teacher, citing the tall man's apparent advanced age as cause for this assumption. When Bog had growled a curt negative to this Roland had persisted and inquired if Bog was a janitor, then.

“I'm thirty-two!” He said to Marianne later, “Does that really make me some sort of senior citizen?”

“I'm twenty-four and he calls me “little girl” and “baby-child”. Any age that is not Roland's age is apparently the wrong age to be.”

Another thing that Bog hated about Roland was his constant harassment of Marianne. The man wouldn't take no for an answer and followed Marianne around the classroom, blocking her escape by leaning casually in the doorways, grabbing her by the arm when she tried to turn away. No matter how many times she wrenched her hand free, shoved him away, hissed through clenched teeth for him to just go away, Roland smiled to display his dazzling white teeth and said something about how Marianne was overreacting. “Calm down, honey!” He laughed at her fury, “No need to make a scene. Is it a crime to talk to a pretty girl now?”

Someone called Roland's name so he had turned around just as Marianne was raising a fist to exact some justice. Bog darted out one long arm to hook his fingers around the straps of her overalls and pull her backwards, dragging her behind the wall that divided the student lockers from the main room. “Let me go!” She hissed, “This time it's going to be his nose!”

She kicked backwards at Bog's legs, but he just wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her off the floor. “Nope, tough girl. Not going to let you get yourself thrown out of school.”

“This is no time to go all responsible on me!” Marianne leaned her head back against Bog's chest and pleaded, “You can't tell me you wouldn't just love to knock out his teeth with one good poke to the jaw! A desire to punch Roland in the face is an indication of good sense in a person.”

“Who wouldn't want to? He's insufferable. I'm just asking you to pick a different setting. Maybe a dark alley instead of a classroom full of witnesses.”

Marianne slumped forward, arms and legs dangling and head hanging. “Fine. I'll behave. Lemme down.”

“No, I think I'm going to put you back in that cupboard where I found you. Maybe it'll send you back to whatever unholy realm I accidentally released you from and I'll be free of this cursed pact I seem to have made.”

“I'll drag you down with me. I need somebody to watch the 1920 version of Mark of Zorro with me tonight. ” She kicked her feet back and forth, gently knocking against Bog's legs. “Or I could just break your kneecaps. Did I ever tell you I took ballet for, like, years? I could probably kick bricks in half if I tried.”

“1920? With Douglas Fairbanks Sr.? The man responsible for Zorro's iconic look? Okay, okay, the pact is renewed!” He began to put her down then stopped. “So long as you agree the 1998 Zorro movie with Antonio Banderas was--”

“A complete travesty, ripping off the better parts of the plot from The Count of Monte Cristo.”

He put her down.

“Tick off Roland? Is this a subtle lead in to you asking me to help get rid of Roland's body? Because I do have several acres of land, Marianne.”

“Tempting, but no. Here's the setup: end of semester art department party, right?”

“Yeah, next week.” It was carefully marked on Bog's calender so he could be sure to avoid the studio that weekend.

“Big deal, lots of family coming to see the work and eat cheap snacks. Well, my dad's coming and he's a big Roland fan. Thinks the golden-haired wonder boy is the man for me. Dad's planning to take Dawn and me out to dinner afterwards and it is an absolute given that he'll invite Roland along and . . . well, tables will be flipped, Bog.”

“And you want me to . . . pretend to be your date and crowd Roland out?” Bog's shoulders twitched as he shifted in his chair. He was not sure how to take these development. He was relieved, of course, that she hadn't actually been asking him out. Of course.

“Yes and no, I guess? I mean, you'd actually be my date, but it wouldn't be a date date. More of someone coming along to hold me back if I start throwing punches.”

“More likely I'd be holding your coat and cheering.”

“Alsooo . . . Dawn agreed to help set up for the show and she volunteered me. Then Roland found out and he volunteered himself. And I was wondering . . .” She wove her hand through the air in one of her typical expansive gestures. Bog had sometimes seen her smack walls when she got too excited.

“If I would also help set up and therefore prevent you from nailing Roland to a wall? This seems like an awful lot of effort to preserve the life of someone I dislike. Once again I extend the offer of several acres of prime burial ground.”

“Maybe after graduation. So, yes or no? Don't waffle, just give it to me straight.”

How could he possibly say no when she was looking at him with those huge, pleading brown eyes? How could he refuse when he knew exactly how her face would light up if he said yes? There was also the appeal of wiping the smug look off Roland's face. “Is it a formal dinner?”

Marianne sprang to her feet, her face illuminated by a brilliant smile that Bog couldn't help but respond to with a small grin of his own. “It's over the top formal. I owe you so big for this, Bog! Hauling wood and fetching coffee big! Do you even own anything besides that gray sweatshirt?”

“Is there anything in your closet aside from overalls and extra-large men's t-shirts?” Bog countered. “I own a suit jacket.”

“Is it gray--?”

“It is gray.”

“What is your problem with color? What would happen if you, I don't know, wore dark blue jeans? Would you break out in a rash? You're all faded.” Marianne came over and tickled the edges of Bog's short, ragged hair. It was a vague brown, lighter at the tips and darker at the roots. She leaned on the back of the chair next to his, still smiling. “Everything except your eyes, anyway. They're pretty striking.”

“Mm?” The light was just right to catch Marianne's brown eyes and turn them golden. It was an elusive change that usually came and went in flashes with the turning of her head. Now she was holding still and the glow shone steadily.

“When you opened that cupboard I saw these two patches of blue sky in what I thought may have been some sort of phantom made of dead leaves. Then my eyes adjusted and I realized it was just a really wrinkled gray sweatshirt I was seeing.”

“Ahem. What you're saying is . . .?”

“Lose the sweatshirt.”

“If you insist.” He grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the sweatshirt over his head, leaving him in his t-shirt. He threw the sweatshirt over Marianne's face and she spluttered underneath, having momentary trouble freeing herself from the large garment.

“You know, of course, this means war! Whoa.” She dropped the sweatshirt and threw her hands out toward Bog as if in presentation, “Why has this never been mentioned?”

“What?” Bog scratched the back of his neck, “That my t-shirt is gray, too?”

“Okay, that too, but also--” She took his hand in hers and made him extend his arm. The contact made his heart squeeze. “These!” She gestured at the patterns of interweaving plants that ran up and down the length of Bog's arms, disappearing under the sleeves of his shirt, vivid colors standing out against his pale grayish skin.

“Oh, my tattoos.”

“Oh, my tattoos.” Marianne said, deepening her voice and imitating his accent, “What is your deal with hiding your artwork? Because you totally designed these patterns.”

“I did collaborate with the tattoo artist.” Bog admitted. The tattoos were actually something Bog wasn't self-conscious about. He'd designed them and decided to put them there. They weren't the random result of genetics or the consequences of badly handled machinery or fights. It had been his decision to decorate his arms with his own artwork and he felt neither the need to hide them or show them off. But he did feel self-conscious having Marianne examining his arms with intense interest.

Holding Bog's wrist to turn his arm back and forth, Marianne was tracing the patterns of the tattoos with a paint-stained finger when she noticed the red flush spreading across Bog's skin. Looking up, she found herself nose-to-nose with Bog's tomato red face and she felt her own face crimson in response.She snatched her hands away. “I'm sorry! I didn't even ask. Oh, man, I would have killed someone for doing that to me. I'm gonna . . . go sit in my cupboard.”

Too embarrassed to pay proper attention Bog didn't take much notice of the comment. He hunched up his shoulders, bending over his work, picking up a piece of wood and trying to find his sandpaper. The sound of the cupboard actually opening and shutting made him swivel around.

“Marianne?” The studio was empty. It was close to midnight and all the other students had cleared our hours ago. Bog got up, picking up his discarded sweatshirt when he walked past it, tying the sleeves around his waist. He crouched down and tapped at the cupboard door. “Marianne? Are you actually in there?”

“I'm wallowing in my shame.”

“It wasn't . . . you didn't . . .” Bog rubbed his arm and cleared his throat.

“No, no, it's okay.” Marianne said, her voice rather high, “I'm an idiot so I'm just going to sit in here and die. I'm just so picky about people respecting my personal space and then I go and behave like an idiot. Which I am. I am an idiot. I know you don't like people touching you and I am so, so sorry.”

It was true that Bog didn't like people touching him. He hated shaking hands and despised being hugged by people he barely knew. He had always been like that, though he had to admit to himself that he had gotten a lot worse in the past few years. Since she had broken up with him. Before that he had simply had no time for empty gestures. He never minded so much when the gesture was mean sincerely. Dawn, for instance, was an incurable hugger, but utterly genuine in her affection so he tolerated her friendly embraces with minimal growling.

Marianne's mention of being vigilant about her personal space struck him as odd. He had never noticed her being particularly picky about it. Most of the time when they watched movies on her laptop in the studio they ended up pressed shoulder-to-shoulder to see the screen better. The thought occurred to Bog—and his eyes went wide when it did—that maybe she didn't mind being close to him and that's why he had never noticed an aversion. He certainly didn't mind being close to her.

Leaning against the cupboard next to Marianne's Bog said, “You know if you actually did anything that bothered me I'd tell you, right? Hm. I probably wouldn't shut up about it.”

Faint laughter came from inside the cupboard. “Will we ever hear the end of that glue?”

“Hey, I know it's your sister that's been taking my stuff and you're covering for her.” Bog huffed, automatically frowning at the thought of people stealing his property. “If I ever catch Dawn at it there will be a reckoning.”

“So much as glower at Dawn and I will have your head on a stick!” Bog's rumbling chuckle made her smile in spite of herself. She knew perfectly well that Bog would never purposefully upset Dawn, being equally parts afraid of the younger sister's tears and the older sister's wrath.

“Do you want to put mustaches on Roland's paintings?” Bog asked suddenly.

Marianne kicked the door open, her face a blazing red, glad for something else to focus on. “And set them on fire.” She began to extract herself, trying to do it without falling over. Bog's hand came into her line of vision and she looked at it, then looked over at him. He was smiling. That strangely soft smile that came out once in a blue moon, when he wasn't being sarcastic or embarrassed, but just smiling. She took his hand, feeling the rough callouses as his fingers wrapped around hers, taking her weight and keeping her steady as she stood up.

“Sorry again.” She said, trying not to think about how right if felt to take his hand, even if she was painfully self-conscious of the closeness.

“No problem.” Bog cleared his throat again.

“How have we not thought of mustaches before?”

“A severe oversight on our part.”

Roland was usually the last one to show up for class so the rest of the students had ample time to admire the felt mustaches on his paintings before he arrived to discover his desecrated artworks. He was doing a series of head shots at various angles so there had been ample opportunity for the addition of facial hair.

Dawn confronted Bog and Marianne that evening, Sunny in tow. “Mustaches? Really? Again with shenanigans?”

“What shenanigans?” Bog was lying across the couch drawing in his sketchbook. Marianne was likewise occupied while reclining across the couch's back. Dawn noticed, again, how strangely organized Bog's sketchbook was in comparison to his disheveled appearance. A mechanical pencil and ruler were clipped to the cover and the pages were decorated with geometric patterns and blue prints with measurements numbered clearly in the margins. “Have you noticed any shenanigans around, Marianne?”

“Nope, can't say that I have.”

“I know it's you two again! It's been you two all year! Sunny, back me up!”

“I don't feel like dying today, thanks.” Sunny said from somewhere in the background. More quietly he added, “But it is totally them.”

“Thank you!” Dawn said. “And the whole world would know it was you two and your smug faces that put construction paper fig leaves on all the life drawing projects--”

Marianne and Bog both chuckled over fond memories.

“--if anyone ever saw you two in the same room together. As it is the legend of the Phantom of the Art Department only grows. Who else would have braided all the extension cords together? By the way, that was some totally nice braiding, very fancy. How did you learn how to do that?”

“Youtube tutorials.” Marianne said, “I mean, that's what I would have looked at if I was braiding together six orange extension cords.”

“And it must have been the phantom that filled the drink pitchers with jello at the last critique.”

“The morning class was priceless. So sleepy, so confused why the juice wouldn't pour. Somebody held a pitcher upside-down and got strawberry jello splattered across her shoes.” Marianne said.

“So glad you got that on video.” Bog held up a hand and Marianne high-fived him.

“I can't believe no one has busted you guys. You're completely transparent. But my question is whether or not you guys are planning something absolutely horrible for the end of semester. My class is in charge of organizing it and I don't want to be sabotaged by exploding balloons or something.”

“Would that be feasible?” Marianne asked Bog, “How would you go about that? Some sort of gas mixture? Or tiny, tiny time bombs?”

“Marianne,” Dawn said in dismay, “I am asking you not to do the thing and you are right now planning to do the thing—right in front of me!”

“Well, speaking hypothetically,” Marianne said, tapping her pencil against the edge of her sketchbook, “The phantom's mode of operation seems to be spontaneous and only occurring when inspiration strike. He or she--”

“He and she.” Sunny remarked.

“--probably doesn't have any specific planned.” Marianne finished.

“Really?” Dawn looked surprised, “Even with dad coming? You know he's going to be shoving Roland in your face, especially at dinner.”

“Got it covered. Got a date to bring to dinner.”

“What?” Dawn shrieked, “Who?”

Bog raised a hand. “Hey.”

“Oh my gosh. You guys are finally dating?!”

“No!” Bog and Marianne said in unison, sitting up in their indignation. Unfortunately Marianne's perch on the back of the couch was precarious and this sudden movement sent her tumbling down on top of Bog. He gave an “Oof!” and Marianne said, “Ow, ow, ow!” When her spine whacked against Bog's knee.

“It is just,” Marianne rolled onto the floor with a thump! “Just a strategic alliance.”

“What do you mean “finally”?” Bog wheezed.

“You guys are painful to watch.”

Chapter Text

 Heart pounding in her chest, Marianne pressed back against the pillar, rough concrete biting into her shoulders. Somewhere nearby she could hear the sound of shoes on pavement, someone coming closer. She let her eyes dart around, checking the area, before she took a moment to readjust her grip on the paint-ball gun. The sound of distant warfare was filtered by the walls, reducing it to mere background noise, while the tiniest of movements over the pavement boomed in her ears. The gun swung around and she nearly let a shot fly right into Bog's face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He slipped down behind the pillar with her, cradling his own weapon, “I'm on your side, remember?”

“For the moment.” She agreed.

Marianne was dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, military style boots laced on her feet, a visored helmet protecting her face. Bog was wearing a camouflage jacket over his usual gray shirt and jeans, and a very battered helmet with a crack in the visor. Neither of them had a speck of paint on their persons. They were inside an abandoned parking garage, near the ground floor entrance that looked out into a bushy wooded area.

“The way I came was clear. What about up ahead?”

“All clear, but Sunny is sniping from the hill. And he keeps climbing trees!”

“Next time we're making a rule about that,” Bog grumbled. “Make a run for it? I cover you?”

“I'll cover you. I'm a smaller target standing still.”

Marianne sprang up from behind the pillar and sprayed fire back and forth toward the hill while Bog made a run for the next set of pillars some yards further on. A dismayed shout told her she had gotten lucky. A moment later Sunny stood up and waved his gun in the air, a bright pink stain across the side of his helmet.

“Don't worry! I'll avenge you! Team Realism will prevail!” Dawn called to him, bringing her gun up to aim.

Pwat!

Dawn looked down at her shoulder and saw the purple splotch, vivid against her brown jacket. On the hill below Bog was standing with his gun, having sprung out from behind a pillar and fired a single shot at the crucial moment.

“Boggy!” She yelled, stamping her foot.

“Bog!” He shouted back. “Team Abstract is victorious!” He held up a hand and Marianne jumped up to give him a high-five.

“So,” Marianne said casually, hand on her hip, gun tucked in the crook of her arm, “I got Sunny and you got Dawn. Leaving just us two in the game, which means . . .” Behind her visor bloomed a wide and wicked grin which was immediately matched by Bog's crooked-toothed smile.

“Sudden death!” They shouted, whipping their guns into position and firing off several rounds at each other. Both missed and they plunged headlong into the echoing concrete structure, ducking behind pillars, leaning out to shoot at and taunt each other. “You're in for it now!” “Bring it on!” “You call that aiming? You're no Robin Hood, that's for sure!”

Sunny and Dawn watched them go, the sound of maniacal cackling and gunfire fading as they moved to an upper level of the garage. “Well.” Dawn took off her helmet and ran a hand through her sweaty hair, “We probably won't see either of them for at least half an hour. Next time we're not letting them team up.”

“But the idea of teaming up with either one of them makes me tired.” Sunny drooped. They walked back to the cars and pulled out the cooler full of drinks and sandwiches. “And do you want to be on the receiving end of Sudden Death?”

“We need to stop letting Bog and Marianne make the rules. Next time we'll play capture the flag or something. Everyone for themselves.” Dawn climbed up onto the roof of Bog's pickup to sit in the sun, sipping a root beer. Sunny joined her and they leaned against each other, his head on her shoulder, waiting the soldiers to return from war.

Forty-five minutes later Bog and Marianne emerged, splattered head-to-toe with neon paint. Neither of them said anything. They weakly grabbed cold drinks, taking off their helmets to reveal damp hair and flushed faces. After they had downed their first drinks and started on seconds Dawn ventured to ask, “Who won?”

Bog and Marianne looked at each other. “We're not . . . really sure?” Bog shrugged and offered up an uncertain hand.

“It got kind of confusing at the end. But I was winning.”

“Sure you were. I figure three head shots put me in the lead.”

“Huh, well, if you'd bother to count the hits you took to center mass you might find the numbers work out differently.”

“The game is over, guys.” Dawn dropped backwards with a thud! “Play rock, paper, scissors and end it already.”

“No, no, no! Don't you remember what happened the last time they played rock, paper, scissors? The two hour debate about sharp rocks being able to cut paper? Whether or not the scissors were too dull to cut through heavy card stock?” Sunny flopped over backwards too, his feet and Dawn's hanging in front of the pickup's windshield.

“I think we broke them.” Marianne tugged on her sister's shoe, garnering no response save a muted groan. “Do you think they're still under warranty?”

“Nah. You'll probably have to invest in a new set.”

“I hope you appreciate this.” Dawn said, reviving enough to lean over into the bed of the pickup and wave her hand at a sandwich just out of reach. Bog pulled it further away and looked at her with an innocent expression. She looked at him pitifully and he relented, handing her the package. “This is all in effort to work off Marianne's excess aggression so maybe she won't start a knock-down-drag-out right in a formal setting.”

“Does she do that regularly?” Bog asked, leaning against the side of the car next to Dawn. “If she does, why haven't I been invited before?”

“It's only when certain elements are mixed,” Dawn explained, “Like Dad and Roland in the same room for more than two minutes. Or when people ask if she's going to use her art degree to go into teaching.” Marianne and Bog groaned. “Yeah, I think you two might have some of the same triggers.”

For a few minutes there was a lull in conversation as everybody devoted themselves to their sandwiches. Dawn started it up again by saying, “Who here should be studying right now?” And she raised her hand. Marianne and Sunny did too.

Bog did not.

Everyone looked at Bog and he stopped in mid-chew of his roast beef and mustard on rye. “Don't you have finals tomorrow?” Dawn demanded, lying on her stomach on the pickup roof, wiggling over so her face was up against Bog's. “Aren't you being eaten alive by the dread of finals week? Anxiously procrastinating in the face of certain doom?”

“Um.” Bog swallowed, “Mostly the finals are papers and I finished those . . . last week.”

Everybody groaned in disbelief at this disgustingly sensible course of action. Dawn placed her hands gently on either side of Bog's face and whispered, “You aren't human.”

“Stop that.” He swatted her away.

“No, you must be some sort of robot. I'm looking for wielding seams.” Dawn tweaked his long nose.

Bog grabbed her hands and held her back. “And stop that. Unlike you carefree adolescents I've got a job and they need me there, the sooner the better.”

“Hey,” Marianne said from the other side of the pickup, “I would totally have a job if Dad hadn't sprung this European vacation on us.” She folded her arms and looked sour, “Had it all lined up with the gallery in town. It would've looked great on my resume and everything.”

Bog had certainly been looking forward to Marianne staying in town over the summer. The sudden news that she would be out of the country until school started up again had hit him hard. Griselda commented on his renewed gloomy attitude and asked if he had been quarreling with his sweetheart. “It did seem out of the blue.” He remarked.

“It's my fault.” Dawn rolled over and laid across Sunny, staring up at the sky. Sunny put his arm around her and patted her shoulder. “Dad wants to get me away from my unsuitable suitor.”

“Me.” Sunny said helpfully.

“He thinks a summer in Europe will make me forget.” She laid the back of her hand over her forehead, speaking in wistful tones. “That our love is too fragile to survive the separation.”

“Okay, a question.” Bog said, “When I first saw you two I assume you were an item. But your sister says, nope, you aren't. Then at some point since then you are dating, but so far as I can tell you both act exactly the same as before.”

“It is a tale of star-crossed lovers.” Dawn began.

“Okay, maybe I should have just held back my curiosity.”

Dawn dropped her dramatic tone and began again. “Sunny and I were best friends since we were like six. Then I had to move away to live with Dad and we didn't get to see each other until about two years ago. I totally thought I might be in love with him, but we were hundreds of miles apart. What I didn't know was that Sunny was also totally in love with me.”

“Since we were about ten.”

“We met up again at school. Actually, we kind of picked this school because it had the programs we both wanted and we could meet up again. We were super-excited to see each other and neither of us wanted to run our best friend deal so we didn't say anything. Then there was that dance and I asked Sunny to go. As my friend? He asked, and I said nooo . . .”

“This story goes on for awhile.” Marianne interrupted, seeing Bog really wanted it to end but wasn't sure how to cut Dawn off without hurting her feelings. “They danced, they kissed, they swore eternal love. You know the drill.”

“How . . . nice.” Bog grimaced.

“Anyway,” Dawn said, “Dad has never liked Sunny, for whatever reason.”

“I think the phrase “blue-collar background” is involved somehow.” Sunny sketched quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “Possibly the term “gold-digger” was tossed around. Apparently my family doesn't measure up to the qualifying income bracket.”

“Dad is a narrow-minded old money-grubber.” Marianne yawned. “He doesn't like his carefully arranged world-view jarred.”

Bog chuckled and held his can of soda across the car. “Wait until he meets me!”

“Here's looking forward to it!” Marianne clanked her can against his in a toast.

The sun was just setting, purple and red still streaked in the thin scattering of clouds overhead, when people began arriving for the end of semester party. Sunny and Dawn were the first ones in the gallery, busy with last minute touches such as straightening name plates and brushing specks of dust off sculptures. The studio was sparkling clean and organized, ready for open house tours, several unfinished projects on display, tools arranged around them so visitors could get a glimpse of the process.

Among the later arrivals were Bog and Marianne, hoping to slip in without undue fuss. They met at the base of the stairs, stopping dead when they spotted each other. Half a dozen people walked between them and up the stairs before Marianne said, “You actually own a tie. A tie with colors.”

Bog's hand went to the knot of the green and silver striped tie and loosened it a little more. He was wearing dark gray dress slacks, a rumpled white dress shirt, and the promised gray suit jacket. He hadn't had reason to dress up for a long time and he felt uncomfortable and out of place.

“Hm. And all evidence to the contrary you own a dress. Wait, are you taller?” Marianne turned slightly and raised a foot to display a black shoe with a four-inch heel. “Is that footwear or a weapon? You could kill a man with that.”

“Which is the only good point about it. Aside from making me taller than Roland, that is.” Marianne sighed, crossing her arms and looking sullen. “This is all for my dad's benefit. I want this evening to be over as quick and painlessly as possible so I've tried to remove all possible objectionable elements. He expects his daughters to dress like proper young ladies.”

The attire for proper young ladies tonight was a sleeveless pinstripe dress with a skirt that flared out to just past her knees, a long-sleeved, high-collared red blouse underneath. This seemed to be as far as the compromise went, because her dark lipstick and eyeshadow were freshly applied and perhaps even a little thicker than usual.

“Aren't I an objectionable element?” Bog pointed out.

“Murdering Roland or my father is far more objectionable than you presence. You stay. So,” Marianne asked as they began to ascend the stairs, her heels clicking against the steps. “I'm late because I was scrubbing paint out of my hair. What's your excuse?”

Bog's finger hooked into the tie again and tugged. “Um . . . my mother found out . . . about the date thing. Somehow. She had . . . a lot to say.” When he had pulled out of the driveway in his truck his mother had been in the doorway waving and gleefully yelling, “You two behave!”

“We're only given more fuel to the fire, haven't we?” Marianne snickering as she glanced back at Bog, “How does she find this stuff out? She must have a mole on the inside. If Dawn were capable of any sort of subterfuge I would wonder if she . . . but, nah. Hey, did you actually shave?”

“I shave all the time!” He ran a hand over his chin and narrowed his shadowed eyes at the accusation.

Marianne shot him a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, really? I was under the impression that the lower half of your face just existed in a constant state of stubble which you could use as sandpaper in an emergency.”

Throughout the evening Bog was the recipient of some very confused looks. The majority of the art students had never laid eyes on him and most of the teachers only remembered him because Bog's tall, gloomy form was hard to forget. Roland, dressed to impress in a sharp black suit and green dress shirt, looked taken aback and displeased. Especially when he approached Marianne and found out that Bog was her date. The moment she saw him approaching Marianne threaded her arm through Bog's and said through clenched teeth, “Remember, if I start to set him on fire you are supposed to stop me. Not hand me the matches.”

“Marianne, darlin', there you are!” Roland came up, arms spread out expansively, “It's gettin' so hard to find you these days! Barely got a glimpse of you during the setup. Where've you been hiding, buttercup?”

“Cupboards, mostly.” Marianne said coolly. Bog tried not to laugh and began choking instead. Marianne's lips twisted up in an attempt to remain composed and she elbowed Bog hard in the ribs to get him to shut up.

“Um?” Roland's brilliant smile became a little fixed. He ignored Bog entirely, “Ha? Anyway, I was just looking at your paintings and thinking how much you've improved.”

“Wow. You really think so?” Marianne's bared teeth might technically have been classified as a smile.

“You're really coming along, darlin', but I was thinking there were many one or two hints I could pass along to you, if you wanted to come sit down and talk about it. With the right guidance I bet you could go places with your art.”

“Wow. Thanks. No. Bye.”

“C'mon, Marianne!” Roland leaned forward and put out a hand to grab Marianne's arm, a smile on his face and manner casual. They way Marianne tensed told Bog that this was not an unusual tactic for Roland to try. Apparently he was counting on the fact that Marianne would be reluctant to make a scene in front of all the teachers by pulling back. Personally, Bog thought the chances of her just decking Roland regardless were much higher. So before Roland could actually touch Marianne, Bog had slipped his arm around her and put his hand over the wrist that Roland was aiming for.

Roland stopped short and looked directly at Bog for the first time since he had walked up. Eye flicking between Bog's murderous expression and the hand on Marianne's arm he said, “Are you two . . .? Well, that's—that's . . .” He swallowed hard and coughed, “Interesting.”

Dawn popped out of the crowd then to tell Marianne that their father had arrived. Bog shook hands with Mr. Summers and it did not escape Bog's attention how the short, round man's face blanched at the sight of his daughter's disheveled escort. There was a rapid exchange of glances between Mr. Summers and Roland as they realized their plans to reconcile Marianne with her ex were falling apart around their ears.

Somehow Roland was invited to dinner anyway, Marianne's father saying, “Why, you're practically family, my boy!” Marianne and Bog drove to the restaurant in his pickup, sparing them from being in close quarters with the object of detestation for a few minutes longer. Marianne was slouched down so low that her seatbelt was tangled around her throat.

“My dad is not making this easy.” She growled.

“Did you see his face when you introduced me?”

“It was pretty priceless.” Marianne perked up enough to manage a smile. “He's so used to getting his own way, this business with Roland is really sticking in his throat. Makes me wish mom were still around. She'd straighten Dad out.”

“Your mom was the boss of the operation?”

“Pretty much.” Marianne wiggled back into an upright position. “She and dad divorced when I was twelve. Dawn and I lived with mom because dad was so busy with his business—always out of town. He'd show up on holidays. Sometimes. Try to spoil us and map out our lives, both at the same time, but mom always kept him in line. Mom was definitely the boss of Dawn and me, but she taught us to make our own choices and never forced us into anything.”

“Sounds like you got along.”

“Hah! We had shouting contests at least once a week over something or another. Curfew, homework, parties . . . we fought a lot.” Marianne picked at the buttons on her cuffs. Street lights flashed back, streaking yellow across the windshield. “Sometimes I worry that I'm not remembering her right. That I'm repainting memories, making them happier than they were.”

“I guess it doesn't feel right to be angry about anything they did in life. My dad . . . he and I got along pretty well. But when I talked about going to college rather than just taking over his construction business . . . whew! He was an angry Scotsman, dyed in the wool. When I think of some of the arguments we had it doesn't feel right to remember that he might have been in the wrong. I suppose it feels like hitting someone who can't fight back.”

“I guess you're right. I just keep thinking things like, “if mom were here this wouldn't have happened”. Like she was some sort of fairy godmother. Really, she probably would told me to clean up my own messes. Maybe she might have liked Roland.” Marianne frowned. “No, no, she wouldn't have. She had too much sense.”

“Like her daughter.” Bog chuckled.

“Ugh. But I actually, you know, dated him. Serious lapse of judgment there.”

“Why did you date him?” Bog could easily understand why Marianne had broken up with Roland, but he could never quite picture how they had become a couple in the first place.

“He was . . . he was so good looking.” Marianne fidgeted with her purse.

“Oh.” Bog slumped a bit further down in his seat. He always had to drive a bit bent over because his head tended to hit the ceiling if he sat up straight.

“No, no.” Marianne continued quickly, “I meant . . . he fit the picture. Mom had died and we went to live with dad—who we really barely knew. I tried to be grateful to him, tried to be the daughter he wanted. Dawn he liked. She was so sweet and happy and easy to understand. His only problem with her was when she discovered boys.

“But me? Not so sweet and happy. But I tried to be. Went to the college he picked out, took the classes he wanted, dressed like a “proper young lady”. He introduced me to Roland and Roland was . . .” Marianne's jaw worked for a moment. “Roland was charming. He was a perfect gentleman and he said all the right things to me in the right way and everybody said how perfect we were together, how happy we would be. It all looked right so I thought it must be right.”

The pickup pulled up to a red light and waited for it to change. Bog freed one hand from the steering wheel and laid it across Marianne's shoulders. He hadn't planned to do that, it just seemed to be the thing to do. Her voice had turned heavy and sad when talking about her mother and then was thick with anger when talking about Roland and her father, it had felt like she needed to know she wasn't alone. He would have snatched his arm back the moment he realized what he had done and muttered an apology but Marianne leaned across the divider, seatbelt tugging almost to its limit, and rested her head against his shoulder.

“But it wasn't right.” Marianne said. The light changed and they drove on, Bog steering with one hand. “Everyone looked the part, like a fairy tale ending, but really . . . it was only looks. And if I hadn't been so stupid, so—so willfully blind. Well, maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much when I found out he was cheating on me.”

“He was dating you and he cheated?” The car swerved and Bog had to take his arm from around Marianne's shoulders so he could straighten the vehicle.

Marianne laughed, but kept leaning against him. “Actually, we were engaged.”

“What.” Bog almost swerved the car again. “I knew he was a ruddy moron, but I didn't realize he was absolutely brain dead.” This elicited further laughter from Marianne, as he hoped it might. But he was baffled by he idea of Marianne almost walking down the aisle with that primping peacock.

They parked in front of the restaurant. Marianne checked her makeup in the mirror and straightened Bog's tie for him. “Okay, review the game plan?”

“Order only appetizers.” Was Bog's prompt reply, “Say we ate a lot at the party and aren't very hungry. Wait about half an hour then mention how late we were up last night setting up the studio and gallery. Exit the restaurant. Drive into the sunset.”

“Grab a pizza--”

“One half cheese and one half meat lover's.”

“--and be back at the studio with enough time to introduce you to the 1990s Gargoyle cartoon series.”

“Yeah, we'll negotiate about that when we get there.”

“That show is a work of art.”

“What, like that Batman one?”

“Batman the Animated Series broke the mold and redefined what a cartoon series could be like. Just because you don't “get” it--”

“All he does is dress up like a bat and cry on top of gargoyles in the rain—hey, are those the same gargoyles?”

“No, they are in no way related to the architecture of Gotham City.”

“Back to the game plan, do you want me to behave myself? This is your dinner, your dad, so I thought I might ask before I draw blood.”

“We're making this quick and clean. If possible we leave everybody alive. Remember, Dawn and Sunny are innocent bystanders in all of this.”

The first hitch in the flow of the evening came almost immediately. The two valets waiting out front to park the cars turned out to be acquaintances of Bog's. A short, skinny man with yellow hair and thick-framed glasses waved enthusiastically. “Hey, BK!” The other valet, a plump woman with a deadpan face, only slightly taller than her companion, grabbed his hand and tried to hush him. “You're suppose to act professional!”

“But it's BK!”

“Hey,” Bog rolled his eyes but also smiled a bit when he briefly introduced Marianne to Steph and Thane. The two often worked construction part time and Bog had supervised them on several occasion. They were competent and hard workers, but they sometimes lived a bit in their own private worlds. Marianne's father looked impatient over this delay and Roland muttered something insulting about the working class. Marianne noticed this and looked sullen. Dawn noticed nothing and introduced herself with gusto.

“Hi, I'm Dawn! You guys work with Bog? Does he shout at you a lot?”

“Oh, yeah!” Thane said cheerfully, “All the time! One time he threw a two by four at me when I had been reading the blueprints upside-down!”

“I missed.” Bog interjected. “And I wasn't aiming for you in the first place.”

“Otherwise I'm sure you wouldn't have missed.” Marianne said sweetly.

“Just take their keys before we get fired.” Steph urged, not unaware of Mr. Summers' impatience.

“Nice to meet you!” Dawn breezed off into the restaurant, her arm linked with Sunny's. “See you later!”

“Bye!” Thane turned and waved. Steph pulled his hand down and put a set of keys in it.

The second skirmish of the evening was over the matter of seating. Roland smoothly pulled a chair out for Marianne when she approached the table, making sure that the only chair available for Bog was on the opposite end of the table since everyone else was already seated. Marianne stopped dead in her tracks and appraised the seating arrangement with displeasure, looking daggers at Roland. Dawn sprang up from her seat and claimed the chair Roland was offering. “I want to sit next to Dad!” So Roland was trapped between Dawn and Sunny while Marianna and Bog sat next to each other.

“So,” Mr. Summers began in the way that fathers do, doing his best to make this unworthy suitor as uncomfortable as possible, “You work construction?”

Bog was going to ignore the condescending tone and answer with civility, but he saw Marianne had picked up a knife and was already stabbing the table cloth. “Oh, yeah, recently.” Marianne stopped stabbing and looked sideways at Bog when she heard his brogue thickening. “Done this and that. You know how it is, hard to stay with the same thing for long. Worked at a tattoo parlor for a bit. Bar tending is a good gig, do that now and again. Once I even worked at a flower shop.”

“A flower shop, really?” Dawn asked, “Don't tell me you made arrangements!”

“Nope, mostly heavy lifting, you know.” He did not mention how those jobs had only been summer employment when he was a teenager. Except the bartender job, which he had worked when his father was sick because the hours were better than construction. But his main goal right now was to sound entirely disreputable and transient, so he wasn't going to clarify.

“And, ahem, what are you planning to do after do after you finish school?” Mr. Summers asked.

“Maybe buy a motorcycle and see America one highway at a time.”

“Doesn't that sound neat, Dad?” Marianne had put down the knife. Now she leaned her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together. “No rushing into a boring old job and responsibilities. Just the open road under the smog-hazed stars.”

“But I thought you were going to--” Sunny began. Sweet smile never faltering Dawn kicked his ankle and cut him off.

“Aren't you getting on a bit, though?” Roland joined the conversation, “I mean, you can't fuss around at part-time jobs and motorcycles forever. The later you wait to find a proper job the harder it will be to find one.”

“If I'm getting on so much in years then I'd better have my fun while I can.” Bog replied. “Want to get my brawling out of the way before I lose the edge. What fun is a trip across America without finding a little trouble in a roadside pub or two?”

Bog began to recount some of his adventures from his summers in the highlands with his father's family, adding color when necessary and leaving out the fact that most of them happened nearly ten years ago. Marianne's father turned all sorts of interesting colors and when he attempt to interrupt Bog just rolled right over him. Sunny was nervous, but cautiously entertained by all this. Dawn was completely enjoying herself, peppering Bog with questions about knife fights and mob brawls. Marianne spent most of the time leaning her face on her hand, trying to conceal her absolute delight over the situation.

“How did you end up in America?” Mr. Summers asked at one point, trying to regain control of the conversation. He might have been able to disregard this uncouth man his daughter had picked up as some passing form of rebellion on Marianne's part, if not for the way that he had seen Bog's hand come up and take Marianne's. Bog wasn't even aware of doing it, he had just closed his fingers around Marianne's hand and gently pressed until she released the knife she had been fidgeting with. The gesture was so casual that it seemed to indicate, to Mr. Summers, an unexpected level of familiarity between the two.

“Born here. In Connecticut.” Bog let that answer hang in the air for a moment, watching Mr. Summers attempting to figure out how someone from Connecticut had a Scottish accent. Just when he could see the question the tip of Mr. Summers tongue, Bog plowed on, “My dad was from Scotland. His business made him move around a lot and he met my mom while he was over here and decided to stay.”

“So . . . so you're from Connecticut.”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“Just born there. Haven't been there since I was five days old. Lived in this area mostly, when Dad finally stopped traveling so much.”

Despite Bog's improvisation, the original plan to ditch early seemed to be working. Roland, who had been stewing in sulky silence and making excuses to leave the table repeatedly, raised no objection when Marianne got up to leave. Marianne's father was shocked into silence for the moment, simply rising to give his daughter a goodbye kiss and say he'd see her in the morning.

Waiting outside for the pickup to be brought around Marianne was laughing so hard she had to hang onto Bog's arm to keep herself standing. “Okay, okay,” She gasped, dabbing carefully at her eyes to avoid smearing her makeup, “We're getting that pizza but skipping the cartoons. You're going to tell me how much of that spiel was true and how much you concocted on the spot! Motorcycling across America? Really?”

“Should I have said I already owned the bike and implied that I was leader of a motorcycle gang?”

“About the only thing you didn't do was imply you had connections to the mob.”

Bog snapped his fingers. “Knew I forgot something.”

“BK,” Steph came trotting up, “We got a problem with your car.”

In the parking lot Bog knelt down to examine the slashes in the tire of his pickup. Actually, all four tires were damaged, punctured through the sidewalls. This meant the tires couldn't be patched or fixed, but had to be replaced entirely. He stood back up and kicked the tire, snapping a curse at it. While he was staring at the tires and seething Marianne was asking Steph, “Were any other cars damaged?”

“Nope.” Steph shook her head, “Thane started checking right after we found this mess. And, sorry, but we didn't see anything. I'll call the manager for you right now.”

Bog and Marianne looked at the tires again and then at each other. “Roland,” They said. Bog's teeth ground together and he hunched up his shoulders. “The second he walks out of that building . . .” He growled.

“Don't bother waiting.” Marianne's heels clicked rapidly over the pavement. She was halfway back to the restaurant before Bog shook himself away from calculating how much replacement tires would cost and how he would wring the money from Roland. Bog might be boiling mad but he had promised to keep Marianne from doing anything regrettable. “Marianne!” He sprinted after her, tie flying. He caught up with her by the door, “Marianne, no!”

“Marianne, yes.” She replied, slamming open the door, a startled employee dropping a handful of menus in surprise. Following Marianne, Bog fleetingly thought that he preferred it when she wore overalls. It was easier to reel her back in.

Everyone looked up at Marianne's purposeful entrance, surprised at her return. “Somebody slashed the tires on Bog's pickup.” Bog was surprised at the suddenly neutral tone of her voice. “Bog's got to wait for a tow and I'm going to need a ride home.”

“How mean!' Dawn said.

“I can give you a lift!” Roland folded his napkin and stood up, beaming goodwill and dripping innocence. Irritation rising to critical levels, Bog took a step forward, but was stopped by Marianne's elbow jabbing sharply into his side. She was smiling. Not grimacing, not snarling, not even a normal Marianne smile. She was looking completely sweet and grateful as she said, “Really? That would be a big help, thank you!”

Dawn's eyes widened in apprehension. Sunny slid down in his chair, contemplating the possibility of slipping under the table for cover. Mr. Summers' rotund figure seemed to inflate just a little bit more as he considered this turn of events, a faint expression of smugness coming over his features.

At ease, Roland turned to shake hands with Mr. Summers. “Oh, you've got something on your collar!” Marianne came up from behind and put her hands on Roland's shoulders, tracing her fingers along the collar. Roland stood still, craning his neck to see what was disfiguring his otherwise spotless outfit. In a moment Marianne's expression turned from sweet to grimly determined. She grabbed Roland's collar and yanked his jacket halfway off, trapping his arms in the crumpled sleeves. Shocked, and restrained by his own sleeves, Roland only gaped while Marianne went through his jacket pockets.

She found what she was looking for and stemmed glasses rattled when Marianne slammed the box cutter onto the table. Sunny's soup sloshed the edge of the bowl and onto the tablecloth. For a moment everyone, including the other diners and most of the staff, stood still and stared, trying to piece together what was happening. Realization was just dawning in Mr. Summers' eyes when Roland tried to say something and Marianne started shouting.

For an indeterminate length of time Marianne was shouting, Roland was struggling to free himself from his own jacket, and Mr. Summers was demanding that everyone be quiet. Bog did not know quite what to do. There was no stopping Marianne right now except if someone physically gagged her. Then she lunged at Roland and Bog grabbed her, snaking an arm around her waist and pinning her to his side.

“Bog!”

“The deal was that I keep you from decapitating him, right? Well,” Bog cracked his neck, “Deal's off. But it isn't fair to the restaurant if you start brawling in their dining room. Why don't we take this outside?”

Roland, one arm free and his jacket hanging down to trail on the floor, looked at his options. There was the furious Marianne, eyes burning and teeth bared in a snarl, only restrained by the arm Bog had clamped around her waist. Then there was Bog himself, who through natural talent and years of practice had mastered a sneer menacing enough to stop clocks.

“Well, I guess . . . I'd better . . . go!”

Roland ran for the door, golden hair flopping, jacket dragging across somebody's lobster dinner. There was a squeak as the same waiter Marianne had scared nearly got run over again. The door slammed shut behind him.

The entire restaurant was staring. Dawn and Sunny were watching with identical stunned expressions.

Mr. Summers was turning purple, but managed to ask for the check.

Chapter Text

Two minutes later they were all in the parking lot and engaged in a three way shouting match. Mr. Summer was telling Marianne she had been out of control ever since she switched schools, how dare she embarrass him like this. Marianne was shouting that Roland had just vandalized Bog's car, why weren't they talking about that? Bog started off by trying to calm Marianne down, but got offended by what her father was saying and was soon dominating the argument thanks to his natural advantage in volume and projection. Sunny and Dawn were wide-eyed spectators whose attempts at peace-making were drowned out.

To the credit of Mr. Summers, he did not back down even when faced with an enraged giant who towered over a foot over him. He simply waited for a break in the shouting and said, “I think it's time to say good night. Marianne, Dawn, my rental is over here.”

Bog and Marianne were still sizzling mad. “He doesn't even offer you a lift.” Marianne lingered behind with Bog. She was out of breath and was shaking from adrenaline.

“I'll have to stay for the tow truck, anyhow.” Bog rumbled, scratching the back of his head as he viewed his car. He kicked the tires again to relieve his feelings. It didn't help. “I'm sorry about all this.”

“You're sorry? I'm the one who—”

“Marianne!”

“Coming!” She called over her shoulder. “I'll text you. Raincheck on movie night? We're not leaving until the day after tomorrow. Roland will pay for you tires, I'll see to it.”

Bog watched her go, feeling hot and angry over the whole stupid mess. Also regretful, because he doubted there was any way he would see her before she jaunted off for the summer. Her father would make sure she was kept busy for the next two days. He noticed Marianne pause when she saw the minivan her father had indicated. Sunny and Dawn had been ushered into the back seat and Mr. Summers was motioning for his daughter to get in the front.

“But, Dad, it's--”

“I've had just about enough attitude from you tonight, Marianne!”

“Can I just switch with Dawn--?”

“Get in the car!”

Marianne went quiet, but seemed to resolve herself, climbing into the front seat. Bog watched, puzzled, catching a glimpse of Dawn through the back window. She looked deeply concerned and was trying to speak up, but her father wasn't listening. Mr. Summers got into the driver's seat, the doors slammed shut and the car pulled out of its space and headed for the street.

Sighing, Bog turned back to the car.

The screech of brakes made him whirl back around. The minivan had slammed to a stop just before turning onto the street because Marianne had thrown open the passenger door. She had done it with such force that the door dented the side of a parked car and then bounced back, almost hitting Marianne. She stumbled out and staggered, tripping on her high heels. There were multiple rows of cars between Bog and Marianne now, but he began to navigate his way toward her.

Now she had slumped against the side of the dented car, arms wrapped tight around herself, like she couldn't keep herself upright. Mr. Summers came around the car and took Marianne by the shoulders, trying to guide her back to the car. He was obviously concerned and trying to be gentle, but Marianne shook him off. Usually she moved with purpose, but now the movements of her arms were jerky and uncertain. When Mr. Summers tried to touch her again she broke into a run, heading right into the street.

Bog had been threading his way through the cars, now he just discarded propriety and climbed over the hood of someone's fancy car, leaving sneaker prints on the shiny finish. Marianne was running through traffic now, horns blaring and cars swerving. He was right behind her. He had no idea what had just happened and there wasn't much going on in his head except that he needed to make sure Marianne was okay.

“Marianne!” They made it to the other side of the street, “Marianne, what's wrong?”

“Nothing! Just go away!” Her voice was tight and she crossed her arms and walked with her head bent forward, looking ready to break into a run again even though she was wobbling on her high-heeled shoes.

With his longer stride and sensible shoes Bog quickly caught up to her. “What about muggers?” He asked, coming alongside her.

“What about them?”

“If I let you roam free they might get hurt.”

Marianne hiccuped a laugh. She also stopped walking.

Bog walked up slowly and came around in front of her. Black makeup was smeared around her eyes, tears pouring down her face. She was panting, gasping air in and out like she was afraid she'd run out of oxygen. Her eyes darted around, like a cornered animal looking for an exit. Bending down he cautiously put his hands on her shoulders, ready to back off if she objected. “What's wrong, tough girl?”

She looked up at him, a flash of anger showing through the tears. “Don't make fun of me!”

“What? I'm not!”

“You can't call me Tough Girl when I'm crying.”

“Oh, Marianne.” His voice was low and soft, his usual defensive growl washed away by his concern for Marianne, he moved his thumbs comfortingly up and down against the sleeves of her blouse. “You could wrestle an alligator and win, but do you have to do it every minute of every day? Take a break now and again. Tough girl.”

Marianne's shoulders were shaking, her hands clenched together in front of her. She pried her fingers free and slammed against Bog, pressing her face against his chest, her arms balled into fists behind his back. Bog stood there, shocked into standing up straight, stiff as a board, hands held out in the air. But he could feel how badly Marianne was shaking, how her heart was pounding at frightening speeds. Slowly, afraid to startle her, one hand stole around her shoulders, the other stroking her hair gently.

“I'm not tough. I'm not. I'm not.” Marianne's words were distorted by sobs. “Can't even . . . it's been years. I should be over it. I should be fine.”

“What's wrong? What happened?” He was wondering if he should call an ambulance. The way she was choking scared him and the thought she might be seriously sick sent a wave of familiar anxiety through him. The fear made him want to tighten his arms around her, as if keeping her close could keep her safe. But he kept his hug loose and tried to pretend that it was Marianne's shuddering that was making his hands shake.

“But he knows. He knows.” Marianne said, “Why didn't he remember?”

Dawn walked up, having had to wait for traffic to clear. Somewhere across the road Bog could see Sunny waiting. Bog looked at Dawn, blue eyes imploring her to give him some clue about what was going on, how he could help Marianne, who had now stopped shaking and was going alarmingly limp in his arms.

“Hey, Marianne.” Dawn gave Marianne's shoulder the lightest touch.

“Hey, Dawn.” Marianne pushed Bog away, trying to get her breathing steady as she said dismissively, “Sorry, sorry, I'm fine. I'm fine.”

Dawn pushed her back at Bog. He put his arms around her, legitimately afraid she might fall over without any support. “No, you're not. You're having a panic attack. She's having a panic attack.” She looked up at Bog when he repeated it. “Because Dad is . . . is . . . is stupid.” She spoke the word with every bit of vim and venom in her kindhearted nature. She looked at her older sister, pale face smeared with black, looking over the gray sleeves crossed in front of her. “Do you want to go back to the apartment?” Marianne shook her head. “Where do you want to go?” She took Marianne's hands, asking her questions in a gentle, calm voice.

“Anywhere Dad won't be.” Marianne's voice cracked. Dawn looked a little lost but after a moment she seemed to make up her mind. “Bog,” Said Dawn, “Can Marianne stay on your couch tonight?”

She needs to feel safe.

Bog looked at the lengthy text message Dawn had sent him. It was prefaced with the remark that she hadn't wanted to discuss it all in front of Marianne, because it was a major trigger. The rest of the message outlined the circumstances of their mother's death in a car accident. In a minivan, very much like the one Mr. Summers had been driving tonight, and that Marianne had been in the front passenger's seat during the crash. The explanation both relieved and worried Bog, plus a little bit of anger thrown in. Marianne wasn't sick, she was going to be fine, but to have been forced into a situation that called up such bad memories . . . hence the anger toward Mr. Summers apparently forgetting something so important.

Marianne had tried to walk off after Dawn left, but Bog stopped her. “You're going to break an ankle in those heels.” He said, and picked her up, one arm under her knees, the other around her back and shoulders.

“Okay?” He asked.

“Okay.” No complaint, no protest, just tired agreement. That she didn't bother to object unnerved Bog. Most of their conversations were couched in the form of arguments, enjoying the bickering even if they, in fact, actually agreed with each other.

He gave the keys of his pickup to Dawn and she said she'd oversee the tow. Bog got his bag and Marianne's backpack out of his pickup and called a cab. Bog carried Marianne to a bench down the street from the restaurant to wait for their ride. “It'll be about fifteen minutes.” He told her. She nodded, tears still seeping from her closed eyes, not otherwise moving.

“You look like you were in a fight with a printing press.” He remarked as he walked, looking at her black stained cheeks. She thumped the side of her fist against his sternum and he laughed, relieved at her in-character reaction. “Do you . . . do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head and so they spent the rest of their wait in silence.

In the cab Bog glared whenever he met the driver's inquisitive look in the rearview mirror. There was mascara smeared all over the front of Bog's shirt and Marianne's tear-stained face. Finally they arrived home. Griselda was waiting up, having received Bog's text about what happened.

“Hey, honey,” Her voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper. Bog set Marianne down inside, dropping her shoes by the door. “I'm gonna hug you, okay?” Marianne shook her head. Griselda patted her hand, “Okay, baby. That's fine. I made you some tea. Get some rest.” Bog was relieved that for once his mother had some measure of tact.

“The bed's made up for you.” Bog pointed out the bedroom and bathroom doors. Marianne went and cleaned off her face and changed into the sweatpants and baggy shirt she had packed to change into after dinner. “I'll be on the couch if you need anything.” He told her.

“Bog,” The ghost of a smile crossed Marianne's pale face, “Do you even fit on the couch? You hang off by the knees on the art department sofa.”

“I'll . . . I'll be fine.”

“I'll take the couch.” Marianne's usual self was reasserting itself and she went over to the couch and sat on the comforter Griselda had laid out. “I don't know if I'm going to sleep at all, anyway. I don't usually. After . . . um.” She tucked her feet up under her and grabbed a pillow to hug. She buried her face in it. “I'm an idiot.” She mumbled.

“Granted.” Bog sat down next to her, “But any more than usual?”

Marianne hit Bog with the pillow. “You are an idiot.”

“Also granted.”

“Hey, Bog?” Marianne had folded her arms and was rubbing her hands against her shoulders to warm herself. The air conditioning was set high because Griselda liked to sleep under a pile of quilts even during the Summer. Bog pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it around Marianne's shoulders. “Yeah?”

“You know our whole unspoken mutual no-hugging rule?”

“Well, you just said it, so it's a spoken rule now.”

“Shut up. Um. Can we make an exception?” She brushed back her hair.

“Uh . . . yeah. Yes. Okay.” Bog rubbed the back of his neck. Marianne scooted across the space between them and slipped her arms around him, her face hidden against his shoulder, legs still tucked underneath her. He wasn't sure if the pounding he felt was his heart racing or if Marianne's still hadn't calmed down. If it was his he vainly hoped she wouldn't notice.

“You're not doing your part here.” Marianne's muffled voice said. Bog realized his arms were frozen, hovering in the air. He lowered them and returned the hug. “That's better.” The clock on the wall ticked away the time, the loudest noise in the room. Marianne had apparently no intention of moving. “My dad is a moron.” Marianne said.

“You're stating a lot of obvious things tonight.”

“It was a lead in, idiot. I can't believe he just forgot. But it isn't really surprising, I guess.” A long pause. “How much did Dawn tell you?”

“That your mother died in a car crash. That you were there. Not much else, just that the situation triggered your panic attack.”

Marianne nodded against his shoulder. “For awhile it was just cars. Any old car at all. I got better and it only happens when I'm really, really on edge or something. It's been ages since the last time. I guess the stars were aligning tonight, because all my buttons got hit. I still don't do vans. It's stupid, but I just don't get in vans.”

“It's not stupid.”

“I don't know, maybe I would have been okay if I sat in the back, but in the front seat . . . But dad wasn't listening and I didn't want to . . . to say it. Remind him that . . .” She hadn't wanted to admit weakness, to admit she was scared of anything at all. To have people look at her like she was some delicate little girl who might shatter at he least provocation.

“You were pushing yourself, weren't you? Idiot.” Bog's arms tightened around her a little and she was glad of the irritation in his voice, the familiar growl that edged his words. He didn't think she would break, didn't smother her with sympathy.

“I know.” She replied.

In the dim yellow light of the living room Marianne told him about it. Just another drive to school in her mom's van, cutting their way through the early morning mist lying low over the roads. The other car had come out of nowhere, the headlights blooming out of the gray landscape, ramming full-speed into the driver's side of the van. She couldn't remember any sounds. The crunch of metal, the cracking of glass, squeal of tires, all of the sounds that must have shattered the quiet morning, none of it registered in her ears. She remembered her mother's face, long brown hair done up in a ponytail, her blue eyes just like Dawn's. The way her hair had spread out, neck whipping back . . . “I don't know how long I was trapped in the car.” Marianne whispered, the side of her face resting against Bog's shoulder, hands meeting behind his back, “I never asked. I never asked about any of it. The other driver died, so there wasn't a trial or anything. But it felt like I was there for a long time . . . and mom wouldn't answer when I called.”

There was another long pause. Bog's hand stroked up and down Marianne's back in an even rhythm. Her heart had slowed down now. She felt safe, warm under her blankets and next to Bog, and sleep was dragging at her eyelids. He hadn't said anything, not even when she stopped talking for a long time. Just waited.

“When they pulled me out I fought back so hard the emergency guy got bruises. I was going to save mom. Something in my brain had flipped off, short-circuited, and all I knew was that mom was in trouble and I had to save her. They wouldn't let me save her.”

A minute ticked by and Bog began to wonder if she had fallen asleep.

“I thought they were gone for good—the attacks. But after Roland . . . they started happening again. But it had been months before tonight . . .” The pause this time was only the space of a few breaths. When she spoke again her voice was flippant, scornful, “So that's the story of why I'm such a mess. Can't even get into a car without having a fit.”

“You're not a mess.” Bog said it so emphatically that Marianne laughed, tickled by the vibration of his voice in his chest. “You've just got . . . scars, I guess.” He felt Marianne tense up and a surge of panic went through him. Had he said the wrong thing? “I . . . I just mean, that scars are just . . . just marks that show you survived. They last a long time, maybe never go away, but they fade and you . . . live with them.”

“Oh, for a second I thought that Dawn . . . never mind.” Marianne relaxed again, her breathing becoming steady and sleepy. “You have a lot of scars then, Bog?”

“My fair share, I suppose. Who doesn't? It's normal.” He said the last part for her benefit. He wanted her to know he didn't think she was a mess, that she wasn't broken just because she had some scars. For himself, he knew life had broken him in half a dozen different places and the fractures had been covered in scar tissue, twisting his character into a crooked mess. Marianne, though, she was strong. She had gotten into that car tonight in spite of her fears. Bog could never have done that.

“Tell me about it.” Marianne sighed, only half awake.

“Well, I've got a really impressive one on my back from having a chair smashed over my head when I was eighteen in the highlands.”

“The other kind, you idiot.”

“Oh. Nothing interesting. And you're almost asleep.”

“'M not . . .”

“Your eyes are closed.”

“. . . resting them . . . tired of looking at . . . your stupid face . . .”

Bog began to hum a Scottish song he had learned one summer. It had been years since he'd visited his cousins. Years since he'd heard from them. The last time had been at his father's funeral. They had all come, kilts and bagpipes and all. And the songs had stayed with him, somehow.

Bog ended up sleeping on the couch after all. He hadn't wanted to wake Marianne by getting up so he fell asleep there too. He woke up in the morning when he heard a car pulling into the drive. Somehow he had ended up on his back, one leg on the couch and sticking over the arm, the other resting on the floor. Marianne was wrapped up in her cocoon of blankets, her head fitting neatly under Bog's chin, his arms around her to keep her from sliding off.

Not fully registering what had woken him, Bog closed his eyes again. He was dimly aware of the front door opening and his mother's rasping voice raised in greeting. Footsteps sounded in the entryway, but Bog was clinging to the vanishing threads of a dream he had been enjoying before the car pulled up. The soft sound of Marianne breathing was lulling him back to sleep.

“Time to wake up.” Someone tweaked the end of Bog's nose. He grumbled a protest, eyes still shut. “Or I'll take pictures.”

“Dawn?” Marianne asked, voice blurred with sleep. She felt too comfortable to risk moving and decided to ignore the blonde apparition standing by the couch. “Five more minutes.”

“Dad is about ten seconds behind me so unless you want him to see this cozy scene you'd better snap to. I texted you all, like, a hundred times, you know.”

“See what?” Marianne opened her eyes at last. She became aware of the rise and fall of Bog's bony chest beneath her, his prickly jaw laying against her hair. “Oh.” She woke up a bit more and moved her head, sleepy brown eyes meeting Bog's blue ones. “Oh!” They both said.

There was a confused scramble as the two untangled themselves. Dawn watched, amused, even as she kept a wary eye out for her father's arrival. Griselda's voice sawed its way through the walls and assured Dawn that her dad was still cornered. Marianne managed to get on her feet and was trying to get the tufts of her morning hair to lay flat. Bog, having slept in an awkward position, was slower to sort himself, groaning as his bones cracked and snapped with his movements. Arranging himself into a sitting position he twisted his neck, the crack audible to both girls.

“Are you always such a bag of rice-crispies in the morning, Bog? Feeling better?” Dawn helped Marianne smooth down her hair, a cheerful grin on her face. She lowered her voice and Bog barely caught the next words, “Any bad dreams?”

“Oh.” Marianne reflected, rubbing her eyes. She seemed a little surprised when she said, “No, actually. Better? Um. Yes. Much.” She did not look at Bog. “Even better if I'm not hallucinating and that's coffee I smell. It's too early.”

“It's eleven, you lazy lumps.”

“I don't care what time it is.” Bog hunched his shoulders up irritably, “What's your father doing in my house?”

“Making a nuisance of himself, naturally, but the pretext is that he's here to make amends. Try not to break anything when he does, okay?”

“Mmf.” Bog stood up, pressing his hands flat on the small of his back and stretching backwards. “Only because my dad built this house himself and he'd rise from his grave if I broke it.”

“He must have built it.” Dawn said as they trailed after the scent of coffee, “You don't have to duck when you go through the doorways, for a change. And, please be nice, you two, Dad was really upset about what happened last night.” She met Bog's indignant dark-rimmed eyes. “Seriously. He's in the middle of a paradigm shift and it's put him completely off balance.”

“I promise nothing,” Marianne said, “Until I have put myself on the outside of a cup of coffee.” Bog grunted agreement.

“He got a text! Go tell him while he's still smiling!”

“You tell him, he likes you better.”

“Really?”

“Just go!”

“Um, sir?” Thane nervously adjusted his yellow hard hat. “Um, we've got a problem with the lumber shipment.”

Bog's face had actually relaxed for a moment when he had been looking at his phone, but his eyebrows drew down and his whole face was tight with displeasure. There was practically an audible snap! when his face went hard. His jaw set and he asked, “Can't anyone here get anything right?”

“Well,” Thane said, earnestly thinking, “I got everybody the right food when I got lunch! Oh, except for the pickle's on Steph's sandwich . . . and I forgot to tell them to leave the mayo off your's . . .” At this point Steph walked by, putting an arm out so that it caught Thane's throat as she passed. Casually putting him into a headlock and dragging him away, she never looked at or acknowledged Bog. “You can thank me for saving your life later.” She said to Thane.

“Does that mean I'm doing dishes all by myself again?”

“For two days.”

“Awww . . .”

In the scaffolding set up behind Bog, Sunny was hanging by his knees, checking his own phone messages. “Oh, cool, they're going on the London Eye tomorrow!”

“I know.” Bog put his phone away. “Get down from there and put your hardhat back on.”

Sunny's own plans for the summer had fallen through when Dawn was whisked off to Europe. They had a scheme of renting themselves out for events and birthday parties as a photographer and a sketch artist, and even had a few jobs lined up before it was all called off. With no backup plan Sunny had been worried about paying rent on his tiny apartment, since his scholarship only covered housing during the semester. But, unexpectedly, Bog had stepped up and offered Sunny a job at the construction site he would be supervising during the break.

“Sure thing, BK!” Sunny let himself drop, tumbling through the scaffolding with a strangely lackadaisical precision, landing and moving forward into a walk without interruption. It gave Bog a start every time he saw Sunny do something like that, sure that the short young man would smash his brains out this time.

“I've told you to stop doing that on the site.” Bog growled.

Sunny adjusted his red bandanna before putting his hardhat back on. “What did Marianne say in her text?” Bog pulled his phone back out and showed him. Sunny frowned. “Are those blueprints? No message?”

“She sends me blueprints or layouts of the places they're visiting.”

“But doesn't tell you what it is?”

“Nope.”

“You've got to guess? You guys are . . . such incredible nerds.”

Bog snorted. “Strong words from the grown man who owns a Hufflepuff school uniform. Which he made and wore to all the movie premieres.”

“Hey! I have seen photographic evidence that conclusively proves you are the proud owner of a full set of jedi robes, plus lightsaber.”

“Star Wars is classic, thank you very much. Wait, what pictures?”

Sunny looked to the side. “Your mom maaay have been showing some pictures to Dawn . . .” Sunny coughed quickly over the next words, aware of Bog's piecing gaze, “And Marianne.”

While Bog was engaged in a furious texting conversation with his mother Sunny went back to work. Steph and Thane lowered their tools as he approached. Sunny had talked to them a few times and they knew he was attending the same school as Bog. Thane went right to the point, “Did Bog have a girlfriend that he broke up with?”

Steph sighed and said in her gravely voice. “Way to bring that up naturally in conversation, moron.”

“Don't hate me!” Thane cringed.

“Too late.”

Sunny tried to figure out the question. “Are you asking if he has a girlfriend? Or if he broke up with a girlfriend? Because I think the answer to both questions is “no”. Marianne isn't his girlfriend.” Technically, Sunny added silently.

“Marianne?” Steph seized the name like a detective who stumbled over a vital clue, “The girl at the restaurant, right? The one who almost started a fight in the dining room? How can she not be his girlfriend?”

“It's like a match made in heaven.” Thane added, “If heaven was violent and irritable . . .”

“You see, he's been really . . .” Steph searched for the words to describe Bog's subtly upbeat attitude in recent months. Sure, he hadn't stopped growling or complaining, but he had seemed kind of happy underneath it. “Mellow? For him, anyway. Until summer started, that is. So we were wondering if he broke up with her.”

“That would be terrible.” Thane said sadly.

“Ha, no, Marianne's just out of town for the summer and he misses her. But they aren't dating.” Yet.

“So, she's the one texting him, right? The only time it's anywhere near safe to ask him anything is right after he gets a text. His eyebrows actually kind of relax for a minute or two.”

“You aren't paid to socialize!” Bog bellowed from across the compound.

There was a mad dash to pick up tools and look busy. Thane squeezed in one more question before Sunny ran off to his own work. “Are you sure they aren't dating?”

“They've stated very clearly—many times—they they aren't. Why?”

Steph looked up from untangling the cord of the nail gun, her face completely deadpan as she said gravely, “We ship it.”

When Marianne's father had shown up Bog remembered the European vacation and harbored a vague hope that Marianne would not go after all. Then he got mad at himself for thinking so selfishly. And he got mad at himself for entertaining the idea that there was actually something between Marianne and himself other than friendship, something that would keep her from leaving. And he got mad at the sight of Mr. Summers' sincerely apologetic face. It was hard to properly dislike somebody when they were so obviously regretful over their misdeeds. Marianne's father began apologizing the moment his daughter walked into the kitchen and kept apologizing throughout the entire conversation.

“So . . .” Bog followed Marianne from the kitchen when she went to pick up her bag before she left. She looked up at the sound of the single word, so strongly burred by Bog's accent.

“Yeah?”

“You're still going, then?”

“I think so.”

“Even after . . .?”

“Last night? Believe me, my first idea was to tell him to shove the whole trip in his ear. But . . .”

She trailed off and looked up at Bog, worried that he would think she was caving to her dad because it was easier than fighting. But fighting would have actually been the easier option. It would have been so simple to ignore the regret in her father's eyes, the silent pleading in his eyes, begging Dawn and Marianne to let him give them this trip, for them to spend time as a family. Underneath all his flaws Mr. Summers loved his daughters and was trying to show it and was asking for their guidance as to how to do it. He was painfully aware of how little he really knew his daughters and this trip was his way of getting to know them better. Yes, it had started as a way to get Dawn away from Sunny, but that had never been Mr. Summers' only motive.

“He's your dad.” Bog picked up where Marianne had left off, “And you want to give him another chance, right?”

Marianne just nodded.

“I . . . I suppose I won't see you again before you go.” Bog said, realizing that these were the last few moments they would spend alone for some months. “I, ah, was wondering . . . oh, never mind.” He slouched over and turned away, lacing his fingers together in front of him, staring at his long fingers and nails. “I'll . . . miss you.”

“Okay, hold that thought.” Marianne put down her bag and stepped onto the coffee table by the couch, socked feet standing on a slippery assortment of home improvement magazines. This raised up up to nearly eye level with Bog.“That's better.” She held out her arms, “Permission to engage?”

Bog looked up from contemplating his hands, temporarily frozen in place. Marianne bit her lower lip and shrank into herself a little when she saw Bog wasn't moving, her arms pulling back. “Sorry, I thought . . .” She didn't get to finish the sentence because Bog was hugging her and this time it was her turn to hold her arms awkwardly out in surprise.

“You're not doing your part.” Bog's voice was next to her ear and she blushed at the breath of his words gently moving her hair. She responded by squeezing him as hard she she could in retaliation to his teasing. He just laughed and picked her up off the coffee table so that her feet hung far above the floor.

“I will miss you too, you ridiculous toothpick.” She said.

“Pfft.” Bog scoffed, “Wee fairy princess, that's what you are. Have fun. You'd better visit every single museum and gallery you can while you're over there.”

“Dawn's been planning it all out. By the time we come back we'll be painting in oils and carving marble, we'll be so classically cultured.”

Their conversation continued in this vein for awhile as they began bickering over which European museums and classical artists were worth checking out and which were overrated. Bog didn't want to put her down. He wanted to tell her not to go. He wanted this small moment to last forever, where it was just the two of them. Safe from the world and everything that could hurt them.

Bog opened the mailbox and sorted through the letters. A postcard met his searching glance and he pulled it from the stack. On one side was a building—she always sent him postcards with some sort of building or structure on it—and on the other side was a doodled pattern. Except for a scant amount of space for postage and the address Marianne had filled the black white space with flowing and spiraling patterns. The repeated elements were not planned, but flowed out in loose waves until the space was completely covered.

There was no message. Over the entire summer there had not actually been one word exchanged between them. Marianne sent blueprints, Bog responded with photographs of the place, and she sent him either a :) face or a D:< face to tell him if his guess was correct or not.

Griselda rasped out a sing-song greeting to her son when he came in the door. In response he merely grunted, dropping his bag by the door and going into the living room where he dropped onto the couch, lying slantwise to put his feet on the coffee table. His mother had been keeping up a steady monologue since he walked in, fussing around in the kitchen as she told him about her day visiting her friends and swapping gossip. Bog didn't hear anything but background noise. When she finally followed the trail her voice had hacked through the air and into the living room she found her son lying on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes against the late afternoon sun filtering through the windows. His sketchbook was resting on his chest and he had one finger stuck in the pages to mark his place.

After taking a moment to consider the scene Griselda went and closed the blinds. “Take off your shoes if you're going to get your clodhoppers all over your dad's coffee table.” She ordered, “You've already had to refinish it once because of the coffee cup rings on it.”

“Mmf.” Bog said, not moving.

“Heard from your sweetheart, then? Probably not, to guess by your mood.” Bog made a noise of protest, somewhere between a groan of disgust and a growl of irritation. There were no actual words, but the sound conveyed the essence of his usual denials of having a sweetheart. Griselda plopped down on the arm of the couch by Bog's feet. “You sure do miss her, you great dummy. Gonna ask her to marry you when she comes back?”

“What?” Bog's feet scattered papers from the coffee table when his legs gave an involuntary convulsion and he dropped his sketchbook. He scooted back on the couch to sit up a bit more, trying to position himself to more effectively deal with his mother. “No! Marianne is my friend, not my girlfriend.”

“Yet.” Griselda warbled. “You want her to be your sweetheart. Why else are you sulking on the couch when the sun is still up?”

“I am not sulking.” Bog snapped, “I just . . . didn't sleep well. Again.”

Griselda had just been warming up to the subject, ready to prod her reluctant son into action. But she looked at the dark circles under his eyes and reconsidered her tactics. His eyes were always shadowed, but the circles had darkened recently and she was aware of how much coffee he had been going through over the summer. She moved around so her feet were on the cushion of the couch. “Insomnia coming back?” Bog nodded, drawing his legs up and resting his forehead against one knee, hands digging into his short hair, as if he could squeeze the ache out from behind his eyes. “Thought you were finally kicking that, honey.”

Bog just grumbled wordlessly without looking up.

“I heard you up at all hours last night, working in your studio. Better be carving the next Mona Lisa out there, considering all the time you're putting into it.”

“Mmf.”

“You'll make yourself sick again if you don't get some rest. You know it all really started getting better after you met Marianne.”

“Coincidence.” Bog muttered from his huddled position.

“Piffle.” Griselda tossed her head and flapped her hands, “You're head over heels for that girl but you won't admit it because your a stubborn idiot. She makes you happy and when you're happy you actually sleep.”

“This job has been stressful, that's all. Saddled with supervising a bunch of morons.”

“Aw, you've handled worse. Remember the ones that tried to steal that shipment of copper pipes? The police nearly arrested you when they saw the state those poor saps were in. You needed six stitches. That beat out your previous record of four stitches from when you slashed open your hand with that carving knife.”

Bog took his left hand out of his hair and looked at its palm. A dark gray scar tracked from under his pinky and into the heel of his hand. That had happened when he first started carving and hadn't yet learned to deal patiently with his tools. Marianne had asked about the scar, expecting to hear about a fight and teased him that his tough attitude was a facade, that he was really just a very clumsy artist.

“Call her.” Said Griselda suddenly.

Bog looked up. “She's in Europe. That would cost a fortune. And the time difference means it's sometime in the early AM there.”

“Hang the cost and call her.”

“There he is, there he is!” Dawn jumped up and down when she finally spotted Sunny in the airport waiting room. He was standing on a chair and waving to get Dawn's attention. Marianne took her sister's roll-along bag. “Go on, have your moment you soppy turtledoves.”

Dawn and Sunny ran to meet each other, crashing into a hug. Marianne had no doubt that in their heads they saw the whole scene in slow motion, probably in a field, with music swelling in the background. When they had finally took a break from kissing to catch their breath they both looked to Marianne. “Hi, Marianne!” Sunny said, “Bog's here too, I don't know where he went. Weird, he was right behind me . . . Oh, there he is!” The crowd parted and they spotted Bog sitting on a chair facing away from them. At Dawn's cheery greeting he stood up. Dawn was eagerly watching her sister's face, waiting to see the undeniable delight light up the older girl's travel-tired face.

But Marianne remained disappointingly cool.

Until Bog suddenly dropped to the floor.

All three of them rushed forward. Sunny started laughing, Dawn just asked, “What the hey?” Bog was collapsed against a chair, an arrow sticking out from the shoulder of his jacket. A banner hung from the arrow with the words “Welcome Home” on it.

“Message for you, sir.” He said, then let his head drop back and his eyes close.

“Concorde! Concorde!” Marianne dropped dramatically to her knees beside Bog and shook his shoulder, “Speak to me! Oh, brave, brave Concorde, you shall not have died in vain!” She got up, her fist raised and face determined.

Bog opened his eyes and said, as if hesitating to contradict, “Uh, I'm, I'm not quite dead, sir.” Sunny was laughing so hard that Dawn's arms around him were the only thing keeping him upright. Dawn's eyes widened. “Oh, no.” She whispered, “I know this movie.”

“Well, you shall not have been mortally wounded in vain!” Marianne shook her fist and stood in a heroic pose.

“I think I could pull through, sir!”

“Oh, I see.” She drooped, disappointed.

“Actually, I think I'm all right to come with you, sir.” Bog started to get up, arrow and all. Marianne shoved him down again. “No, no, sweet Concord! Stay here! I will send help as soon as I have accomplished and daring and heroic rescue of my luggage in my own particular . . .” She waved her hands, trying to come up with an elusive word.

“Idiom, sir?” Bog suggested.

“Idiom!” Marianne snatched up her carry on bag and pointed toward the luggage claim. “Now to rescue our battered suitcases!”

“No, I feel fine, actually, sir.”

“Farewell, sweet Concorde!” Marianne ignored him and began to stride off through the crowd.

“I'll, um, I'll just stay here then. Shall I sir? Yeah.” Bog settled back down against the chair and drummed his fingers on the floor, staring off into the distance.

Dawn patted her hysterical boyfriend on the shoulder and sighed. “Okay, okay, Marianne, get your tail back here! We get it, you two are absolute geeks. I suppose we're lucky you didn't come trotting up with coconut shells. Where did you even get an arrow, Bog? And how did you get it past security?!” Marianne trotted back, huge grin on her face, and fell backwards into the seat by Bog. Still sitting on the floor he held up a fist and she bumped it with her own. “You guys think you're so clever, don't you?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” Bog and Marianne looked at each other and nodded. Marianne went on, “And you think you're so clever, placing bets that we'd fall into each other's arms upon our reunion.” Bog and Marianne clasped their hands under their chins and looked soulfully off into the rafters.

“You knew?” Dawn spluttered, turning pink. Sunny scratched at his chin and tried to look innocent, like he hadn't had ten bucks riding on the chance that the not-couple would at the very least hug after their long separation.

“My mother just lost twenty bucks.” Bog said smugly.

“Ugh!” Dawn marched off to the luggage claim, towing Sunny along behind her.

Marianne and Bog burst into laughter. It went on for some time, because every time they calmed down enough to speak one of them would say, “I think I'll pull through!” or “unladen swallows!” or their eyes would fall on the arrow that Bog had finally removed from his jacket, and they would lose it again. “Stop, stop, stop!” Marianne gasped weakly, tears in her eyes, she slithered off the chair to sit on the floor, “Security will arrest us! Oh my gosh, I am so glad you called me.”

“Totally worth the phone bill.” He agreed.

Marianne had been awake when he called and she had crawled under the hotel bed to keep from disturbing Dawn who had been fast asleep across the room. They had talked for over an hour and had both fallen asleep without hanging up. Bog shuddered to imagine how much worse the bill might have been if his phone hadn't run out of batteries soon after he dozed off. In the morning Dawn had been unable to find Marianne until she called her sister and heard the phone buzzing under the bed. Marianne really had to scramble to explain that whole situation. But she and Bog had had time to exchange notes about the betting pool and plan a counterattack.

Bog glanced surreptitiously around the airport. Neither Dawn nor Sunny were in sight now. No doubt they were occupied trying to spot the suitcases on the conveyor belt. It wouldn't be too hard, considering the amount of sparkles and rhinestones decorating Dawn's cases. That meant that Bog and Marianne had a short span of time alone and there was no time for waffling.

“I smell like an airplane,” Marianne said in dismay. “How can you get so funky smelling from sitting in the air all day?”

“I don't smell anything.”

“Then keep your distance and count yourself lucky.”

Bog leaned closer. “Nope, still don't smell anything.”

“Knock it off.”

“No, we're going to bust this myth.” He stretched arm behind her on the seats of the chair, moving closer until their bent knees were knocking together.

“Aren't you repulsed by my travel stench yet?”

“No, I guess I'll just have to get a little closer.” His arm dropped onto her shoulder and he pulled her into a hug. Once he had both arms around her so she couldn't hit him he said, “No, okay, you were right, you smell terrible.”

“Bog!” But she was returning the hug.

He laughed and held her a little tighter. “You absolutely reek.”

“I should have worn one of those pine-tree air fresheners, like for cars.”

“It would have been more merciful to everyone else.” He agreed.

“I'm gonna break your jaw.” She said happily, enjoying how Bog smelled of sawdust.

“Welcome back, tough girl.”

Nearby Sunny and Dawn peered through the screening leaves of a plastic fern at the happy reunion, Sunny angling his camera for a good shot. He would need evidence to show Griselda for the sake of collecting his winnings. Dawn was pleased, but not as pleased as Sunny. “I win the pool.” He said gleefully. Dawn let the fern fall back into place and looked a little rueful.

“I was so sure they would kiss.”

Chapter Text

 “So, what did you think?”

“Well . . .”

“Hah! You liked it. If you didn't you would be complaining so hard right now. You liked Gargoyles, admit it, admit it!” Marianne kicked Bog's legs in time to her demands.

“Alright, alright.” He grabbed her ankle, “Stop kicking! It wasn't horrible. For a cartoon. But the accents.”

Marianne was taking up most of the couch by lying on it while Bog sat on the end, feet up on a stool. She laid her head back against the arm and laughed at the ceiling. “Your face at the beginning when it said “Scotland, 995 AD”! Honest and truly I had completely forgotten the gargoyles came from Scotland. This was not an elaborate gag, I swear. Though I freely admit that if I had thought of it . . . yeah, I would have pranked you.”

“Strangely, only one of them has any sort of Scottish accent at all.” Bog mused, tapping his fingers on Marianne's ankle.

“Oh!” Marianne sat up, “I cannot wait to show you the episodes with Macbeth!”

“Macbeth? Like from Shakespeare? What goes on in this cartoon? We've already got magical stone gargoyles that come to life at night and laser guns, now we've got Shakespeare, too?”

“So, so, so much Shakespeare.” Marianne said happily, “And King Arthur and Merlin, time travel, a large chunk of the cast of a Midsummer Night's Dream . . .”

“What, really?”

“Puck shows up soon. Oberon and Titania come later on.”

“Oh, no.” Marianne knew perfectly well that a Midsummer Night's Dream was his favorite play. “I think you've got me nearly convinced to watch the rest of it. Puck, really? Is he good?”

“He is excellent. Nothing but trouble.”

“This must be the beer talking, but you win. Play the next episode.”

“You've had one beer, Bog. It must take like six for you to feel anything.”

“I'm surprised you can get through one, you tiny thing.”

“You will be duly impressed to know that I can get through two whole beers before I start feeling anything. Any more than that and I start singing whenever I hear anyone say something that reminds me of song lyrics.”

“I'm still impressed that you drink stout.”

“Light beer is a waste of humanity's resources.”

Once Dawn and Marianne had been picked up from the airport the group swung by a convenience store and grabbed some supplies and drinks for a homecoming celebration. Bog was the only one who didn't get carded at the checkout. Marianne began shuffling her feet at a painful slow pace, inching her way toward the exit. “I am the oldest man in the world!” She declared, “Otherwise known as Bog!”

Bog scrunched up his face at her and he shooed the rest of them out of the store, saying, “Come along, infants, it's past your nap time.”

“Boggy, Marianne's looking at me.” Dawn complained. “Make her stop it.”

“She looked at me first!” Marianne protested.

“I want candy,” Sunny wailed, “You promised I would get candy if I was good!”

“Don't make me turn this truck around!” Bog snapped, “You're all going to the corner and thinking about what you've done when we get home. Now pile in those bags, tiny slaves.”

“Teenage rebellion!” Marianne declared. Jumping from the bed of the pickup and latching around Bog's neck, almost knocking him over, “Get his feet!” Dawn and Sunny obliged. There was a prolonged scuffle in the parking lot until Bog threatened to fall backwards onto Dawn. She shoved on Bog's shoulder blades, “No, no, no, Boggy! I'm too young to be squashed!”

“It's too late. Gravity has its hold on me.” He flung out his arms and leaned backwards, eliciting further shrieks from Dawn. “All your bones are stabbing me, Boggy! How can you be so skinny and so heavy?”

“Won the genetic lottery?” Bog hazarded.

Sunny and Marianne came to the rescue, the short young man helping Dawn shove Bog back to an upright position. Meanwhile Marianne pulled on Bog's hands and between her efforts and Sunny's Dawn managed to escape without being further compressed. Sunny and Dawn cheered at this victory and began to dance around.

“Next time just just tickle his back.” Marianne advised.

“Marianne!” Bog was red-faced and outraged.

“And how do you know this tactic is effective, exactly?” Dawn asked suspiciously.

“I put an ice cube down the back of his shirt after he used up my entire can of drawing fixative on one of his sculptures. If only there was some way I could have recorded his screech and dance routine for future generations . . . Anyway, that's how I found out Mr. Cheerful's ticklish spot.”

“Mmf.” Bog's jagged eyebrows lowered in a scowl and he placed his hand on top of Marianne's head and moved her to arm's length, “I'm fairly sure the restraining order requires you stay this far away from me and ice cubes at any given time. You've already violated the non-disclosure agreement.”

“We have found the monster's weakness.” Dawn whispered to Sunny.

“We already knew one, remember?” Sunny corrected, “Hugs from anyone but Marianne.” They giggled and glanced over to see if this comment had been overheard, but Bog was twisting around to avoid Marianne's attempts at tickling him and so they did not notice what the other two were whispering about.

Dawn and Marianne were riding the ecstatic high of being back and were finding everything hysterically funny. After they got the studio and ate, however, fatigue began to hit them. Dawn was falling asleep in the middle of their movie, so Sunny volunteered to drive her home. Marianne stayed behind, determined to pick up where they left off at the end of the semester. But she was drooping too now, yawning and blinking. Halfway through the episode Bog turned it off and said, “You need to get home to bed too.”

“No, sleep is for the weak! I want to stay and talk for awhile. Anyway, we should wait awhile before driving.”

“I had one beer and that was almost an hour ago.”

“Takes like three hours to work out of your system. Hah! You're stuck with me for two hours, put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“Oh no, the horror!” Bog held up his hands in mock surrender, “Spare me, I beg you!”

“No mercy. You had your summer of liberty but now the ax falls and you meet your fate. Gimme another beer, miscreant.”

“No, I'm cutting you off.”

“I demand beer!” She flopped across him in attempt to reach the cooler. He grabbed it and held it up out of her reach. “Why did nature give you such inconveniently long arms?” Marianne demanded, unable to match his reach. “I need a ladder over here, dude.”

“Poor little thing with her wee cute arms.”

“Them's fighting words, bucko.” She hissed, still tugging on his arm. “Ugh.” She collapsed, turning over so she had her head pillowed on the arm of the couch, still laying across Bog's lap. “Okay, I'm too tired to fight you. Jet lag is a drag.” She started giggling at her own rhyme.

Bog put the cooler down and mirrored Marianne's pose, leaning on his fist, elbow next to Marianne's face as he looked down at her. “You're the slap-happiest creature I've ever seen.”

“Twelve hour flight. Dawn drank coffee when I wasn't looking and was pretty much vibrating the entire ride so I didn't get any sleep either. Did you have a good summer, Bog?”

“Eh.” Bog shrugged, “Quiet.”

“Nobody to bicker with, huh? Me neither. I'm out of practice.”

“Hm, you seem to be holding your own so far.”

“Ouch. I'm doing so badly you feel the need to take pity on me with faint praise.”

“Guess I'm out of practice, too.” Bog brushed the hair away from Marianne's eyes with the edge of his thumb, “You need a haircut. Or are you growing it out?”

“Just been too busy to chop it off.” She yawned.

“You're falling asleep. Time to take you home.”

“Nooo.” Marianne flipped over and buried her face in her arms on the side of the couch. “Too comfortable to move. All I've been doing for the past two days is falling asleep only be be cruelly woken and shuffled onto the next mode of transport. No more traveling. Ever. I live and die on this couch.”

“Seeing as you've got me stuck here don't you think I might have a say in this?”

“You too will live and die on this couch. I'm keeping you around to fight with.”

“Then we're off to a good start because I'm definitely going to be debating this point. How was your dad?” Bog asked, not at all adverse to spending more time talking to Marianne about her summer.

“He gets an A for effort. And he relaxed enormously after he found out we weren't actually dating. I should have lied about that, because he kept introducing me to eligible young businessmen.”

“Oh? Any . . . anybody interesting?”

“I would take them to museums and count how many time they hid their yawns. If they didn't exceed five yawns in an hour I moved to stage two and starting making up art terms and see if they noticed. There are at least two grown men out there now that think “Pasturism” was an art movement in the 1960s.”

“You didn't! Did you say it had anything to do with cows?”

“We were standing under a painting with cows in it, but the guy never noticed. I explained is was like Futurism, only for the Past instead. Both these guys nodded and made vague comments about remembering something about that from school.”

“What would have been stage three if stage two failed?”

“Oh, stage three was to ditch them and run off with Dawn to find a gelato cart. When we were in Italy, anyway. Maybe punch a pickpocket.”

“That sounds right.”

“No, I actually punched a pickpocket. He got Dawn's purse and I tackled him in St. Peter's Square. Pow! Dad had to pick us up from the police station after we pressed charges. I feel bad for making him worry, but his face!” Marianne started laughing again and had trouble stopping.

“Okay, times up.” He grabbed her under the arms and pulled her to her feet as he stood up.

“Not fair, you and your freakish strength! Help, help, I'm being repressed!”

“Whatever you say, ” Bog handed Marianne her shoes and pushed her toward the stairs, lingering a moment to pack up the laptop and grab the cooler. “But your other option is falling asleep here and me rolling you down the stairs to the truck. I'll put you in the back with the luggage.”

“Will you at least put a tarp over me?”

“No, I need that to put over the luggage.”

Marianne grabbed onto the banister and refused to budge. “I demand equality for me and carry-on! I won't move until I have secured my rights. Nothing can make me move except my rights!”

“Mmhm.” Bog put down the laptop bag and cooler and proceeded to pick Marianne up and sling her over his shoulder.

“Okay,” She said, hanging over his shoulder, tapping her knees against his ribs, “Or you could just do this.”

“Yup.” Bog picked up the bag in cooler in one hand, the other placed against Marianne's back to keep her in place while they descended the stairs.

“Curse your freakish strength.”

“You said that already.”

“Don't be smug or I'll tip us both down the stairs.”

“Behave yourself and you can share the tarp with the luggage.”

It was the weekend and school started on Monday, so Bog decided to take advantage of the last days of peace and quiet, not having to worry about anyone purloining his tools. Marianne seconded the motion, planning to build, stretch, and prime her canvases before she would have to compete with other students for supplies and space. And also have unlimited access to Bog's power tools. Dawn and Sunny briefly joined them, but declined getting a jump on their semester projects.

“We are going for a hugely long walk.” Dawn declared, “And we won't have to worry about deadlines, homework, or catching connecting flights. But first, Bog, I found these songs you need to hear.”

“She's been compiling playlists for all of us.” Marianne explained. “She started doing it for her favorite fictional characters and now it's starting to leak into reality.”

“Marianne liked her playlist.” Dawn declared, “So don't listen to negativity.”

“It wasn't bad.” Marianne admitted. “She started off with “Stronger” and built it around that. I haven't heard what she's concocted for yours, so I can't guarantee anything.”

“Mine better not be full of Celtic music.” Bog remarked, slouching down on the couch to await the musical demonstration.

“I did explore that option,” Dawn admitted, “But most traditional Scottish music seems to be about hating the English and getting your sheep stolen.”

“You're not wrong.” Bog conceded.

“And there's shockingly little in the way of electric guitar riffs.”

Bog pressed his hand over his heart. “Aw, you do know me and my tastes!”

Dawn plugged her ipod into the speakers and pressed play, dashing back to the couch to sit by Bog and watch his reaction. She grabbed his arm and he rolled his eyes but put up with it silently. After the first few notes played Bog started laughing. “What? What?” Dawn asked, confused and slightly panicked by this reaction. Bog turned to Dawn and started singing along to the music, “I've been mistreated, I've been abused!” He clenched a fist and sang at the ceiling,“I've been trespassed and invaded and I am not amused!”

“You know this song? You can sing?”

“I've been insulted, disrespected . . .” He began to menace Dawn, clawing up his fingers and looming over her. The effect was convincing enough that Dawn was wiggling backwards, begging, “Sunny, help!” But Bog grabbed a sofa cushion and shoved it into Sunny, keeping him at arm's length. Marianne joined in singing: “I've been mistreated!” And they finished the song together.

At the end Marianne said, “Release my sister!” and shoved Bog back to free Dawn and Sunny, laughing all the while. “Two things, Dawn: one, that is like Bog's favorite song. I can't believe you haven't heard him playing it. He plays the air guitar to it when he thinks no one is looking. Two, it is now one of my favorite songs and why isn't it on my playlist?”

“What else is on your playlist?” Bog wondered.

“I'll Never Fall In Love Again.”

“Nice.” They high-fived.

“Boggy, stop squishing my boyfriend!” Dawn hugged Sunny and began fixing his hair. If Sunny's face was anything to go by he found it was worth it to be squashed under sofa cushions if he got Dawn fussing over him afterward.

“You're right, I'm sorry. Wouldn't want to shrink him. He can't afford to lose what little height he's got.” Bog remarked with a smirk.

“Hey, dude,” Sunny said, “Just remember how many times Griselda had me over for dinner this summer. Gave her lots and lots of time to tell me stories and show me pictures of baby Bog . . .”

Bog smashed the cushion over Sunny's face.

The lovebirds had gone for their walk and Marianne had made considerable progress putting together her canvases while Bog measured out lengths of metal and marked where to cut them. His gaze kept drifting over to Marianne, watching her work, the way she automatically tucked her hair back even when it was already pushed back. She had a white streak of primer in her hair from this absent-minded fidget. Bog would point it out to her later and help her clean if off before they left, as he usually did. Marianne would walk around with paint in her hair and on her face all day if Bog and Dawn didn't insist otherwise.

She caught him looking, but for once he didn't get flustered because she smiled at him. “Good to be back, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” He smiled too and for a little while they just stayed like that, smiling at each other. Finally Marianne realized she had put her hand right into the wet primer and turned away to scrub it off with a rag. This broke the brief spell and both of them went back to their work and ignored the butterflies tickling in their stomachs.

“Aww, isn't this just cozy?”

The playlist had run out a few minutes before and they were too absorbed in their work to go and turn the music back on, so quiet had fallen for the moment. The sweet voice sent the silence crashing into slivers so unexpectedly that Marianne shrieked and Bog yelped. A petite woman with platinum blonde hair cackled over their reaction. “You should have seen your faces! Wait, I can show you! I filmed it.” She held up her phone and laughed, “I totally snuck up on you!”

“Are ye tryin' to kill us?” Bog gasped, “Who are you supposed to be anyway?”

“Oh, me?” The woman waved long fingers airily, the nails painted a sparkling blue. “I'm Aura Plum. The person who's gonna whip this dump into shape!” They stared at her blankly. She continued more calmly, “I'm the new head of the art department.”

“Oh.” They said. By nature art teachers tended to be off-beat individuals, but not usually in such a . . . sparkly style. The tiny woman wasn't young, but when she smiled and giggled she seemed to be. Neither did she appear to be particularly old, but when her bubbly smile cut off and her face turned hard she certainly looked . . . experienced. Immovable. Like she had killed men before and had no regrets about it. This was somewhat at odds with her sparkly eye shadow and lipstick, her flowing skirt, and her light lacy shawl that fluttered with her quick and sudden movements.

“You must be Marianne and Alan!”

“Bog.” He corrected, at the same time trying to save his metal cut-outs from sliding onto the floor. Marianne was looking ruefully at the staple that had gone into the canvas at a bad angle and twisted. Neither of them were pleased with this intrusion and what they had seen so far of this new teacher's personality did not sit well with them.

“Uh, hi.” Marianne said, politely as possible. Bog made vague rumbling noises.

“My predecessor told me all about you two.” Aura Plum fluttered further into the studio, flashing a bright and cheery smile. The two in question exchanged nervous glances. “All about Mr. King declining to actually attend class periods or critiques, or turn in papers.” She held out a hand and examined her nail polish, looking up a bit sadly at the delinquent Bog, her lips pouting.

“We had an arrangement,” Bog objected. Most of the teachers had been completely fine with letting the gloomy man do his own thing. His glowering presence made other students edgy and no one had the nerve to critique his work for fear of some day running into him in a dark alley. So long as Bog produced the work and wrote the papers they left him alone. Aura Plum's accusation that Bog did not write the papers was inaccurate. He just refused to write five pages about the emotional meaning behind his work because he thought it was useless busy work.

The new head of the art department did not allow Bog to defend himself, she went on, “And I've heard all about Miss Summers starting off as a good student and then suddenly starting to skip classes left and right, which leads me to believe that Mr. King has been somewhat of a bad influence.”

Though Marianne had started skipping classes to avoid Roland she couldn't very well deny that her motives had eventually shifted to simply being able to hang out with Bog more. Well, she would have denied it anyway, but Aura Plum didn't give her a chance.

“So I thought I might run into you two during off hours so I could be absolutely sure to tell you about the new regulations we're putting into place. How we're placing an emphasis on attendance and participation.” They flinched as these words hit them like hammer blows. “And how your grades will depend heavily on these things, that if you miss more than three classes without good excuse, well, you'll flunk.” Her sweet voice went harsh on the last two words, flinging them out at the wayward students like a gauntlet thrown down in challenge.

They remained froze in place for a long, awkward pause. Bog and Marianne trying not to look utterly horrified—and failing—and Miss Plum staring at them with crazy eyes.

“Or,” Miss Plum went on, all sweetness and smiles again so suddenly it could have caused whiplash, “You two can put on a showing of your work this semester. You'd be responsible for catering, advertising, setup, and all details of the show.”

“Er, why would this be a good substitute?” Marianne asked.

“It would prove to me, dear children, that you aren't just lazy bums who took art because they thought they could breeze through the course and get an easy degree. Now, of course, you can take or leave this offer, but the new rules are going into effect regardless of your decision. Of course,” She giggled, shrugging her shoulders cutely, “Papers are still non-negotiable. And if you do decline then I'm going to have to start asking questions about how you two are in here after-hours when the building is supposed to be closed and locked. Got it?”

Bog swallowed hard and clawed at the back of the chair in his agitation. This was the last year. Why couldn't the old head of the department just have lasted one more year? Marianne's wild eyed looked echoed his own, but they both had to shrug and Marianne said hesitantly, looking at Bog as she did, “We'll . . . do the art show?” Bog nodded silent agreement. Aside from preserving their peace and quiet there was also the fact that Roland had enrolled in classes again this semester—against all common sense—and there was no way Bog was going to be instrumental in making Marianne spending any more time with the detestable object than necessary. Meanwhile Marianne was thinking there was no way she was going to let them cut down on Bog's studio time, she knew how much he hated a crowd.

“Excellent! We'll have the show in December, okay? Have fun, make good art!” She floated down the stairs, waving a hand behind her. She popped back up a second later and fired off a parting shot, “But end of semester critiques are mandatory, so see you there!”

“I'm not sure if she's going to hug me or murder me.” Marianne said vaguely, face twisted up in horror and revulsion. Bog just continued to make grumbling noises in the back of his throat, sitting back down and shuffling around in his toolbox. “Either option,” He said, “is . . . just no.”

“So much no.” Marianne abandoned her canvas and came over to sit on the edge of the table opposite Bog. “She's just throwing around her weight, drunk on this newfound power, feeling she's an unstoppable force of nature.”

“She's really small,” Bog mused, “If we put her in a box and mailed her to, say, Peru . . .”

“I am all for petty revenge, Bog, but let's try something a little less illegal.”

“Tough girl afraid of a little prison time?”

“It wouldn't look fantastic on my resume. Besides, if I'm going to be a criminal mastermind I'm going to be one that doesn't get caught. Unlike some people . . .”

“Hey, that guy hit me first.” Bog objected, “I only spent the night in jail and was never charged.”

“But you won the fight, I hope?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I don't know if I could have continued our association if you hadn't. Dad was so disappointed that I already knew about your criminal past before he ever ran a background check on you. He was hoping to shock me into my senses.”

“Mm. I'd still like to have a few words with your father about invading my privacy. Does he investigate everyone who's rude to him?”

“Only the ones who look like they know six different ways to kill people with only their bare hands. Dad was sure that you got your tattoos in prison.”

“That is an insult to this fine craftsmanship.” Bog pushed up the sleeves of his light button-up shirt to his elbows to display his tattoos. The summer heat was still holding and his gray sweatshirt had been put aside for the time being.

“It sure is.” Marianne said, a trifle unfocused, eyes sweeping appreciatively over Bog's arms.

“What?” Bog asked, confused by her strange tone of voice.

“Hm? What? Nothing!” Marianne grabbed a pair of metal cutters at random and began fiddling with the latch to unlock the blades. “We were talking about revenge.”

“Petty revenge, Mari, get it right.”

“As it happens I have an idea, if you're willing to put in the time and help me haul all those cardboard boxes out of the recycling dumpster.”

“That is delightfully vague and intriguing. I have all weekend free, tell me more . . .”

The first class on Monday started at eight AM, so Bog picked up Marianne and they arrived at seven to hide in the dark room and watch people arrive for class. Aura Plum arrived half an hour before class, passed the dark room, and climbed up the stairs to the studio. If she had been listening she might have heard stifled snickering trailing after her. If she had been looking she might have seen two sets of eyes peering out through a crack in the door.

The strangled yelp of surprise, followed by several confused exclamations, were all met with laughter that was desperately trying to be silenced. At thirty-five minutes past seven Dawn opened the door to the darkroom, having seen the state of the studio and instantly deduced the culprits. Knowing what to look for it hadn't been hard to track them and their badly repressed mirth to the darkroom. Throwing up the door she found Bog peeking through the crack, Marianne standing on a table by the door so she could peek over Bog's head. Marianne had one hand over her own mouth and the other over Bog's in attempt to silence his resonating chuckles.

“You dummies!” Dawn said, looking as stern as a tiny girl in flower-patterned overalls and glitter headband possible could.

“You'll give us away!” Marianne protested. Bog, still gagged, whisked Dawn inside and shut the door behind her.

“You dummies!” Dawn began again, “Did you really fritter away your whole weekend doing that?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Marianne asked, her chin propped on top of Bog's head. “Could it be that the mysterious and unidentified phantom of the art department has struck again? Just a shot in the dark, you understand.” Bog's laughter redoubled and Marianne said, “Shut up, you dolt! You're going to knock me over!”

“I should have known you guys were up to something, you were so smirky.” Dawn had been harboring a secret hope that the two dopes had finally admitted their feelings for each other. But it seemed things were unchanged in that regard, even if Marianne was hanging off of Bog. Dawn knew if either of them paused to think about their close proximity they would turn bright red and start stammering. Because they were idiots. At the moment they seemed to be too preoccupied by the initial success of their prank to notice anything else, and Bog didn't even blush when Marianne finally ungagged him and comfortably settled her arms around his neck while they laughed.

“Have you been inside?” Marianne asked her sister, “You might change your mind about it once you've been on the guided tour.”

“If you rat us out to Plum we'll hide Sunny where you'll never find him.” Bog said, “Remember, I have access to multiple abandoned construction sites.”

“Touch my Sunny-Wunny and I will teach Griselda how to post pictures to a blog. I've seen the photo albums, Bog, I know where all the adorable dirt is hidden.”

Bog tilted his head back to look at Marianne and say, “Sometimes I am suddenly reminded that she's your sister.”

“That's my girl.” Marianne said proudly, “Using blackmail to get what she wants.”

“You approval fills me with shame.” Dawn sighed. “And I'm not telling. I don't get what your problem with Plum is. I like her.”

“That's because you're a model student and a fellow fan of glitter. You like writing about the meaning of your paintings for ten pages, single spaced. You like sitting through three hours of critiques, listening to people say “um” and “like” a bajillion times.”

“You absolute hermits.” Dawn shook her head, “All right, come and show me the world. Shining. Shimmering. Splendid.” She began singing the song as she left the room and climbed the stairs.

“Hey!” Marianne said, letting Bog help her down from the table, “No Disney tunes before noon, I thought we agreed!”

By the time the three of them got to the studio most of the morning class was already there and exploring the phantom's latest jest. Over most of the room structures of cardboard had been erected, resulting in a elaborate box fort, complete with secret doors, confusing mazes, and towers. To get to any part of the room the students had to crawl through cardboard tunnels and peer through cutout windows to track their progress.

As Marianne predicted Dawn loved the whole thing once she crawled inside. From Marianne's vantage point in the doorway she could see Dawn's fluffy blonde head peeking through windows and hear her sister's thrilled giggles. “I am bringing pillows and blankets and living in here!” Dawn declared when she found an inner room big enough to sit comfortably in. Fifteen minutes later Sunny arrived with a stack of cushions he'd stolen off all the couches in the building. “Dawn texted me.” He explained, “And I am skipping class because all we're doing is reading the syllabus. Wow, dudes, this is a legit box fort. Do you think they'd deliver pizza up here?”

“Sunny, Sunny!” Dawn popped out of a tunnel, “We're having a meeting in here to name this place! The Final Lair? Minas Tirith? Hogwarts? Helm's Deep? Nominations are open!”

Someone did order pizza and in spite of her best efforts Aura Plum could not get the class back on track. In the end she crawled through the fort, passing out handouts and introducing herself to students. She emerged near the student lockers, slice of pizza in hand, and remarked to Marianne—who was peering out of a cardboard tower, “Remarkably well constructed, isn't it?”

“Yeah, look at this double-layered walls and the dovetailing. Hardly any duct tape in the whole thing and not a sagging wall to be seen.” Marianne agreed cheerfully, thinking of Bog's stubborn insistence on quality even in a prank. If Marianne had her way they would have put together a few boxes, maybe a couple towers, and called it good. But Bog measured the room and drew up actual blueprints for the project, calculating how far they could stretch their materials for optimum effect. They had argued about it right to the end and now Marianne had to admit she appreciated the results.

“Isn't this fun?” Plum smiled.

“Isn't it?” Marianne agreed brightly.

They smiled at each other long past the point of social norms, waiting for the other to crack.

“I know it was you.” Plum said, still smiling. “And I'll prove it even if I have to dust this thing for prints.”

“Oh, if you want to. But Bog and I often take the cardboard down to the recycling bin, so our fingerprints are all over it to begin with.”

Plum's smile remained, but her eyes narrowed. “This isn't over Summers. And Mr. Bog King, that goes for you, too.” Plum's smile faltered, “Where is he? He was just here. How can the human embodiment of stilts just disappear? This is most disconcerting and raises so many questions. Does he actually fit in this fort?”

Crammed at the bottom of the tower Marianne was standing in, Bog stuffed the collar of his t-shirt into his mouth to keep from laughing. Marianne kicked him to further encourage silence. “How mysterious.” Marianne shrugged.

“But my point still stands! This isn't over!” She pointed a finger and didn't break eye-contact until she crawled back into the box fort and out of sight. Somewhere in the background a flag was being raised and cheering began.

“Majority vote for Hogwarts!” Dawn popped up to announce.

Marianne and Bog began booing. “We wanted to call it the Shatterdome!”

Bog had also planned for the fort to be easily disassembled and it only took them an hour to take it all down when Plum “volunteered” them to. But before it had been taken down Sunny had taken pictures of it and submitted them to the school newspaper. Someone wrote up an article about the phantom and his/hers mysterious affairs. “Ugh, 2005 movie reference.” Marianne complained, looking at the white half mask and rose superimposed over a shot of the box fort. “That's right off one of the movie posters. I'm feeling the urge to dust off my punjab and educate these people about Gothic horror.”

“If you're emulating the phantom then your best option is the 2005 movie. In all the other movies he dies horribly, but in this one he gets to live and prosper.” Dawn pointed out.

“Never.” Marianne crumpled the newspaper in her fist, “I'll be forced to fall to my death into the river by a mob first! Shot off a rooftop! Crushed by falling rocks! Impaled by a falling chandelier!”

“Yeah, anyway.” Dawn interrupted, “Are you two really going to have a showing? Where you'll, you know, mingle with people? Because I entirely approve.”

“This is being done under duress. We'll do it, but we won't like it.”

“I plan to arrange the lights so I've got a nice shadowy corner to hide in.” Bog said.

“You'll be our performance art piece.” Marianne suggested. “We'll call it “Angry Pine Cone Full of Emotions”, which sounds deeply meaningful, but isn't. Or is it?”

“The world may never know.”

Bog placed the ruler on the open sketchbook and carefully penciled a line down its length. He moved the ruler and discovered the line was crooked, so he grabbed his eraser, but rubbed too hard, the page crumpling. He looked blankly at the ruined page, slowly realizing the last half hour of work on the design had been wasted with one clumsy movement. Pencil woven through his fingers, eraser pinched between thumb and forefinger, he sat unmoving. He imagined taking the sketchbook in both hands and ripping it in half down the spine, thinking of how the cardboard cover would tear, the pages crumple and scatter when he dropped it.

The sketchbook remained intact. The brief daydream was devoid of anger, filled only with cloudy gray frustration that surrounded him and kept the world hazy and distant.

“Earth to Bog, come in, Bog!” A rubber band snapped into his shoulder. He yelped and turned around, indignant, but for a moment the world clicked into focus. “Whoa,” Marianne said from the couch, “Dial down the glare before somebody gets hurt. I just had a question.”

“Yes. Sorry. Was thinking.” Bog tried to school his features into a less irritated arrangement. “What was your . . . what were you asking?”

“Halloween costumes. Any ideas?”

“I suppose opera capes and half masks would be too obvious?”

“Cute. I'm trying to think of something horrific and possibly gory.”

“What's that movie, with that guy, Jason, who kills people with a machete or something?”

“Considered it. But I did that a couple years ago. I made Dawn be my victim. I don't think she's ever forgiven me. I'm looking for something classic, Lon Chaney Phantom of the Opera, Douglas Fairbanks Zorro . . . only with blood.”

“Vampire?”

“Everyone would call me “Bella”. Blech.”

“Frankenstein's monster?”

“You'd fit that better, you shambling monstrosity. What are you going as?”

“An overworked artist. What do you think of my costume?” He tugged at his sweatshirt.

“Lazy.” Marianne waved a hand, “Dawn keeps suggesting we go as Sarah and Jareth from Labyrinth—she's never forgotten the glitter wars. But you're not even going to go as a grumpy Scotsman? I know you have a kilt. Or you afraid you don't have the legs to pull it off?”

He snapped the rubber band back at her. “Ha ha.” He tried to think of a good retort, but nothing came to mind and it was easier to return to his ruined work and pretend to be absorbed in that. Marianne watched him suspiciously, and after observing him for a few minutes she realized that he wasn't actually doing anything. He had turned away and picked up his pencil, poised to draw, but hadn't progressed beyond that. When she walked up to him he grabbed his ruler in an attempt to look busy.

“Bog, you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Bog said. “Just tired.”

“When aren't you tired?”

“Yeah . . .” He gave a forced little laugh which set off alarm bells in Marianne's head. Before she could question him he shut his notebook and stuffed it into his bag. “I'd better call it a night. Have work tomorrow.”

“Okay. Griselda still out of town visiting her friends?”

“Yeah, until next week. It's been blissfully peaceful at home.”

“Call me tomorrow when you're free, we have to go map out the gallery space and decide how many pieces we can fit in there.”

“Joy.”

Bog did not call her the next day. He showed up at the studio the day after, offering excuses about work and fatigue.

“You could have shot me a text!” Marianne complained, standing on a ladder and holding one end of a tape measure. They had been squabbling from the moment Bog had stepped through the door without a satisfactory explanation to give her for his absence, and she wasn't letting the subject drop.

Bog played out the tape and walked to the end of the wall. “Some of us work for a living, princess.”

“Do not start being a snob.”

“Who's the snob? I'm not the one complaining about my livelihood getting in the way of your fun and games.”

“That is so not what I was saying.”

“Oh, I know, I know, you're open minded and think my rattling deathtrap of a pickup is cute and offbeat.”

With a quick flick Marianne pressed the button to retract the tape and the metal length whipped out of Bog's hand, slashing across his fingers. He wasn't hurt, but he was very surprised. He was further surprised when Marianne threw the reel of tape measure at him. It flew past him and left a dent in the wall.

“You could have hit me!”

“Don't get all high-pitched Scottish at me. I played softball far too long to miss what I aim for. And if you somehow misconstrue that into me being some privileged ditz I will throw this ladder at you. What's biting you today?”

And even though Marianne had needed Bog's help to set up the ladder in the first place he didn't doubt that she would somehow manage to heft it at him. Really, he almost wished she would. He deserved it for behaving like such a moron. It was just . . . she kept asking questions, kept pushing to find out what was going on with him. All this defenses sprang up automatically and he tried to push her away, make her leave. Make her leave before she came to that same decision on her own.

“Tired.” The stale excuse came easily to his lips as he hunched up his shoulders, turning to retrieve the tape measure. He picked it up and looked at the dent in the wall. It wasn't too bad, he could cover it up easily if he brought the right supplies from home. Still examining the damage he said, “I'm sorry.” He tried to find the words to apologize properly, to tell her that he hadn't meant any of it, that what he said wasn't a true reflection of how he thought of her. But all he could think of was, “I'm sorry.”

They spent the rest of the time in sullen silence, only speaking to read out measurements.

“Boggy.”

Dawn intercepted him in the parking lot.

“Bog.” He said tiredly.

“Boggy, you know I like you, right?”

“Heaven only knows why.”

“So you know that it comes from the deepest and most sincere place in my heart when I ask: what is wrong with you?” The tiny girl smacked him on the arm with a rolled up magazine, her big blue eyes lit up with righteous fury.

“What's wrong with me? I'm not the one hitting people!”

“That was to get your attention. Bog, you're a great guy and you really make my sister happy. Do you have any idea how big a deal it is for Marianne to be happy? Actually, I bet you do, you grumpy gus. Your mother has made it clear how completely miserable you were before Marianne crashed into your life on a wave of glitter.” Dawn shared her sister's tenancy to gesture expansively when agitated, though she did it much more gracefully and seemed less likely to accidentally hit walls.

“My mother needs to keep her mouth shut.” Bog snapped, “Is there a point to this or are you two just matchmaking again?”

“You made Marianne sad! She's been moping for the past two days and she won't tell me anything except that the next time she throws something at your head she won't miss. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” It came out much more loudly than he intended and Dawn took a step back. “I'm working, attending school, putting together an art show, so I'm tired, alright? I don't have the time or patience to baby your precious hurt feelings! Understand?”

“No, I don't! And there's no reason to shout at me!” A few tears spilled out of Dawn's eyes. Bog felt a stab of absolute panic. He had just wanted her to leave him alone, not . . . this!

“Please don't . . . I'm sorry!”

“Say that to Marianne!” Dawn sniffed hard and poked Bog's chest sharply.

“I did! At least . . . I think I did.” It was hard to remember what trite, mechanical responses he had given, but it was usually a safe bet that he had apologized at some point, even if only to make people leave him alone. Dawn was hiccuping. Bog patted her shoulder, hoping she would take it as an invitation to hug him. She didn't, but she did grab his hand and lean on his arm. “I'm sorry I shouted at you. Would you tell Marianne I'll see her on Friday to talk about the catering?”

“Yes!” Dawn sprang up with a bounce, wiping away tears with the back of her hand, “Definitely! And you'll make up and stop being such sad thunderclouds! It is no fun when you two are gloomy.” And she did hug him this time, just before she dashed off to class, waving at Bog as she went.

On Friday Marianne got roped into helping someone with a project so she only met up with Bog for about five minutes, telling him she'd text him later that evening. Having been primed for an argument Bog felt rather let down and dragged himself home to doze fitfully on the couch and miss Marianne's barrage of texts because he'd left his phone in his bag.

Really, he had half expected this. After the miserable, sleepless summer he really ought to have expected this. Usually his bad days were easy enough to pass off as being tired, feeling under the weather. And lately there had been only days—not weeks—and less of those. Then the summer without Marianne. Without the camaraderie of all three of them, really. But Griselda's interfering nagging had kept him moving, kept him from sitting down and staring at walls. Bog had been careful to keep himself together over the summer, but at the beginning of the semester he had made the mistake of letting his guard down and started to let things slide.

The bad days came and went, never going away for good. The worst of it had been after his father died and . . . she had left. He had forced himself to get up every morning and go to school, go to work. He ended up burning out and dropping out, finally admitting the inevitable and just not getting up in the morning. That time was strangely unreal in his mind. Most of the things that happened then seemed distant, second-hand. But he had gotten through that and now it was just . . . once in awhile.

Maybe he was stressed. Maybe he was tired. Or it just happened for no reason whatsoever. There were days when walking was difficult, when every step was painful and dragging. He had to hold onto the steering wheel extra tightly to make sure his hands were properly responding to his commands. Everything had to be done slowly, deliberately, as if he were anchoring himself, keeping himself from flying right off the surface of the earth. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt right.

At the start of the semester he knew he was riding a wave and eventually it would crash down and crash down hard. Already he had been having bad days the past month, and now he was having a string of bad days, stretching into a second week. Talking to people was exhausting and he kept flubbing it. Words just wouldn't come out. So he talked to people less and texted Marianne instead of calling her. And Friday afternoon he had staggered home from work and sat parked in the driveway for half an hour before going into the house. If Griselda had been there he would have gone right in, to avoid her asking questions, but there was no one there to nag so it didn't matter if he sat out there all night.

He stayed awake until he fell asleep where he sat, dragged himself to the kitchen to eat whatever he had that didn't require preparation. Sunday afternoon came and he had rearranged the small pile of dishes in the sink, taken the trash bag out of the can, but not put a new one in, noted that he had several voice mails and didn't bother listening to them because he knew he would have to call people back. Come Monday morning he would have to get up and go to work and in the meantime he rationalized there was nothing he couldn't put off until later. Plenty of time to stare at the wall and feel his foot fall asleep but not have the energy to shift into a comfortable position.

His legs complained that he hadn't walked further than the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen in two days. He stomach joined in, trying to point out that he had been sustaining himself with snacks and coffee for far longer than was acceptable. It didn't matter, he didn't care. Not enough to get up and do anything. Not enough to stop staring at nothing and going over the list of things he ought to be doing but knew he would only mess up if he tried. Experience had taught him better than to try to work on his sculptures when he was in a gray mood. Tools felt strange in his hands, movements that were second-nature to him became clumsy, and he had gotten angry, impatient, and ended destroying his projects more than once. Hurt himself more than once. After he had needed stitches on his hand he had stopped trying to work during gray days. If he tried he would fail. So he didn't try. He just sat and drifted. Feeling so heavy, but at the same time floating, disconnected.

His phone rang and it was Marianne's ringtone. Bog let it go to voicemail. A minute later there was a text. It was safe to read texts, no voice to make you feel guilty for not calling back. Or so he thought. When he saw the message, asking why he hadn't shown up at the studio, was he okay? he felt the familiar wave of anxiety wash over him. He was screwing this up, he was letting her down. Marianne would be angry, rightfully so, and she's realize how useless he was and . . . she'd leave.

It was a strange trick of the gray days to bridge the gaps in time between other gray days and make the memories of those times clear even in their strange unreality, as if they existed outside of the healing passage of time. And he remembered another day, so much worse than this one because he hadn't yet figured out what was happening, remembered the smell of sawdust and glue in his father's workshop, that there had been the pieces of a chair laid out, waiting to be assembled. Remembered final words and the sound of a door shutting. And he hadn't gone after her. Couldn't. Didn't blame her for leaving. What reason would she have for staying?

The phone rang again. He picked it up.

“Bog, where are you? Did you have to work?”

“No, I . . . I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Marianne, I've been tired and I . . . forgot.” He hunched over on the couch, digging his free hand into his hair, hating how pathetic he sounded but hoping that she'd accept his excuse and hang up. Hoping she wouldn't see.

“Tired.” She said, voice flat. There it was. She didn't believe him. He'd messed up. She went on, sounding more than a little mad, “Too tired to shoot me a text? Too tired to ask if I wanted to come over and watch six episodes of Jeeves and Wooster in a row and order Chinese? I know when you're tired, Bog, and that's not what's wrong. Are you sick?”

“No . . .”

“Then what is it? You've been doing this all semester.” There was a pause and the crackling sound of white noise filled Bog's ear. When she spoke again she sounded subdued and anxious, “Have I been too pushy? I know I'm rude and mean, did I cross a line or something? When we were at the gallery . . .”

“No! No, not at all! No, this is just me . . . not sleeping well. I'm not good company right now.”

“That's all?”

“Yeah.”

“Bog.”

“Yeah?”

“You're a terrible liar.”

She hung up.

Bog put the phone down but otherwise stayed as he was, bent over almost double, pulling at his hair so hard it was painful. There it was. If not the actual end, at least the beginning of the end. The fear that had lurked in the back of his mind since he had first met Marianne . . . it was being realized. She was finally figuring out what a waste of of her time he was. It had always been a question of when, not if.

Things didn't hurt properly on days like this. That would come later when the clouds lifted a bit. Right now he laid down on the couch and tried to sleep, to catch up on some of the hours he had lost the night before when he had watched the play of faint patterns across the dark ceiling and thought of all the things he had done wrong in his life.

When he heard Marianne's ringtone he was sure he must have drifted off to sleep and started dreaming. Then he considered the possibility that she might have called back to shout at him and accepted the idea that he might be awake after all. “Hello--”

“I hope you're happy, Bog, because of your thick-headed stubbornness I have had to resort to extreme measures.”

“What?”

“I called Griselda, Bog, and asked her.”

“Marianne!” He sat up, a spark of terrified energy mobilizing him.

“Shut up. Two things: I am furious with you for not telling me about it and I am sorry for snapping at you.”

“Marianne . . . I'm sorry. I don't . . . what did she tell you?”

“That you're an idiot who can't take care of himself. I'm inclined to agree. Now come open the front door for me before I burst through your skylight on a cable like in a heist film.”

Topkapi.” Bog said.

“First movie to use the cable drop. Just so.”

“Wait,” Bog stood up and went to the front door, “You're . . .” He opened the door and found Marianne was sitting on the step, a large duffel bag placed next to her. “. . . here?”

She hung up and put her phone away as she stood. “I guess this proves you do shave,” She said, “Because I can tell you haven't been.” She reached up and patted his long, scratchy chin. In the gray numbness of the day that touch felt startlingly real and Bog almost flinched away from it. Hands on her hips, Marianne began expressing her feelings about Bog's reclusive behavior. “You absolute moron. Nitwit, dope, dunce, knuckle-dragging peabrained galoot! Dunderheaded clodpole! I am so mad at you!”

“I noticed.” Bog said, leaning backwards and away from her wrath.

Marianne dragged her duffel bag inside and threw it into the corner, slamming the door behind her so hard that Bog was afraid for the windows. “I had no idea what was going on with you! We were all worried about you! No, shut up!” She could see the apology hovering on his lips, “No apologies, no excuses.” She took his arm and spun him around, shoving him toward the bathroom, “You are going to go shower, shave, and change—because even with your limited wardrobe I recognize that shirt from Friday.”

“Marianne . . .”

“Then we're talking. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” He began to walk away.

He stopped when he felt Marianne tug on the back of his shirt. She leaned against his back. “Don't agree with me so much. It's weird.”

“I'm sorry.” He said, even though he knew it was the wrong thing to say. She hugged him and for a moment he felt grounded. The first time in days he didn't feel like he was going to fly away if he didn't hang on with all his might. He could feel her arms against his ribs, her forehead leaning against his spine. And it felt real. It felt right.

“I've been so worried. I've been wracking my brain to figure out what went wrong. What I did wrong. I forgot to factor in how stupid you are.” She shook her head, “Now I'm shoving in here uninvited because I'm stupid. But unless you explicitly state out loud that you want me to leave I'm taking silence as agreement, okay?”

And there was an immeasurably long silence and they were reluctant to move from where they stood. Marianne's arms tightened around him, silently willing him to say something sarcastic, initiate their usual bickering to show that everything was normal again. Hoping he understood that she wasn't going to leave, that she wasn't going to let him shut her out because he felt he somehow didn't deserve their friendship.

But the numbness seeped back in again and Bog felt unbearably heavy and slow. He wanted to take Marianne's hand, or turn around and return the hug, but his hands remained by his sides, numb and tingling at the same time. And he knew even he did manage to do something, it would be the wrong thing. Better not to try. He stepped forward again, pulling free from Marianne's embrace and not looking back, afraid to see her face.

When he came back out he found that Marianne had been cleaning up. “You shouldn't have . . .” He had changed into clean clothes—relieved to find that there were clean clothes since he hadn't done laundry—and had a towel around his neck from trying to dry his hair.

“Shut your stupid face, I do what I want. Griselda sent me a comprehensive guide to the care and feeding of Bogs and I'm just following instructions. Anyway, even when you're a mess you're not that messy so it's not that much, but I know you like a clean space.”

“I do.” He agreed, sitting down at the kitchen table because it seemed awkward to stand. He almost stood up again, to offer to help with the dishes, but it seemed stupid to stand back up again right away. “What did . . . my mother . . . what did she tell you?”

“I only just managed to convince her not to cut her trip short. She's worried about you. She didn't call us “sweethearts” or mention dating even once.” She abandoned the dishes and came over to take Bog's towel. “So your hair really just does that back sweep thing all on its own? I was so sure you were secretly styling.”

“I meant . . . I . . . never mind.”

“I know what you meant.” Marianne dropped the towel on Bog's head and scrubbed his wet hair. “She told me your depression started after your dad died. She told me it was depression. Otherwise she mostly told me what to do about it.”

“You don't have to do anything. I'm fine.”

His thoughts ran contrary to his words. You can leave if you want, you don't have to stay because you feel sorry for me. You can leave. Please don't leave. I don't want you to feel like you should stay when you want to go . . . please don't leave me alone.

“Bog, you absolute pine cone, you are not fine.” The microwave dinged and Marianne went over to it, shoving the towel over Bog's face as she left. “If you're afraid I'll see you cry, well, don't be. It won't ruin your brooding loner vibe you've got going, I promise. Here, I found tea bags.” She set a steaming mug in front of him, “You're out of luck if you want coffee, I'm forbidding it.”

“I don't cry.” Bog said suddenly, pulling the towel off and wrapping the wet fabric around his hands, “Some days I feel like I just want to burst into tears, or scream, but I can't. It would be a relief to cry. My dad died and I couldn't cry, I was just numb. It's not like I never cry, but when it's important . . . How is it possible to feel numb and like you're going to explode at the same time?” The words were rushed and disjointed. The question was genuine and the lost expression on Bog's face made Marianne's heart twinge. She reached across the table and laid her hands on top of his.

“Why are you here?” He asked, head bent, staring at the table. Why wasn't she leaving? Was she being polite? But Marianne wasn't polite.

“Because sometimes you forget how to look after yourself, apparently. You did a lousy shaving job, by the way, you've missed bits all over the place.”

“No, really.” He let out a frustrated breath and let his forehead rest on their stacked hands. He could feel the pulse of Marianne's blood and he let it anchor him. “Why do you bother with me?”

“Maybe because your sad Scottish accent sounds so heartbreaking. Maybe because you're a big dope and I feel sorry for you. Maybe because you're my friend and I really care about you.”

This got a laugh out of him. “Thank you.”

“Aw, I didn't have anything better to do anyway.” A pause, “I've got a paper due tomorrow that I haven't started yet, Plum wants me to put primer over my last painting and start over, and I was supposed to call my advisor today to talk about stuff for the show.”

“I'm sorry.” Bog straightened up, pulling his hand away. “You should get going.” Here it was. It was time for her to go. She had things to do, things more important than dealing with his moping. But if he had been able to move his hands as he wanted to he would have grabbed hers and held on.

Marianne did that for him and pulled his hands back to their original spot. “I've got nothing better to do than sit here with you, okay? The best thing I could be doing right now is being here, making sure you're okay. Okay? I want to be here. Actually, I am kind of insulted that you think I'm such a ditz that I'd drop you the moment everything wasn't fun and games anymore. Yeah, think about that the next time you ignore my calls. I'll be on the other end of the line plotting your murder.”

“I suppose you'll bury me in my own bog.”

She patted his hand. “You know me so well.”

Somehow Marianne dragged him out for a walk. And it was hard going at first, trying to talk and keep his feet moving at the same time. It didn't go away, but it got a bit easier when he kept at it. Marianne's hand in his certainly helped. She hadn't made a big deal of it, she had just taken his hand without saying a word and kept a hold on it throughout their entire walk. And even through the pressing gray clouds the pressure of her fingers around his made a blush spread over his cheeks and redden his ears. It helped to just have someone know what was going on. And when Bog's feet faltered they sat down on the curb and talked or didn't talk. Bog tried to keep up the conversation, that was what he ought to do. Marianne squeezed his hand and let him trail off.

Once Marianne felt Bog was sufficiently exercised they went back to the house. She revealed her duffel bag had been full of groceries and DVDs and they settled down on the couch to watch Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy while eating microwave Chinese food. There were trickles of conversation about nothing important, mixed in with Bog telling her bits about what had been going on. Mostly, though, they just sat and did nothing at all, Marianne's presence keeping him from drifting too far.

Five minutes before Bog's alarm was set to go off on Monday morning his phone rang. It was Griselda. “Hey, thought I'd make sure you remembered to set your alarm.” She said, “Honestly, you just fall apart when I'm not there to hold your hand.”

“Good morning.” Bog grumbled, getting out of bed and turning on the light. “Good bye.”

“Hey, hey!” His mother's insistent squawk kept him from hanging up. “You feeling okay, sweetie?”

“I'm fine.” Bog stumbled toward the kitchen, wondering if he had remembered to set the coffeepot timer the night before. The reassuring aroma that met him halfway there told him he had. “You talked to Marianne yesterday.”

“She called me, you know. I'm not one to idly gossip, you understand, but she wanted to know why you were being such a grumpy lump lately.”

“Hm.”

“She cheer you up?”

He could hear the implied eyebrow wiggle in his mother's question but elected to ignore it, pouring out a cup of coffee and adding a generous heap of sugar to it. “I'm okay. Just . . . lost my balance for awhile.” He wandered into the living room, hoping he might find his shoes there since they weren't by the door. After a weekend like the one he'd just had it would probably take days to locate his scattered belongings. “Working helps, so I should be good by the time you get home.”

“Do you think you should see the doctor?”

Bog thought about it for a minute, sipping his coffee and casting his mind back over the past few weeks. It had been years since he'd been on medication and he'd been managing pretty well most of the time. “I don't think so. I don't think it's a relapse, just a . . . misstep.”

“Missing your sweetheart this summer really did a number on you.” Griselda snorted knowingly, “Betcha wouldn't have so many missteps if you married her and she was always around to cheer you up. Certainly wouldn't hurt anything.”

Bog sputtered over his coffee. “Mom, no! It is too early to deal with your matchmaking! Why do you insist—gah!” Bog gave a strangled cry and Griselda heard the phone fall on the floor with a loud thump. Straining she could still pick out what sounded like laughter.

Someone picked up the phone again and they sounded a little breathless from laughing. “Hello, Griselda?”

“Marianne, honey, is that you? What happened to my boy?”

“That was the sound of Bog forgetting I slept over on the couch.” Marianne had to stop for a moment to laugh before she could go on. In the background Griselda could hear her son making distressed and apologetic noises. “He sat on me. And now there's coffee everywhere and—I'd better go help him.”

“You do that, muffin. Somebody has to look after that boy.”

“Really? That's what you're going as?”

Dawn examined the materials for Marianne's Halloween costume with a critical and suspicious expression. They were in the tiny living room of their apartment, unpacking their shopping.

“Yeah. It'll be easy to put together and comfortable to wear.”

“It just seems . . . out of character for you. Kind of cute, actually.”

“Have you finally decided on your costume?” Marianne shifted the subject away from herself. “Last time I heard you and Sunny had narrowed it down to like six options. What was your favorite? You as a flower, him as a bee?”

“That one wasn't as favorite as the Dorothy and Toto idea. And Peter Pan and Wendy was pretty tempting, but in the end we decided to do with Snow White!”

“Sunny as Prince Charming or whoever?”

“No, Sunny's going as Dopey! We bought the fabric for his robe and hat already and it's going to be so much fun!”

“Dopey, huh? Well, I guess he has the ears for it.”

“Be nice, Marianne. Anyway, I think Sunny's ears are super cute. So, what's Bog going as? A magician?”

“Why would he be a magician?” Marianne asked, puzzled, trying to think of any particular movie or TV show that Bog watched that might feature a magician.

“To match your costume, silly.”

Marianne groaned and smacked her sister with the shopping bag. “No, no, and no flippin' way! We aren't doing matching couple costumes, no matter how hard you and Griselda might wish!” She grabbed her bags and headed for her bedroom.

“Admit your true feelings so I can get on with planning the wedding!” Dawn called after her, “I want to be a bridesmaid!”

“You know my views on weddings.” Marianne poked her head out of the bedroom, “And that I would elope before I ever committed myself to being at the center of planning one, ever again.”

Dawn clapped her hands. “This is progress! You're actually talking about considering marriage in any form at all!”

“No, I am not! Geez!”

“When you and Bog elope I want to come and be a witness! Eloping is romantic, too! Running away to be with the one you truly love.”

“Dawn, my love for you will only prevent me from murdering you for so long!”

“I'll make a little confetti packet to throw when you come out of the courthouse! Will you at least carry flowers? And what about notices? You'll want everyone to know you got married!” Several loud thumps indicated that Marianne was smacking her head against the door frame. When the thumping stopped Dawn said, “Hey, Marianne? I love you!”

“Love you too, Dawn.” Marianne grumbled, face still planted against the wall.

Alone in her room Marianne began to put together her costume. Bog called and she put him on speaker. “Hey, I'm just prepping for Halloween. How's your's coming?”

“Nearly there. Some paint drying still but otherwise only finishing touches left. They haven't guessed, have they?”

“Dawn is highly suspicious but all her guesses have gone wide of the mark. How are you doing?”

“Mmm.” Bog made vague noises.

In the past couple of weeks Marianne had made a point of checking up on him and reminding him she wanted to hang out anytime, anyplace, even if all he did was stare at the TV and doze. They didn't have to be working on art, or planning capers, or actively productive or anything. Just him and her in the same space, just chilling.

Dawn kept giving him flowers. Bog had agreed to let Marianne explain his history to the others and they had responded by saying nothing about it at all and not trying to cheer him up, for which he was grateful. But Dawn kept giving him flowers. Little paper ones she made herself out of construction paper. She would tuck them into his pockets and bags, or drop them into his tool box. He found them everywhere and had started putting them into a jar on his dresser at home.

The clouds were lifting and he was in a rush to get his projects back on track. But Marianne kept shutting him down and sending him home to get a decent amount of sleep. He might have tried to sneak some time in his workshop at home but Griselda had hidden all the keys and locked it up at night, only making exceptions when it was clear that Bog really couldn't sleep and needed something to do. Bog grumbled about being ganged up on, but not as much as he might have.

“But better?” Marianne persisted.

“Yeah, better.”

“And you'd tell me if you weren't?”

Bog chuckled. “I don't think there's much left that you haven't already dragged out of me. I guess I'd tell you just about anything.”

“You've gotta have at least one friend who'll help hide the bodies, right?”

“Mm. Speaking of, what's the situation with Mr. Goldilocks?”

“Roland has been . . . well, quiet, actually. Which somehow makes me more nervous, you know?”

“You can sense his evil brewing, growing more potent with time. Haven't seen him around campus. Haven't seen him since that dinner and haven't heard a word since I got his check for my tires. I get the general impression that your dad put the pressure on to make that happen.”

“The check didn't bounce? How unexpected. Did you call for any particular reason? Because I've got to do the tricky part with this costume and I don't want to be distracted.”

“No, just to pester you.”

“Mission accomplished, I am completely pestered. The very sound of your voice fills me with disgust.”

“Not dread? I was going for dread.”

“Listen, I know you've modeled your whole look along the lines of a wild-eyed hermit with a chainsaw, but I know how much of a nerd you are. After you watch both seasons of Pushing Daisies over the course of a week with somebody you can never fully respect him again.”

“Ouch! But that goes both ways, tough girl. I know all about your crush on Emerson Cod.”

“Listen here, buddy, I live a happily crushless existence, okay? I don't crush on Emerson, I want to be Emerson. What better role model than a tough and cynical detective who knits and makes pop-up books?”

“But he's my role model! In fact, I think we share a lot of things in common.”

“You wish! You want to be the gun-toting cynic but you are totally Ned, if you're anyone.”

“That is the most hurtful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Truth hurts, my friend. Tall, socially awkward, dresses in drab colors, kind of sad—sound familiar?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Heads up, I expect you to bake me a pie for my birthday.”

“Huh. Good luck with that. But you're still not Emerson Cod. And I'm grouchy, not sad.”

“I'm certainly not Chuck.”

“Oh, no, not at all.”

“She's much more of a Dawn-type.

“Olive Snook?” Bog suggested.

“Eeh.” Marianne thought, wrinkling her nose, “I'm not particularly fond of her. I don't know why, but she sets my teeth on edge.”

“Yeah, me, too. Okay, talk to you later.”

“Later. Ned.”

“No, I will not make you pie, and that's final!”

“Pfft, stingy.”

“Why is there pumpkin pie?” Dawn asked when she came into the living room on Halloween night. She was shrugging on a coat over her blue and yellow Snow White Costume and adjusting the hair band with a bow on it more securely into her blonde hair. “And I thought I heard Bog.”

Marianne was leaning out the window of their second story apartment and was shouting at someone below. “It doesn't count if it's from the store! My birthday is in the Spring, so get your act together by then! Oh, hey, Dawn. Bog is gonna meet us there.”

“All dressed?” Dawn saw the fluffy white slippers were already on Marianne's feet, but the rest of the costume was concealed underneath her winter coat, which was buttoned up right to Marianne's chin.

“Yeah, I'll put the ears on when I get there.”

“I still can't believe that's really your costume. I was so sure it was a decoy.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Where's your Prince Dopey?”

“Already at the hall, setting up the sound equipment for the band. Can't wait to see what Boggy is dressed as. I can't believe he's actually dressing up and gonna introduce himself and everything!”

Aura Plum had been in charge of organizing the school Halloween party and had decreed attendance mandatory and that there would be extra credit for people who came up to the stage and introduced themselves with sufficient “flair”. Since Bog's artist statements had been receiving abysmal scores he decided to pick up the extra credit rather than “plunge his emotional depths” as Aura Plum encouraged.

Once at the party Marianne disappeared to put away their coats while Dawn and Sunny dashed onto the dance floor. After a bit she asked, “I don't see Bog or Marianne, do you, Sunny? They haven't ditched, have they?”

“Nah.” Sunny straightened his green robe, “Bog's doing his intro soon and he asked me to do the sound effects.”

“You've seen his costume? Tell me, tell me!” Dawn threw her arms around Sunny and hopped up and down, “Does it match Marianne's? I need to know!”

“I would if I could, but he's been super secretive about it. All I know is that he's got a staff.”

“They're good.” Dawn admitted, “Really good at keeping secrets. But the fact that they're been so secretive just raises red flags. Oh, well, let's get some more dancing in before you have to help.” Dawn swept her skirt in a graceful curtsy. Sunny responded by doffing his purple cap and twitching his robes in a clumsy imitation of Dawn.

A smoke machine had been humming away on the side of the stage all evening, but after Sunny vanished to work behind the scenes it suddenly went into overdrive. The whole stage was flooded with mist and the lights in the rest of the room dimmed. Electric guitars screeched from the speakers and lights shot on, illuminating the haze and casting a vast shadow over the crowd. There was some hesitant applause.

Dawn pushed to the edge of the crowd to get a better look. The mist began to clear and she finally caught a glimpse of Bog in full costume. He did indeed have a wooden staff, and was dressed in ragged red and black robes. On his head he wore a snug hood with curling ram's horns attached and he was wearing a false beard streaked with white that trailed over his chest. Dawn did not recognize who he was supposed to be and couldn't fathom how it might be connected to Marianne's costume.

Bog gestured abruptly with one hand and the lights flickered violently in response and the sound of an explosion echoed throughout the hall. The announcer, holding a script, asked, “What manner of man are you that can summon up fire without flint or tinder?”

“I,” Bog flung out a hand, his tattered sleeve billowing, “ . . . am an enchanter.”

“By what name are you known?”

“There are some who call me . . . Tim?” His bold introduction trailed off into an uncertain question.

“Greetings, Tim the Enchanter!”

By now most of the crowd had caught on and even Dawn had picked up on the reference. “Ugh,” She said to herself, “They are so stuck on that movie this year. I should have known.”

“I know,” Bog stalked across the stage, “That some of you seek . . . the Grail!” On the last word he whipped around and a thunderclap boomed as the lights flashed. He was exaggerating his brogue and the word “Grail” was almost unrecognizable as English. “I know where it is hidden, but! Follow only if ye be men of valor, for the entrance to this cave is guarded by a creature so foul, so cruel, that no man yet has fought with it and lived! Bones of full fifty men lie strewn about its lair! So, if you do doubt your courage or your strength, come no further, for death awaits you all with nasty, big, pointy teeth!”

Bog clawed up one hand and held it in front of his face while making biting noises. The announcer gamely followed the script, “What an eccentric performance! But where is this creature?”

Bog dramatically pointed his staff toward the misty back of the stage. “There!”

A spotlight came up and a new silhouette appeared in center stage. Dawn recognized it as Marianne instantly even though she was only lit up from the back and was cast in shadows, clued in by the outline of the rabbit ears her sister was wearing. With a groan Dawn realized that Bog and Marianne did have matching costumes, but in the least cute way possible.

“What?” The announcer asked, confused, “Behind the rabbit?”

Bog stamped his foot and banged his staff against the stage in indignation. “It is the rabbit!”

“You mangy Scot!” The announcer scoffed.

“No, listen!” Bog said, addressing the giggling crowd, “That's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on!” Marianne clasped her hands together and struck an innocent pose. “Look, that rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide! It's a killer!” Now she started to fix her hair. “It's got huge, sharp—ah—it can leap about—look, it's really dangerous!”

The announcer continued to make fun of the warnings, getting up and walking over to Marianne. “Look, it's just a harmless little bunny—argh!”

He was cut off when a terrible squeaking sounded and Marianne pounced on him and knocked him down right before the lights cut out. There was some gristly squishing sounds and shrill screams of terror. The light shifted and a spotlight fell properly on Marianne so that everyone could see her white sweat-suit, fluffy slippers, and bunny ears, were liberally splattered with blood. She knelt over the fallen announcer in a predatory way, grinning hugely.

Bog laughed and mocked the announcer. “I warned you, but did you listen to me? Oh, no, you knew it all, didn't you? Ah? No! Wait! Stay back!” The tiny woman in the rabbit costume advanced on the towering enchanter with slow menace. The lights went crazy again and the audience could only catch glimpses of Bog fleeing the stage, robes and beard flapping, with the killer rabbit in hot pursuit.

The crowd burst into applause and cheered until Marianne and Bog came back on stage and took a bow.

“Can you believe this guy?” Marianne said when they met up with Dawn and Sunny on the dance floor, “He's a total drama nerd in secret.” She was wearing white knitted gloves with pink pads glued onto the fingers, and her nose was painted pink.

“I knew you matched!” Dawn shrieked, “I knew it was all a lie! I knew there would be blood involved! You are the worst, Marianne! Boggy! The worst!”

“Enough flair, do you think?” Bog asked, grinning as widely as Marianne.

“Oh, I suppose.” All four of them jumped when they discovered Aura Plum, dressed as Tinker Bell, lurking right behind them.

“Stop sneakin' up on people!” Bog got his staff tangled up in his beard and had to devote his attention to getting it sorted out.

“Certainly more than expected.” Plum went on dryly. In one of her sudden switches she went on with a big smile, “But aren't you two just the cutest couple, planning that whole thing together!”

“Not this again.” Bog said, addressing the ceiling.

“We're not dating!”

Aura Plum frowned and looked at Sunny and Dawn. “Are they putting me on? Oh, wait, I get it!” She laughed and waved her hand, “You two are married, right? So you're not dating, because you've done that already . . . no? Wow, okay . . . I've spent the whole semester assuming . . . well, why aren't you dating? It would certainly make things considerably easier for the rest of us!”

Chapter Text

“Hey, it actually looks like something.”

Marianne narrowed her purple-shadowed eyes at her sister over her dust-mask. “Dawn, we have had this discussion before. The list of top ten things never to say to an abstract artist? Remember?”

“Okay, okay,” Dawn breezed lightly around their work area on her tiptoes, trying to get a look at the sculpture from all possible angles, “But I think it's worth mentioning when Bog's sculpture has some literal meaning, not just a commentary on human nature or an embodiment of emotion. And by emotion I mean anger.”

“No, just slightly peeved right now, thank you, princess.” Bog said, muffled behind his mask, reaching inside the sculpture to sand off the rough edges, sleeves rolled up to keep from snagging on the wood, the floral patterns decorating his arms lightly obscured by a layer of sawdust.

“Will you be peeved if I say your sculpture looks like a castle? Because it does. It's like somewhere fairies would live.” She tilted her head to admire the two wooden pieces, one about six feet tall, the other about three feet and set in front of the taller piece. They had begun life as large square chunks of wood and over the past few months Bog had hollowed them out and shaped them into forms that resembled hollow tree stumps, carefully carving the texture of bark onto the outside. Now he and Marianne were smoothing out splinters in preparation for staining the wood and sawdust was sprinkled over their clothes and in their hair to evidence their efforts.

“Probably more like goblins.” Marianne said, “Especially once we stain it dark and put it on its base.” The base was finished and sitting in the corner, a construction of wood covered with wire and paper mâché so that it looked like mossy roots. “I can't wait to read your artist statement on this one.”

“Plum will adore it.” Bog agreed, “Turning a perfectly good piece of a tree into the semblance of a rotten log. I bet I can spew at least six pages about some commentary on overconsumption in America, or artificial vs natural. What do you think of “Ravaged Nature” as a title?”

“You should call it “The Goblin Castle.” Dawn suggested.

“It isn't a castle.” Bog replied firmly.

Dawn giggled. “Say “castle” again! Kossel!”

“Go on, get out of here you wee fairy, before I push my castle on top of you!” Bog flapped a sheet of sandpaper at her, “This is a dust-mask area anyway.”

“Okay, I've got to meet Sunny for lunch anyway. Have fun sanding the castle!”

“It isn't a castle! Wait was that--”

“Totally a Princess Bride reference.” Marianne confirmed as Dawn skipped down the stairs. “She actually likes that one. You know, it is a kissing movie after all. Now, say “castle” again.”

“The obsession you two have with my accent is noted and not appreciated.”

“Don't be peevish, then, because it makes your Rs roll.”

“Oh, mercy.” Bog muttered, “Sometimes I wonder if there is anything about me that isn't stuck out at wrong angles. Not only did I have to go through high school head and shoulders above everyone else but I sounded--” He put his hands on his hips and spoke the next words in an exaggerated American accent, “So weird, dude! Are you, like, Irish?”

Marianne cracked a sudden laugh and punched Bog in the arm, “Ah! Don't do that! It's “so weird” when you don't have an accent. We only tease because we like it.”

“Yeah?” Bog was grateful for the mask which hide the blush he could feel lighting up his face. It had only been an offhand remark, but every time Marianne said something positive about him his heart skipped a beat in surprise. It never ceased to amaze him that this beautiful, talented, fiery person actually thought he had good points.

“Um, yeah.” Marianne tucked back her hair, dragging more pale dust against the brown strands. She was starting to look like she was going gray. She coughed behind her mask. “So . . . bet I can use up more sheets of sandpaper than you before this is done.”

“It doesn't count as two if you cut it in half.”

“Agreed.”

“Then you're on. What're the stakes?”

“Loser has to go dress shopping with Dawn.”

“Hah! No way I am losing, tough girl!” He reached to pick up the package of sandpaper. He paused. “Why are there googly eyes on this?” He held it up. The generic handyman on the packaging was now looking upon the world with wide and wobbly eyes.

Marianne glanced off to the side. “No idea.”

It was a Tuesday and there was class the next day and homework due, so Dawn and Sunny thought it would be a great idea to go for a walk. Once they were a fair distance from Dawn and Marianne's apartment it began to rain. Undeterred by this unfortunate turn of events the two ran back, stopping several times to splash and dance in the puddles in the streets.

“We're going to get hit by lightning or catch pneumonia!” Dawn said, not at all serious, her usual puffy hairstyle plastered down over her head.

“Nah, we'll be fine!” Sunny danced around, splashing up waves in the gutter, grabbed Dawn's hands as he broke into song, “I got sunshine on a cloudy day!” Dawn started giggling uncontrollably, even more when Sunny spun her around and she had to duck her head a bit to get under his arm, “When it's cold outside I've got the month of May!”

Dawn twirled out, her wet skirt managing a sodden flair, then spun back to Sunny, pressing her hands flat against his as they danced up onto the sidewalk and out of the way of a still-distant car. “I guess you'd say, what can make me feel this way?”

The car zoomed by, throwing up sheets of water over Sunny and Dawn so that they shrieked in surprise. At the same moment the rain began to pound down harder and the first flicker of lightning lanced overhead. Hand in hand, the two shot down the street toward Dawn's apartment.

“My girl!” Sunny sang, barely heard over the pounding of the rain, “Talkin' 'bout my girl!” Dawn managed, even while running, to smack a kiss on his cheek.

Safely back in the shelter of the apartment Dawn changed into pajamas and Sunny put on the set of sweats he had in his bag for dropping by the gym. Their wet clothing tumbling in the dryer, they settled down on the couch with text books, purportedly to study, but actually doing more snuggling than anything. Dawn had just gotten really comfortable when distant but loud voices became apparent. The front door burst open, letting in a blare of noise as Marianne and Bog walked in, arguing loudly. At least, Marianne was. Bog was mostly just grunting.

“You are the most stubborn human being I have ever had the displeasure of knowing!”

Disagreeing noises from Bog.

Dawn and Sunny peeked over the back of the couch. Whatever the argument was about it didn't seem to be anything life-shattering. Bog was carrying Marianne's paint box and handed it to her after she set some bags of groceries on the counter. He helped her put away the perishables, never once articulating anything more distinct than a growl.

“Are you going home now?” She asked after he threw her a bag of frozen corn and she tossed it into the freezer with uncalled for force.

Agreeing noises.

“We're meeting at four tomorrow, remember? You'll be there, right?”

Vague noises as Bog headed for the door.

“If you don't show up I am coming to your house to personally drag you out of bed! Drive safe!”

“I will!” Bog snarled. The door slammed shut behind him with an almighty bang.

Marianne began viciously emptying the other grocery bags and was just picking up a box of cereal when Dawn said, “Have you tried kissing him?”

Marianne screamed and threw the box of cereal at Dawn. It missed, flew over Dawn's head, and knocked some magazines off the coffee table. Marianne stared at Dawn for a moment before folding her arms on the counter and laying her head down. “I didn't know you two were there.”

“Obviously.” Sunny said, looking at the impromptu projectile that had skimmed over his head.

“What are you two doing, hiding back there?” Marianne looked up at the two of them leaning on the back of the couch, Sunny's hair for once not defying the laws of gravity and hanging damply over his ears.

“Smooching, mostly.” Dawn said cheerfully.

Marianne groaned and laid her head down again.

“What're you guys fighting about now?” Sunny asked, “Did he borrow your paintbrushes to varnish his stuff again?”

“We're not fighting.”

“Marianne, we were right here.”

“It's fine.” Marianne got up and resumed unpacking bags. “Side note, Dawn, but Bog lost a bet and he'll be taking you shopping.”

“Yay! Then I can look for Sunny's Christmas gift!”

“For me?” Sunny gasped in mock astonishment.

“For you!” Dawn tapped his nose. “But, really, Marianne, is everything okay? Bog is grumbly but he doesn't usually growl quite that much.”

“There's just been a . . . difference of opinion.”

“Mariaaaaane.” Dawn and Sunny said together, “Talk to us!”

“I've just been,” Marianne turned a jar of peanut butter around in her hands, “I've just been trying to get Bog to see somebody about his depression. He's been having a bad week and . . . and now I've made it all worse by picking a fight.” The jar was slammed down into a cupboard with enough force to rattle the dishes on the shelf above. “I'm such an idiot.”

“Aw, you're just worried about him.”

“I'm furious with him!” A package of paper plates was thrown onto the counter so hard the edge got flattened.

“Marianne, please don't hurt the kitchen, we'll lose our deposit.”

“Hmph. And don't think I didn't hear that crack about kissing him right before I pitched the cereal at you! My life is not a romantic comedy for your entertainment!”

“Maybe it's not for our entertainment, but it's still totally a romantic comedy.” Sunny ducked behind the couch when the dented package of paper plates spun across the room and straight on for his head. From the safety of the floor he called, “The louder your denials the deeper your love!”

Marianne made noises something akin to those of a cat being simultaneously stepped on and drowned, rummaging in the bags for the last bits of the shopping. She paused when she made eye contact with an inanimate object. The entire bunch of bananas was staring at her with googly eyes and someone had taken the time to draw tiny frowns on all of them with a marker.

3:14 AM

Marianne's last glance at the clock told her time had crept forward about three minutes since last she checked. Three in the morning. That was the worst time there was. She had spent many a long, dark 3 AM huddled under her blankets thinking about things she didn't want to. It was the time of night your mind relaxed and opened up. Things trapped during waking hours were allowed freedom in the darkness, like the name of that one actor from that movie you couldn't come up with. Everything that lurked beneath the surface came to the front, especially the darker thoughts she had been trying to ignore. When Marianne was a little girl it had been the hour of monsters, lurking under her bed and in the closet and so she had sometimes slept with a baseball bat for protection. With the passage of time the monsters had faded away only to be replaced by worse hauntings that could not be dispelled by mere blunt force.

Over and over in her head she replays the conversation she had with Griselda, the bits and pieces that Bog had been willing to talk about. And she could find nowhere an explicit statement to confirm her fears, but there seemed to be implications of it woven throughout. Punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape she chided herself for conjuring up phantom fears. He would have told her. Griselda would have mentioned it.

Wouldn’t they?

Or was it still too tender a point, too raw to bring up? Was it something Bog was ashamed of? As if she would think him weaker for it? And the idea that he would made too much sense in Marianne’s mind.

The possibility of his depression getting bad enough that … her mind shied away from clearly articulating the idea. There was no reason to think that anything like that had ever happened, ever come close to happening.

But what if it had?

One horrible little thought struck her squarely in the heart when she wasn’t looking. It hit her dead center and crumbled all her defenses, brushed away any pretense of trying to sleep and ignoring the unwanted ponderings:

They never would have met.

Somehow this was more horrifying than losing him. There was a stubborn belief inside herself that here and now she could help him, keep him with her, but the idea that in some past time Bog had been alone, that she hadn’t been there to tell him he mattered, to pull him back … that his life would have ended and she would have never met him, never even known that he had lived and died.

Marianne’s hand flashed out from under the covers and grabbed her phone. It took her three tries to unlock her phone and hit speed dial. She heard the ringing on the other end before she even realized she might be disturbing Bog’s sleep, that he had enough trouble with his insomnia as it was. Too late to call it off, he had picked up:

“Why are y'calling at an ungodly hour like this?” Bog grumbled and the sound of his irritated voice sent a wave of relief washing over Marianne, the tightness in her chest dissipating. He was there, he was okay, even at 3 AM in the morning when all the monsters were on the prowl.

She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Pirates vs Ninjas.”

“What?”

“Pirates vs ninjas, who would win? I realized I don’t know where you stand on this important issue and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“And if you couldn’t sleep then you thought you might as well have company?”

“Yup, Enlighten me on your position. Your answer will factor in determining if I want to continue our association.”

“Oh, well, if it’s important.”

“You have no idea.” Marianne said, her tone heartfelt.

Bog did not mention their argument of the evening before. Marianne didn't either. Instead Bog said, “I'd have to think pirates, ninjas are assassins, not warriors.”

“Yeah, but in the 1500s I heard about this monastery on the coast of China that fought off a pirate attack, so technically history states that ninjas beat pirates.”

“But were they actually ninjas? Or general martial artists? We've got to pin down exact definitions if we want to be clear.”

And they talked about pirates, ninjas, and all manner of things until Marianne's eyes were closed and she was not technically asleep, but she wasn't actually awake either. Bog, more used to odd hours, was wide awake now and beginning to have a suspicion about what might have compelled Marianne to call him up in the middle of the night for random arguments. And he was feeling slightly guilty about it.

After a long pause he asked, “Still, there, tough girl?”

“Mm. Ninjas . . . win every time . . .”

“You don't have to worry about me, you know.”

“Who said I was worried? I bring up important questions and you try to deflect with stuff about worrying. Who's worried about you? Stupid, lanky idiot.”

“Well, then, just take a note for future reference. If you ever feel inclined to worry about me, don't.”

“As if.”

“Really, I'm not going anywhere. Marianne?” There was no response except for faint breathing. She had fallen asleep. “Good night, Mari.”

He hung up.

“I will die here.” Bog moaned outside the dressing room door where he sat in a chair that was furbished in a pattern that would look at home on an airport waiting room floor. “Do you know what an inconvenience it will be to the staff? Having to drag a corpse of my size out of their changing area?”

“Consider it performance art. “Pine Tree Outside His Comfort Zone.” Dawn laughed from inside the dressing room.

“You do know that I don't actually like performance art, yes? Driveling waste of time and effort. Can't you just call me to pick you up when you're done?”

“No, I need opinions! Marianne has class and Sunny has work, and I want to shop for his Christmas gift, so you're all I've got right now. And your guys' show is next month and I want to look nice for it.”

“You always look . . . nice.”

“Aw, thank you, Boggy.”

“Bog. It is a mysterious thing how you show up for eight o'clock classes looking so disgustingly cheerful and tidy.” Bog slumped lower in his seat, leather jacket crumpling up behind him. “That employee just walked by for the third time pretending not to stare at me. How much longer is this going to be?”

“Firstly,” Dawn came out in a frilly green dress which looked nearly identical in Bog's eyes to the frilly green dress she had tried on three dresses back. “The secret to a good mood is less coffee and more sleep. I think that if you and Marianne actually got eight hours of sleep at night you wouldn't be such dreary cynics. Secondly, who wouldn't stare at you when you look like you're planning dark and devious things. Try smiling!”

Bog bared his teeth.

“Thirdly, do you think this is my color?” She twirled.

“Outside of earth tones I don't deal with colors.”

“Boggy!”

“If I say it's your color can we leave?”

“You have to mean it.”

“Dawn.” Bog dragged his hands down his face, “Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Better than the fifty-odd ones you just tried on?”

“Yes, actually. This one has more swish.” Dawn swiveled side-to-side to demonstrate the “swish” of the skirt. “And it's got pockets.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Oh, Bog, ask Marianne that sometime. She has a whole spiel on the lack of pockets in women's clothing that I can't do justice.”

Dawn disappeared into the changing room, “Maybe try on just ooone more!” Bog closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reminding himself that he actually did like Dawn and would miss her if he killed her in a fit of rage. He pulled out his phone but he still wasn't getting reception inside the store so he couldn't even send Marianne death threats for putting him in this situation. And he had just found a set of googly eyes stuck on the back of his cellphone case. He rattled the phone a little to watch the pupils of the eyes spin.

“Your little sister?”

“Hm?” Bog looked up and found that the store associate that had walked by several times was now standing right by him. She didn't look like she was about to politely but firmly ask him to leave, but what else would she want? “Friend, actually.”

“Girlfriend?” The associate asked.

“Mercy.” Bog muttered, “That sounds exhausting. No, that honor goes to another man. A man with a higher tolerance for a relentlessly cheerful disposition.”

The associate laughed. “Yeah, I hear that. I've got a friend who's a morning person and she thinks texting me at six in the morning is perfectly reasonable thing to do.”

“Ah, well,” Bog shrugged, thinking of Marianne's inexplicable early morning calls, of which there had been several at this point, “Sometimes it is, I suppose.”

Those calls had been worrying at him a bit. If it were anyone else he would have been angry at the inanity of her calls. Pirates vs ninjas one night, who was the best captain of the Enterprise the next. Something was bothering her, but she wasn't going to say it straight out. Neither of them ever did. Not with the big things. He wouldn't ask. Not yet. Even if he was pretty sure he knew the answer already. Since their one big argument she hadn't said another word to urge him to see a doctor, but . . .

The associate had been talking but Bog hadn't really been paying attention. Half his mind on Marianne, the other half wondering when Dawn would be finished. He managed to respond politely enough and eventually the woman left without even trying to kick him out of the store.

Dawn emerged from the dressing room a minute after that, pink with suppressed excitement.

“What?” Bog asked, gathering up her bags. She hadn't actually asked him to carry anything but he was anyway. The gaunt and looming man made his way out of the women's clothing section with half a dozen shopping bags on each arm and a tiny blonde girl in a tinsel-covered Christmas sweater skipping along in front of him. “You don't need shoes do you?”

“Nooo—though they are having a sale.”

“Nooo—we're checking out now.”

Dawn danced around to look up at Bog. The girl never walked if she could skip or dance instead. “I heard that lady flirting with you.”

“Uh, what?”

“And you totally turned her down because you already like Marianne!”

“I'm not even going to bother to deny the obvious things here. But why would it delight you so much that I didn't flirt with someone? As if she even was flirting. Look at me, Dawn, people do not flirt with me.”

“Maybe you just never noticed.”

“Why would anyone flirt with me?”

“Because when you're wearing your leather jacket you look like you have a dark and mysterious past. Possibly a motorcycle. And you can't tell me that nobody has ever ever flirted with you!”

“Not lately, at any rate.”

“Anyway, I was thinking about Roland. When he and Marianne were dating he'd chat up every girl he came across and would say he was just being polite. You actually were polite but you didn't even think of flirting. It just reminds me of why I like you, is all.”

“Very flattering, but I'm still not dating your sister.”

“That's what you think. Now I just need to find a new hair clip and then we can look for Sunny's gift! Boggy, are you grinding your teeth?”

“It's that or throwing back my head and screaming.”

“Oooh, look, Christmas stuff! I haven't even started my Christmas shopping yet.”

“And you're not starting it today, if you please.”

“Have you thought about what you're getting Marianne?”

“Five minutes peace.”

“C'mon, Boggy, don't be sour!” Dawn began to pick through Christmas ornaments, honing in particularly on glitter covered ones. “I know you're going to get her something.”

“That means nothing. I'm going to get you something, too.”

“Aw!”

“Don't you “aw” at me, with the eyes and everything.” Bog rolled his own eyes.

“But what are you getting Marianne?”

Bog shrugged one shoulder. “Haven't been shopping yet.”

“It had better be purple or red! Those are her favorite colors! I can tell you the brands of soaps and perfumes she likes and--”

“Please stop.”

“Unless you've figured out what you're getting her?”

“I know I'm getting you a muzzle.”

“Don't be such a Grinch!” Dawn picked up a snowflake ornament and hung it on Bog's nose, stepping back to giggle and admire the effect. His hands were full of bags so all he could do was look at her despairingly. She took it off again. “Aw, you look too cute when you're sad.”

“Why am I friends with you?”

“Because you're in love with my sister.”

“Can we go for just one hour, one hour, without having this argument?”

“You're blushing!”

“I'm angry!”

“But what have you thought about getting her?”

With a defeated sigh, Bog shrugged, “I was thinking of a tool kit so she won't keep stealing mine.”

“What a terrible gift to give to your girlfriend!”

“She's not my girlfriend!”

“Not with that attitude, mister! And you'll share all that sort of stuff when you're married, so there's no point in having duplicates. Oh, you're grinding your teeth again!”

“Oooh, what about this?” Dawn spotted the a rack of hair-clips and pattered over to snatch up one with a butterfly design. Resigned to his fate, Bog followed her and piled the bags on a bench. This left him no place to sit so he wandered vaguely after Dawn while she darted to and fro among the racks. Idly he spun a carousal of key-chains,

“Marianne always needs headbands and stuff!” Dawn said encouragingly.

“I am not shopping, I am waiting for you.”

“Look, this one has ladybugs on it!” Dawn held up a hair clip, “And it's on sale, so that means I could get two. Oooh, this one's sparkly!”

Bog trailed in her wake, marveling at how many hair accessories there were. Stalking through the brightly colored aisles like a gray scarecrow he noticed a spot of darker color amid all the garish hues assaulting his eyes. He picked it up.

“Get it for her!” The soft whisper from about the level of his elbow made Bog jump and scrambled backwards. He narrowly avoided falling right into the racks and he dropped the item he was holding.

“Plum?” He gasped, looking down at the tiny art teacher. She giggled and shrugged her shoulders coyly. She was wearing a blue Christmas sweater with silver stars all over it. Not even Thanksgiving, Bog thought, and everybody was already wearing Christmas sweaters. “What in the blazes--?”

“So, where's your other half at, then?” Aura Plum looked eagerly around.

“Marianne isn't here. What are you—why are you laughing?”

“You knew who I meant! You two are so married.” She threw out of hands in a gesture to indicate indisputableness of this statement. “And you have to buy that for her.”

“For who?”

“Oh, don't play shy now, mister!”

“I'm not—why are you even here? Why are you bothering me?”

“Can't a teacher talk to her student when she bumps into him at the mall in a complete coincidence? Incidentally, if you don't hand in those artist statements by the end of the week I'm going to have to flunk you. And you still need to attend at least one critique.”

“Are you stalking me to remind me of my homework?”

“I bumped into you, Mr. King! By total accident. Just two people shopping for the dips and dabs of holiday cheer required for the season. Gotta get all those stocking stuffers, am I right?”

Bog grunted, unconvinced.

“Hi, Aura!” Dawn popped up, “I guess you saw my facebook status about the sale here?”

Bog looked sharply at the art teacher. She smiled a little nervously. “Total coincidence!”

“Did you,” Bog asked Dawn, “Mention I was taking you shopping?”

“Yeah . . .” Dawn and Bog looked at Plum.

“Hehe, well, must be off!” Plum laughed, a bit too shrilly.

Bog's phone rang. It was still cranked up from his alarm and he hadn't adjusted the settings since, so the lyrics were clearly heard: “Loathing! Unadulterated loathing!”

“Oooh, Wicked!” Plum enthused, “I adore that musical! I had no idea you were a fellow fan.”

“Never seen it.” Bog said shortly, glancing at the phone's screen before terminating the call. “Now go stalk someone else.”

“Marianne really isn't here, Aura.” Dawn said.

“I'm just here for the sale!” Plum insisted, darting into the clothing racks and disappearing from view. Her voice floated out from among hair accessories and clothes hangers, “You'd better buy that for her!”

Once Dawn was pried out of the accessory section—now the proud owner of a ladybug key chain and a hair clip with butterflies on it—they went over to the food court. Dawn was dragging Bog by the hand and declaring she needed a taco or she would die.

“You're really too sweet, Boggy.” Dawn said after they sat down with their food, watching him fidget with the small shopping bag that comprised the entirety of his purchases for the day.

“Shut up. Do you really think . . . don't you think she'll find it a bit . . . cute?” Bog winced at the word and the idea of bringing up in association with Marianne or any gift he might give her. Certainly, he often found her cute, but he would be hanged if he said that out loud or admitted it in any way. Marianne would probably do the hanging herself.

“Hmph! Marianne may hate on cute, but if you get the right brand of cute she loves it.” Dawn giggled, “Like you, Boggy.”

“Like me, what?”

“You're the right brand of cute for Marianne.”

“. . . what.”

“Okay, okay, avoid that four-letter-work, I know. You're the right sort of . . . different . . . for Marianne.”

“If you mean I'm weird and strange looking . . .”

“Don't be so mean to yourself! And I wasn't talking about how you looked—not just anyway—just you in general. Though you do have pretty eyes. You've been exactly the person she needed in her life.”

“I'm not really following, Dawn.”

“Well, I guess it's hard for you to understand, you didn't know her before.” Dawn squeaked her straw up and down in the lid of her cup, “Before the car accident she was really happy. She used to be almost as huggy as me!”

“Heaven forfend.”

“Hee! Afterward she was so sad. And angry. But she tried her best to please dad and she sort of buried it all. Then there was Roland . . .” A wrinkled formed between Dawn's eyebrows, “And I thought she was happy again. But she wasn't, not really, not even before we found out what a skeevy jerk he is. When that all fell apart Marianne sort of . . . exploded.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak, went the straw. Dawn looked strangely faded when deprived of her usual vibrant cheerfulness.

“She left, you know. She dropped out of her business course and just left. It was only a couple of weeks, but she didn't tell us where she was, just sent a couple messages to tell us she was okay . . . And she was angry. She didn't try to hide it anymore and she didn't trust anybody. Not even me. And she never hugged me. Then she met you!” Dawn perked up, “Poof! You appeared in a cloud of glitter!”

“Oh, don't remind me! I had to go to work looking like that, you know.”

“Marianne hasn't been angry since she met you, Bog. She's been happy. She talks to me about things again. You make her feel safe.”

“She can take care of herself.”

“Of course she can. But you make her feel safe. You've got her back. You like her, you don't try and change her. Like Roland. She can throw glitter at you and argue about movies and she doesn't have to worry you'll get really mad or tell her she should grow up. Or calm down. That was what got Roland punched the first time, when he told her to calm down.”

The thought made Bog smile. That curly-headed idiot really hadn't the first idea who Marianne really was. He felt uncomfortable with Dawn's high estimation of him. He liked Marianne—a lot—and they got on well together. It didn't feel like he was doing anything particularly praiseworthy. “I'm just . . . Marianne is my friend. She's amazing and she puts up with me.”

“If “puts up with” means “madly in love”, then you are quite correct.”

Bog rolled his head back and sighed at the ceiling, too tired to even contradict.

“Sorry, Boggy. Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Oh, I like you alright, Dawn.”

“Really? You don't just put up with me?”

“Of course I do. You're a shrill wee fairy who glows too bright for my tired eyes to stand. But I guess I don't . . .” He rolled one shoulder and glanced off to the side, “I don't hate it.”

Dawn squealed and leaned across the table to throw her arms around Bog's neck. “I like you too, Boggy!”

“Angels and saints alone know why.” He muttered, patting her shoulder.

“Hold still.”

“Why?” Bog turned around, for the moment free of bags, having stopped by the car after lunch to deposit Dawn's accumulation of material goods before heading off to look for Sunny's Christmas gift.

“So I can measure this on you.” Dawn held up a horrifying Christmas sweater. There were candy canes on it.

“Uh, no.” He crossed his arms and stood up straight so it was harder for her to hold the shirt up to his shoulders.

“You don't know it's for you!”

“Dawn, do you know a solitary other human being of my particular dimensions?”

“ . . . maybe?”

“Didn't think so.”

“Aw, Boggy, I just want to give you something nice.”

“You're doing that thing with the eyes again. Knock it off.”

Dawn widened her eyes further and looked imploringly up at him. “But you're the only one who doesn't have a Christmas sweater. I got one for everybody else.”

“Thank you, Dawn, but no. Anyway, none of them would even fit me. If you buy one broad enough for my shoulders and long enough for my arms it's too baggy everywhere else.”

“Hmph.” Dawn screwed her face up with determination and pulled one of the garish sweaters off the rack and measured it against Bog. As he said, it didn't fit his odd proportions at all. But Dawn laid the article over her arm and stuck her nose in the air. “Not for you. It couldn't possibly be for you, it's the wrong size.”

“If you say so.” Bog said.

“I do say so! So there.”

“So there indeed. But if you're going to insist on getting me that, green is a degree better than that fire engine red.”

Dawn looked at him with narrowed eyes. Carefully she hung the sweater back in its place and snatched off a green one of the same size and hugged it possessively. “It isn't for you! Now help me find Sunny's gift!”

She marched off, Bog chuckling as he followed.

When Marianne opened the front door of the apartment late that afternoon she found Bog standing there laden with shopping bags and carrying Dawn piggy-back. “Hiiii, Marianne.” Dawn said sleepily, her arms around the neck of the acutely uncomfortable looking Bog. Marianne suppressed a giggle as she opened the door wider to allow them entrance.

“Apparently she is not a perpetual motion machine after all.” Bog remarked, sidling carefully through the door so he didn't bump Dawn or the bags into the door frame. “Took you long enough to open up. What, were you in Australia?”

“Had to get the paint off my hands. Did you wear yourself out again, Dawn?” Marianne asked, reaching up to ruffle her sister's short blonde hair.

“She had ice-cream, danced around on the edge of a fountain and then collapsed on a bench. Where do you want these?” Bog indicated the shopping bags.

“Follow me, let's put her to bed. The bags? Just drop 'em.”

“Gladly.” Bog released the bags without further ado and they heaped up by the sofa, tipping over and contents half-spilling out. He followed Marianne down the hall, arms still looped around Dawn's legs as he tried to keep her from sliding off. “It's a good thing she weighs nothing at all, considering you live on the third floor and the elevator is out again.”

“A kid threw up in it.”

“Lovely.”

Marianne pulled back the pink comforter on Dawn's bed. “C'mon, you.” Marianne tugged on her sister, “Let go.”

“'Kay.” Dawn slithered down and sat sleepily on the edge of the bed. Marianne tugged off her shoes and Dawn snuggled happily under the covers. “Thaaaanks, Boggy.”

“Bog.” He muttered, pulling up the covers over her before leaving the room and shutting the door carefully behind them.

“You didn't manage to get the paint off everything else.” Bog remarked, noting the streak of steel-gray on Marianne's cheek, and a splattering of cobalt blue decorating her hair and shirt.

“I don't open doors with my face, so I thought I wouldn't keep you waiting any longer than I had to. Have fun?”

Bog covered his face and made incoherent noises.

“That good, huh?”

“My revenge will be swift and devastating, mark my words.”

“Terrifying.” Marianne went to the bathroom to scrub the paint off her face while Bog leaned in the doorway. “I'll be sure to sleep with my baseball bat by the end of the bed.”

“Somehow I expected heavier weaponry.”

“A paintball gun isn't damaging enough and using my sword is too extreme.”

“You have a sword?”

“Mmhm. Museum replica, real nifty. Sweet sixteen birthday gift.”

“Sounds right.” Bog nodded after a moment of consideration.

“What's with the dark and mysterious leather jacket?”

“My other one is in the wash. I've been informed that this one makes me look like I own a motorcycle.”

“Definitely. Are those metal spikes on your shoulders?” She reached up to run a finger across his shoulder, “Oh, they are. Very dangerous. I like it.”

“Gah. I knew digging this thing out of the closet was a mistake. I'll re-inter it posthaste.”

“Don't you dare!” Marianne scrubbed at the stains on her cheek. “I tease because I approve. You look good in it. Comfortable but menacing.”

“What does that even--” Bog's phone rang:

“I loathe it all! Every little trait, however small--”

“Is that Wicked?” Marianne asked. “Who is it? You don't usually have ringtones.”

“Just this weirdo wrong number.” Bog muttered, letting it go to voice-mail.

“Have I got all of it?” Marianne turned her head back and forth, trying to see if there was any paint left behind her ears.

Bog shook his head. “You never do.” Marianne held up her damp hand towel and Bog took it. “What are you working on, anyway?” He asked, scrubbing gray-green away from the back of her neck. “It's all in your hair! Somebody ought to make your wear a shower cap!”

“Trying something new. I'll let you see it if it works out. And there may have been a fly and I tried to smack it off my hair while my hands were still covered in paint.”

“Hm, by the way, your sister has been giving me suggestions on what to get you for Christmas.”

“Believe nothing she tells you.”

“I now know an assortment of interesting details. Such as your until now unmentioned love for perfumes that smell like food. I would mock you, but I'm still stuck on the fact that they make that sort of thing at all.”

“Yup. Cucumber melon. Blackberry vanilla. Pomegranate mango.”

“. . . I'm hungry. Anyway, she also mentioned your fairy princess phase.”

In the mirror Bog could see Marianne's eyes widen noticeably. “She didn't.”

“She did.”

“She's dead. I'm gonna kill her.” Marianne tried to leave the bathroom but Bog put out an arm and barred the way, a slight but evil smile on his face.

“Three Halloweens in a row, she said, you insisted on being a fairy princess. With the wings and the sparkly magic wand . . .”

“You're dead too, big guy! There will be a pile of corpses by the end of the day and I will stand on top of them in victory!”

“You in your pretty little pink and purple dress, telling everyone you were a princess . . .” Marianne tried to duck under his arm but he moved and stood blocking the doorway, “Waving your magic wand and granting people wishes . . .”

“Did Dawn bother to mention the sword? That I was a warrior fairy princess? And that I broke it over our next-door-neighbor's head after he tore my wings? Give me five minutes to find a piece of wood and we'll do a reenactment! Get your bony carcass out of my way!”

Bog just mirrored her movements, keeping her from exiting the bathroom, a huge grin on his face. “You would only eat pixie sticks because it was fairy food.”

“Daisies.” Marianne hissed, abandoning her efforts to escape, standing there in her bare feet with her arms crossed.

“Daisies?” Bog was thrown by this apparent non sequitur.

“You. Seven years old. School play.” Marianne emphasized her words by sharply jabbing her finger at Bog's face.

“No . . .” Realization began to dawn and Bog's heart sank.

“Green spandex really showed off your knobbly little knees. You made an adorable little daisy, with your tissue paper and cardboard halo of petals.”

“No, no, no . . .”

“Griselda showed me pictures.”

Bog covered his face in one large hand.

“She says she's got video of you singing “You are my Sunshine”, and that if I ever wanted to see it . . .”

“Why do you always bring nukes to a paintball fight?” Bog groaned.

“You brought up costumes!”

“You were probably cute! I was an unnatural abomination built entirely out of knees!”

“So, hey, guys.” Sunny peeked down the hallway, giving a hesitant little wave, “I knocked but no one answers and I could hear you two shouting so I let myself in. Is it safe to come in or are you gonna start throwing things soon?”

“Bog was just preventing me from killing Dawn.”

“Oh, well, thanks, man. I appreciate you contributing to the continued existence of the woman I love. And I ask this question not out of worry, but, where is she?”

“The little traitor is down for a nap.” Marianne huffed, trying to get by again, but Bog's arm shot out again and stopped her, “Go enjoy her last few minutes on this mortal plane.”

When Sunny opened the door and said, “Hey, Dawn!” Dawn sleepily asked, “I don't suppose they're shouting declarations of love out there, are they?”

“No more than usual.” Sunny replied before the door closed behind him.

Marianne took the opening to slap the wet hand towel over Bog's face and escape into the living room while he was still blinded. “Sheesh, all these bags!” She opened one at random, “How many dresses did she buy?”

“Not quite enough to kill me. And don't think we're through talking about this daisy business.”

“Don't get your petals ruffled, I won't tell anyone unless you cross me. Did she buy anything for me? I don't want to look through the bags if it ruins her Christmas surprise.”

“No, you're safe—except for that one!” Bog snatched a small bag before Marianne could open it. “I, ah, actually this one is mine.”

“Oh?” Marianne turned with an unholy gleam in her eye, “For me?”

“No.”

“Not for me?”

“Not for you to look at!” He held it up in the air when she made a sudden grab.

“What is it? What is it? It's small, it can't be tools—unless you got me a box of thumb tacks.”

“Get down! Your sister's secrets are sacred, but you can't wait for Christmas to see what I got you?”

“You won't cry if I spoil the surprise.”

“Oh, leave off!” Bog said it a little more harshly than he had intended it.

In the brief silence that followed Bog lowered his hand and crinkled the plastic bag between his fingers, unsure of what to say. It hadn't really been anything different from their usual banter, but he knew his tone meant more than anything he had actually said. Sometimes his patience with . . . with living just ran out and he just wanted to disconnect, let everything stop. And it wasn't fair to Marianne, because he had been bickering the same as they always did, pretending all was as usual. Then he went and snapped at her like she had crossed some sort of line.

“That . . . that came out wrong.”

Marianne resisted the urge to say something sarcastic. She was so mad! Mad at herself for bothering Bog when he was having one of his gray days. She could kick herself. She could see an apology hovering on the tip of Bog's tongue so she beat him to the punch, “I'm sorry, Bog.”

He looked at her in bewilderment. “What for?”

“For ragging on you when you're having a bad day.” She turned away and began shoveling the bags into a more compact pile, “I guess if Dawn's down for the count that means I'm making dinner. By making I mean microwaving, that is.”

“Um . . . sorry I snapped. I'm just tired.” Marianne shot him a look as she headed into the kitchen, “Honestly.”

“Do you even know the difference anymore? Between tired and depressed?”

Bog had settled down on a barstool at the counter that cut the kitchen off from the living room. Marianne leaned on the other side of it so they were face to face.

He leaned back a little from her intent gaze. “Of course--”

“I can.”

“What?”

“I can tell the difference. Some days you just kind of . . . stop. If you're not doing something you just kind of float away. Detach. I don't know. I'm only seeing it from the outside.”

“Look,” He said, not meeting her eyes, which were so full of unspoken concern, “That's just how it is with me, alright? I have good days, and I have bad days. I get through them and try not to make a fuss about it.”

“I kind of wish you would.”

“Mm?”

“Fuss. Talk about it. I keep telling you: you're worth my time. You ridiculous stick insect.”

“It was a dark day for me when they cast Peter Capaldi as the Doctor.” Bog muttered.

“You're lucky they did, or I'd just call you Amy Pond. Now stay on topic!” Marianne tried to punch his arm but he caught her fist. He took it in both of his and gently uncurled her fingers as he kept talking, “I'm fine. No need for anyone to fuss.”

“I'm not fussing. I don't fuss. A less fussy person you'll never meet. I am, however, concerned.” She was getting slightly distracted by the way Bog was holding her hand, knowing it would be more in-character if she pulled away, but hesitating to do so.

“I've been nothing like as bad as that one spell--”

Bog's phone rang and he gave a little start of surprise, letting go of Marianne's hand in the process. “Every little trait, however small, makes my very flesh begin to crawl!”

“That is Wicked. Dawn's made me sit through it enough times that I can recognize it. Who is calling you, Bog? You look like you swallowed something horribly slimy every time you hear that ringtone.”

“Nothing.”

“Liar. Gimme!” She snatched the phone.

“Hey!” Bog leaned across the counter, but even his long arms couldn't reach Marianne when she retreated to the other side of the kitchen and hopped up to sit on the counter by the coffee maker.

“This is a picture of Nux from the new Mad Max movie?” Marianne frowned. Bog laid his head on the counter and groaned. She checked the recent history. “Why has someone been sending you pictures of Nux? All of them captioned, “Look it u!”, Bog?”

“Because apparently we both have blue eyes and deathly pale skin. Have you ever,” Bog turned his head sideways so that he was staring at a roll of paper towels, “Have you ever known someone you absolutely just can't stand? Not even hate, just when you see them this dull dread and overwhelming wave of nausea sweeps over you.”

“Like Plum?”

“A bit, I suppose. Only worse.”

“Who is—ha!” Marianne gave a shout of laughter as her search revealed a selfie of a man, apparently the mystery texter, “He's dressed as Furiosa! He's actually got a prosthetic arm!”

“Yeah.”

“Hey . . .” Marianne peered at the screen, trying to get a good look at the cosplayer behind his black makeup, “This dude has your nose!”

“He has his own nose.”

“Bog, do you have an evil, one-armed twin?”

“What I have is a cousin who thinks he's funny!”

“One of your mythical relations from the foggy yet beautiful Highlands?”

“Sort of. His father was from the Highlands, but they moved to England to live with his mother's side of the family. Now he's in America and wants to pick up where he left off: making my life misery.”

“Didn't get on?”

Bog covered his face and growled. “He pushed me down a well once.”

“Seriously?”

“He thought it was funny.”

“Please tell me your revenge was swift and terrible.”

“Well, I climbed up and grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him down. But he couldn't get out so we had to call our parents. I was in disgrace for the rest of the summer.”

“Ouch. The wrath of Griselda.”

Bog pulled himself off the counter and cracked his neck as he worked out the stiffness in his spine. “Speaking of, I promised to check why her car is making that funny noise.”

“Message received.” Marianne tossed him his phone and slid off the counter. “You gotta tell me more about this cousin who thinks he's funny.”

“I'd rather not.”

“Anyhow, tell him from me that if you're anybody you're Max, not Nux. You've got the grunting down to a fine art.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Furiosa, of course! Together we can be post-apocalyptic best friends tearing across the desert in a blaze of gunfire.”

Standing, Bog checked his pocket for his small purchase and car keys before heading to the door. He came up short, his sleeve caught. He glanced down and found Marianne's fingers had snagged his cuff.

“Um.” She said, “A question and a question. Can I give you a hug? And before you answer that! Do you actually want a hug? Or would you rather not? Don't be polite or I'll find a well to drop you into.”

Bog laughed, that soft, involuntary breath of amusement he gave sometimes. “Ah . . . no. I'd rather not . . . right now.” After the day's excursion, and dealing with both Plum and Dawn, he really needed to get away and catch his breath. He felt a rush of gratitude over the thought that he could say no and Marianne knew not to take offense.

And she didn't. “Okay. Fine. No problem.” She punched his arm. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Marianne watched him go down the hall and toward the stairs. She hated seeing him leave. Especially when he was feeling down. It felt like she was failing him somehow. And it scared her. Like if she let him out of her sight he would be alone and unprotected. That this would be the last glimpse she saw of him.

She closed the door, locked it, and slid down to sit on the floor. Don't freak out. Don't freak out. He'll be there tomorrow. He'll be there every day. Stop being so weak! You're tough! You're his tough girl and you can't let him down.

Marianne rested her chin on her knees, which put her at the right angle to see that the plastic potted plant by the door had googly eyes on nearly all its leaves.

“Okay, that's one research paper on Impressionism done.” Marianne triumphantly held up the flashdrive containing her fifteen page paper.

“How many paragraph long quotes did you stick in there to stretch it out?”

“A shameless amount. But I cited all my sources so they can't fault me. What did I have to do next? I know there was something else . . .” Marianne shuffled through the handouts littering the table. It was after hours in the studio and the four of them were taking advantage of the space to spread out and cram their last minute projects so they wouldn't have to do them over Thanksgiving.

Bog, disgustingly organized, had finished his papers and projects in a punctual manner and was gluing and clamping pieces of a sculpture together while the rest of them slaved over their laptops. Currently, Sunny was taking a five minute break and standing on his head in order to “get a fresh perspective on things.”

“Oh, yeah,” Marianne retrieved a paper and squinted at it, “All I've got left is the artist's statement for Plum's class.”

Bog dropped a clamp and growled something under his breath.

A wicked smile spread over Marianne's tired features. “You forgot to do yours, didn't you?”

Bog planted his face on the table and pulled at his hair.

“Last one of the semester aside from revisions, non-negotiable.”

Bog made pained noises into the surface of the table, sharp elbows sticking out on either side of him.

Marianne snapped a brisk salute. “Welcome to the trenches, soldier.”

“One of us, one of us!” Dawn and Sunny chanted.

“Quit your whining, private, and get cracking!” Marianne picked up her laptop and took it over to the couch. She patted the cushion beside her, “We can help each other come up with some choice garbage and dress it up to look like something deep and sincere.”

“Into the compost heap, then.” Bog sighed, standing up and shrugging on his hoodie. “It's about our artistic choices in general, yeah? We can start off with our standard order vs chaos angle and work from there.”

“Can we work the line “transcends standard perception” into this?”

Bog threw himself onto the couch, “I'm gonna need a beer to transcend properly.”

“Transcend our own artistic manure. Yours is easy, letting chaos overtake order, nature demolishing the man-made, the artificial. Challenging the viewers' preconceived perceptions by presenting organic looking forms that are completely man-made.”

“Yours,” Bog considered, “Is of course, chaos. But you're making order out of chaos. You don't start with so much a plan as an idea and you allow the idea to lead you in directions that order would never take you. One aspect stolen from a whole and extrapolated, refined, into a new whole.”

“You know what you guys should do?” Sunny said, finally right side up, “You should write each other's statements and see if Plum even notices.”

Bog and Marianne exchanged glances, eyebrows lifted in consideration before nodding their heads in enthusiastic agreement over the idea. Bog grabbed a paintbrush out of the pocket of Marianne's overalls. In a falsetto he said, “I'm Marianne Summers and my favorite shade of eyeshadow is Way Too Much.”

Marianne made a face at him, then brushed her eyebrows so they stuck up in tufts. In as low a voice as she could manage she said, “I'm Bog King and the color wheel makes me nervous. My eyebrows could take bottle caps off.”

“Batman is the greatest superhero ever!” Bog countered.

“I steal paint brushes so I can pretend they're microphones.”

“I just don't feel comfortable without blobs of paint in my hair.”

“Who moved my sandpaper three centimeters to the southwest?”

Sunny and Dawn observed this back and forth for a bit. “They are so drift compatible.” Sunny said. Dawn nodded. 

“Why are all the major family holidays piled up at the end of winter semesters?” Marianne complained. She had a sheet of graphing paper in front of her with the outline of the art gallery drawn on it. Bog had made a stack of copies so they could work on seeing how many pieces would fit in the space. Marianne would have just dragged everything to the gallery and shoved things around until they fit, but Bog said he wasn't going to haul sculptures back and forth more than absolutely necessary.

Papers and artist statements had been finished, Dawn and Sunny trailed off homeward, Bog and Marianne having stayed behind to “just finish one more thing”, which had been several hours ago. Once the artist statements were drafted, they had gotten into a discussion about arrangement of the art pieces in the gallery and had gotten so involved they forgot the time.

“School closes for Fall break, then Thanksgiving, and somehow we have to pull off an art show in the week before finals. Then we have to pack up and head home for Christmas break. Ugh. I'd rather just stay here.”

Bog would have preferred that as well, but he didn't voice the thought. “It's because Plum thrives on our suffering. At least Roland seems to have decided to leave us alone.”

“Do not tempt fate by saying that out loud! I still see him in classes, but he's got these three art students he's hired as bodyguards or something. He gives me charming smiles but so far hasn't talked to me. He's up to something.”

“Bleaching his teeth while he weaves foul plots, no doubt. I just hope he holds off until after the art show. I don't want to bruise my hand on his face when there's so much heavy lifting to be done.”

“Get in line, I have dibs on flattening his nose.”

“You've already gotten to smack him around, don't you think it's time I got a shot?”

“I'm the party who has been most wronged, though. You're just collateral damage. My hate is deep and strong, honed by years of hardship. My claim is stronger.”

“But it's my turn!” Bog whined.

“Okay, listen. Roland may look like a total lightweight but he doesn't go down at the first punch. If a situation comes up I get to flatten his nose but after that it's all fair game, okay?”

“Hm. Fair enough.”

“Good, now let me channel my hate into figuring out how many of your sculptures we can cram in without obscuring all the walls.”

“Oh, I suppose we have to leave a little space for your paintings.”

Marianne threw an kneaded eraser at his smirking face. The gray lump bounced off his cheek and disappeared under the table. “Drat, now it's going to be covered with hair and dirt. I hate everything.”

“Easy thing to do at four in the morning.”

“Is it really?” Marianne considered this, rubbed her eyes, and finally said in a dull voice, “Yikes.”

“Yikes indeed. You've got class.”

“So do you. I suppose it's too late to nag you about getting enough sleep.”

“Indeed it is, tiny hypocrite. I'm skipping class. Catch a few hours then go to work.”

“Eh, I've only got morning class—in four hours—I'll tough it out.”

Marianne plugged her earbuds in and cranked up her phone's volume. The cable to plug ipods into the speakers had disappeared again so for the past few days there had been no arguing about what music to play, everyone in their individual bubble of melody. It made it harder to talk, however, taking earbuds out every five minutes and going, “What?”

Chilly daylight was breaking through the windows when Marianne pulled out her earbuds and said, “I am assuming I just misheard you, but did you just ask me to pass the herrings?”

“Hm?” Bog looked up and twisted in the chair to face her, “I didn't say anything.”

“Oh. You sure? I could have sworn—eh. Sleep deprived hallucinations.”

“Why are the hallucinations sleep deprived?”

“Don't be a wise guy.” She snapped a rubber band at him. He snapped one back. They both missed.

Earbuds were re-installed and they returned to their work.

Not two minutes later Bog tugged an earbud free. He listened into the silence, trying to catch the echoes of a voice he was sure he had heard. But there was nothing, so he asked, “What was that?”

Marianne unplugged. “What was what?”

“I thought you said something.”

“Nope. Not even cursing under my breath right now.”

“You didn't . . . didn't say something about . . . piloting a Jaeger?” He winced to say it out loud, it was such a random thing to bring up. Then again, Marianne had just asked about herrings.

“Well, I mean, I wouldn't mind piloting one, if you're game, but I can't say my train of thought was on that track, much less my conversation. Is there a radio on somewhere?”

For a bit they listened to the ringing silence of the empty studio. They looked at each other, shrugged, and resumed their tasks, Bog throwing out a remark as they did, “But are we drift compatible?”

“We'd probably have to fight each other to find out.”

“Tough girl, do we do anything else?”

Marianne aimed a finger at him and nodded her head, “Good point.”

A brief time later Marianne ripped out her earbuds, “Okay, what is the deal? Were you or were you not just reciting lyrics from . . . from a . . . . from a certain Elvis Presley song?”

With a heavy sigh Bog turned off his music and put down his pen. It was hard enough to keep up his concentration in the face of overwhelming fatigue, and constant interruptions were only making it harder. He scratched the generous amount of stubble built up on his chin and tried to maintain his patience. “It is highly likely at any given time that I am, but which particular song? And, no. Didn't sing a word.”

“Are you sure?” Marianne persisted.

“Uh . . . yeah. Which song, though?”

“Um.” Marianne displayed her teeth in what Bog recognized as an attempt at a smile. “Not important! Heh. Yeah.” She picked up her phone and absorbed herself in looking at the screen.

Once again they resumed work. After a few seconds Bog lifted his head and looked around, positive that Marianne had said something. When he looked over at her she had a finger to her lips. He raised an eyebrow. She tilted her head to indicate something and when he glanced over his tired mind flooded with understanding. He gave Marianne a nod and turned back around in his seat, reaching for his phone and and adjusting the volume.

Marianne sprang to her feet, graphing paper fluttering around her as she stood there, pale and dramatic in paint-stained overalls and stocking feet. “I can't take this anymore!”

“What, what now?” Bog swiveled around in his chair again.

“I'm tired of being friend-zoned, Bog!”

“Marianne, what are you talking about?”

“Don't play dumb with me, Alan King! You've been stringing me along for months and I've had enough of you toying with my feelings like this! Can't you just say things straight out instead of mumbling things under your breath? Can't Help Falling in Love? Seriously? You're going to serenade me when I can only half hear you?”

“What are you talking—me? Toying with your feelings? And just what have you been doing? You with your fear of commitment? Selling everyone the “just friends” line? Do you think I'd waste all my time with this relationship to be just friends?”

“You're putting this on me? Haven't I made it clear—countless times!—exactly how I feel about you?”

“How you . . . how you feel about me?” Bog's voice faltered, “Then, you mean . . . you . . .?”

“Love you with an almighty passion? Of course, you idiot!”

“Oh, sweet mercy!” A third voice shrieked. The door to the office—always locked—swung open and Aura Plum fell through, having leaned too hard on the cracked door in her attempts to eavesdrop. She grabbed the door handle and recovered her balance. The scene that met her eyes was not to two young people interrupted in the middle of a romantic confession—much to Plum's disappointment. Instead, Bog and Marianne stood side-by-side, arms folded, a matched set of glares directed at Plum.

“Oh. Heh heh. Hello!” Plum waved cheerily, her blue glitter nail polish twinkling in the early morning light. “Just here a little early to . . . prepare for class? Yes, just setting up . . . for class! Don't mind me! Continue doing . . . whatever it is that you were doing!”

The two of them didn't move.

“Never mentioned that you were such a talented ventriloquist and impersonator.” Bog rumbled, long nails tapping on his sleeves.

For a second Plum went wide-eyed, realizing she had been caught out, her persistent smile drooping. A thought seem to strike her and she said, “Wait! You mean—the whole confession . . .? You just improvised a fake romantic confession? To mess with me? Without even talking to each other?”

“Yup.” Bog held out a hand and Marianne slapped it, both their expressions still darkly deadpan.

“What gave me away?” Plum asked with uncharacteristic meekness, subdued by the disappointment that the love confession had been staged.

“Aside from your song choices?” Marianne broke her deadpan with a smirk, “Can't Help Falling in Love?”

“Out of character choice?” Plum ventured.

“Have you met this man?” Marianne gestured at Bog, dark circles rimmed even darker around his eyes than usual, an impressive amount of stubble built up on his chin, and every line of his long face pulled downward in displeasure.

“Have you met this woman?” Bog gestured at Marianne, “Do you think she would appreciate that song?” Absent-minded eye rubbing had smeared dark smudges around Marianne's eyes and murder gleamed in the black depths.

The art teacher trailed down the stairs to print off handouts for class. Marianne turned to look up at Bog, eyebrow raised. He raised his own back at her. They burst out laughing and had to sit down on the floor, their laughter and fatigue making them a little dizzy. “Do you think she'll ever figure out we texted each other to plan that?” Bog asked, gasping for breath.

“I think she prefers the idea that we can read each other's minds.”

“What tipped you off? I thought it was weird from the get go, the inflections were all wrong, but she sealed the deal when she started slipping in all that romantic stuff.”

“But isn't she good, though? It was only when I turned off my music that I started hearing her using my voice. By the way, do I really sound like that? And, yeah, she kind of overdid you accent. You're, like, maybe twenty percent Scottish? And she was veering into at least fifty percent sometimes, though you do sometimes too when you're tired.”

“My accent has percentages?”

“Varying on energy levels and current temperament. I could draw you up a chart, probably.”

“Well, someone has been making a study of it, I see.” Bog kicked Marianne's foot.

She kicked back and made a face. “Can't Help Falling in Love. Pfft. If you ever confessed your love for somebody I would expect pyrotechnics and possibly a rock number. Yes, I can see you belting out some soulful number at the top of your lungs while electric guitars scream in the background.”

Bog had a vague, tired thought that wondered if he should be taking down notes. But the thought shimmered away, evaporating when Plum returned and started pulling up shades with a sullen viciousness. Still sitting on the floor, Bog and Marianne began to gather up the papers she had scattered for dramatic effect.

“Why.” Plum called from the other side of the studio, “Are there googly eyes on all the combination locks on the student lockers?”

“We've learned to stop questioning the googly eyes,” Sunny remarked. He and Dawn trooped up the stairs, other students trickling in behind them.

“Phantom of the art department.” Someone remarked.

“What,” Sunny had asked the previous week, holding up his camera, “Is with all the googly eyes?” The lens cap on his camera was decorated with a a pair of the eyes and when he opened his portfolio he found many of the images similarly decorated, the eyes affixed to the protective plastic sheeting.

“The phantom strikes again,” Dawn sighed, “I haven't managed to catch either of them in the act but, yeah, it's them. It is always them. All the doorknobs in the house have been vandalized, my car's review mirrors, my art boxes . . . everything.”

“They're so sneaky, I never see them do it!”

“I think we're not even the intended victims. We're just caught in the crossfire of their private feud. When Boggy found googly eyes on all his hammers he didn't say a word. He just turned and looked at Marianne. She looked super innocent.”

“Which means she's up to evil.”

“So much evil! Then all of Marianne's paintings had googly eyes, which looked hilarious, but I could see the gleam of revenge in her eyes. She looked just like that when I ate her last cupcake when we were twelve.”

“Oh, no, I remember the cupcake wars! You split it with me, remember? It was a good cupcake, but nowhere near worth the hassle she put us through for two weeks after that. I was afraid to leave the house!”

“I had to live with her!”

“Remember, we would hide in the backyard after school, in the tree house and pull up the ladder.”

“Mom smuggled us out supplies and told us when the coast was clear for us to come down. It was kind of fun. We played checkers and did our homework. When we get married we're going to build a tree house in the backyard and play checkers in it.”

“Okay, but we have to alternate days with the pillow and blanket fort we're gonna build around the TV set.”

“Tree house in summer, pillow fort in winter.”

“Wow, we'll have a summer home, pretty fancy. Never knew I'd be so upper-crust. Do you think we should warn Bog about exactly how far Marianne will take this revenge thing?”

“Trial by fire. If he's not man enough to take it then he's not worthy of her.”

Since Plum had seen Bog he couldn't ditch the class and grudgingly stayed, working moodily in the corner, very aware of the stares of the other students. Marianne dragged her easel over to Bog's corner and adjusted the height so it was on the right level when she sat on one of the tall stools. Technically Bog's class was in the other half of the studio, the space devoted to sculpture, but the teachers were flexible about where students worked so long as they worked.

“What I want,” Marianne said, “Is a floor easel, so I can just sit on the floor and paint without propping canvases against the wall or my bed and getting paint on things.”

“Except yourself.” Bog grabbed her rag and rubbed at the smear of cadmium yellow Marianne had just dragged across her face when she scratched her nose. “Hold still.” He ordered, grasping her chin and angling her head, “Unless you want me to smear your makeup.”

“Oh, just leave it. I don't care if I walk around with paint on my face or not. How are people suppose to know I'm an art student otherwise?”

“Your attitude and addiction to coffee.”

“It's not an addiction if I need it to live.”

Plum walked by, collecting artist statements. She stopped at the sight of Bog holding Marianne's face while he wiped off the paint and her willing submitting to this attention. They looked at her. She snatched their papers off the table, “You do this stuff just to torment me!” She stalked off with a toss of her platinum blonde hair.

Marianne got up, suddenly realizing how . . . intimate she and Bog had looked. “I need to go get something!”

She marched across the studio, averting her red face and heading for the cupboards. She had half a mind to hide in her personal shame cupboard, but when she opened it she found googly eyes decorating the inside of the door, wibbling from the movement of opening the door. She looked over at Bog, who was equally as red in the face as her, but had seen where she was heading and watching her reaction with an irrepressible grin. She stuck her tongue out at him. In her mixture of amusement and irritation she forgot to be embarrassed because she had devote her attention to planning suitable revenge on Bog for this.

At the end of class Plum handed back the statements, having had time to review them while everyone was absorbed in their work. Bog found there was a tiny drawing next to his grade and when he looked over at Marianne she held up her paper to show an identical doodle scribbled there as well.

“Mr. King, Miss Summers, you have a question?” Plum asked, passing by and seeing their puzzled expressions.

“Why is there a picture of a fat cow on here?” Bog asked.

“It's not a fat cow.” Plum said, expression neutral.

“What is it then?”

“Your artist statements are complete fertilizer. Well-written and thought out, however, so high-grade fertilizer, which is why you passed. But it's not a fat cow,” With a completely straight face Plum said:

“It's a lot of bull.”

The rest of the class watched somewhat uneasily as the two students with reputations for being rather tough characters burst into such hysterical fits of laughter that they were reduced to hanging weakly onto their chairs and gasping for breath.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“But, it's Humphrey Bogart, it's film noir! Dark and cynical, this is totally our scene!” Marianne gestured, almost as if she expected a stark black and white setting to materalize around them to back up her point, “In the Maltese Falcon it's just basically one long montage of betrayal and Bogart peeling himself off the carpet after being blackjacked for the umpteenth time.”

“Are you seriously forgetting what my full name is?” Bog sighed.

It was a Friday night and all of them had unanimously agreed they were too worn out to do anything more exciting than watch a couple movies. Of course, simply deciding on a genre had turned out to be far more exciting than it probably ought to have been. After a fierce fifteen minute debate between Bog and Marianne about whether or not to watch Pacific Rim again someone had suggested Film Noir.

“I know your middle name is Misery.” Dawn called from the kitchen where she was making popcorn.

“Yes, but that aside.”

“Okay, I know, I know.” Marianne waved her hands, sitting next to Bog on the couch, “Alan Boggart King. But did you really avoid an entire genre because you're one G off from a classic film star? What am I saying, that sounds exactly like something you'd do.”

“And no doubt you are already thinking up a slew of hilarious jibes about my name. My cousins certainly did.”

“You'd look good in a fedora.”

“And there it is.” Bog sighed.

“Do you like to stare out the blinds at the cruel and unforgiving world, striped shadows cast across your grim face and steely eyes, all the while a cynical and monotone inner monologue playing through your head?”

“Is that popcorn done because I need something to dump on your sister's head!”

“I did not butter and salt this popcorn to perfection for you to waste it on petty violence! Just watch a Noir without Bogart. What about Laura? It's got Vincent Price. Taste this.” She popped a kernel of corn into Sunny's mouth. He was sitting on the counter holding a measuring cup of melted butter. He nodded his approval. “There, at least you're helping me.” She kissed his cheek, “Unlike some people.”

“We're finding the DVDs,” Marianne protested, holding up a box of movies, “Which is a remarkable feat because some people don't put them back in alphabetical order! But, hey, Dawn, now we know you shouldn't have been calling him Boggy, you should be calling him--”

“Please stop.” Bog said in tones of despair.

“Bogie.”

“Argh!” Bog clawed up his hands and clutched at the air, “I am in actual physical pain right now!”

“Okay,” Dawn hopped up onto the counter by Sunny and snuggled up to him. “Sunny and I are just going to start smooching back here until you two settle down.”

“We should discuss how much we love each other, too.” Sunny suggested, putting his arms around Dawn.

“Of course, Sunny-wunny!” Dawn pinched his cheek, “It's my favorite thing to talk about!”

“Mine too! Have I ever mentioned how much I adore you, my sparkle princess?”

“I wouldn't mind hearing about it some more.”

Bog and Marianne started making gagging noises. Marianne slithered off the couch and onto the floor, “Kill me now!”

“Here, fine!” Bog snatched up a DVD, “We're watching Laura! Oh, save us, they're too busy kissing to hear me.”

“Oh, they hear you,” Marianne said from the floor, “They just don't care. Try a sofa cushion. If that doesn't work we abandon ship and run screaming off into the night.”

“You goofs!” Dawn gave Sunny a final kiss before they both hopped off the counter. Dawn grabbed the popcorn and Sunny turned off the lights, both of them heading over to the couch with their arms around each other's shoulders.

“I'm just kind of sorry I brought up Film Noir in the first place.” Sunny said. He and Dawn.

“Why did you?” Bog asked, “It seems dark for you two.”

“You're talking to a photographer,” Dawn giggled, “He can talk about lighting and camera angles for ages.”

“The composition is amazing. The stark contrasts, the way cigarette smoke kind of twists in front of the dark backgrounds, the camera angles . . .”

“Sssh, sssh.” Dawn patted his spiky hair, “I want to hear the movie. Marianne, get off the floor.”

“No.” Marianne said, “I've given up on life.”

“Boggy, can't you do something about her?”

Bog shrugged. “Science is still working on a cure. Until then all we can do is ignore the problem and hope it doesn't grab our ankles.”

“I'm tying your shoe laces together, okay?”

“Science tells me there is one other option.” Bog reached down and took hold of Marianne under her arms, pulling her up onto the couch. “Are you going to behave?”

“Never.” She started to slide off the couch again.

Dawn was giggling. “You only do this stuff so Bog will pick you up!”

Marianne ceased her sliding and shot upright in her seat. “I do not!” Bog just put up his hands as if in surrender. Dawn smiled. “That got your attention! Sunny, quick, start the movie before they start flirting again.”

“We were not--!”

“Sssh, movie is on! Oh, somebody take those googly eyes off the TV!”

After that Bog and Marianne sat rigidly on their respective ends of the couch, arms crossed and faces red. As the movie went on they did begin to relax and when Dawn got up to get some water she noticed Bog's arm was lying across the back of the couch behind Marianne. On her way back to her seat she gently pushed his arm until it rested on Marianne's shoulders. For about ten seconds neither of them noticed, too engrossed in what was happening in the movie. Bog shifted in his seat, the movement drawing both his and Marianne's attention to where his arm was. His arm shot into the air like he'd been burned and he muttered, “Sorry, sorry.” Marianne just reached up to where Bog's fingers had been resting on her arm, not looking at him. “It's fine. Fine. Sorry.”

“You're terrible.” Sunny whispered to Dawn. She covered her mouth to mask her giggling.

“That wasn't too painful.” Bog admitted as the credits rolled.

“He liked it.” Marianne translated, “Who's up for The Big Sleep? Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.”

“If we can keep the hilarity over a chance resemblance of names to a minimum, I'm game.”

“Haven't seen this in years.” Marianne remarked.

Partway through the film Dawn nearly choked when she gasped with popcorn in her mouth. She bounced up and down so that Sunny had to grab the popcorn bowl before it overturned, “Eeeee! Back that up, back that up!”

“What, what?” Sunny fumbled with the remote control and obligingly rewound a few seconds.

“He looks like Boggy! Bogie looks like Boggy!”

“What?” Bog had been leaning with his chin propped on his fist, but he sat up a bit now, trying to puzzle out exactly what angle this new mockery was coming from.

“Right there, the light or something, but he looks just like Bog, can't you guys see it?”

“Not really?” Marianne squinted at the screen and tilted her head.

“You just think that because of our names.” Bog snorted.

“Back me up here, Sunny!”

“Sorry, Dawn, but I don't see it either.”

“Oh . . . oh, pooh! You guys are all blind.” Dawn folded her arms and scrunched down in her seat.

They resumed watching. After a few minute's Marianne glanced over at Bog, then back at the screen. After awhile Bog felt three sets of eyes on him. “Will you stop? If you think I look like Humphrey Bogart that's probably just because we're both ugly, yeah? Mystery solved, can we watch the movie, please?”

“Boggy, do you need a hug to boost your self-esteem?” Dawn asked.

“Don't you dare, princess.”

“I dunno.” Marianne said, “I never thought Bogie was ugly. I mean, he's not handsome, that's for sure, but I can't ever remember looking at him and thinking he was hideous or anything. I guess I like a face with character better than all those guys nowadays who look like they were photoshopped.”

“But is she talking about Bogie or Boggy?” Sunny whispered to Dawn. The two of them started giggling so hard that it took them a solid five minutes to calm down and get back to the movie. “Anyway,” Sunny said, wiping his eyes, “If Bog is Bogie than Marianne is Lauren Bacall.”

“Oooh, you're so right!” Dawn agreed, “They have the same tough attitude. Did you guys know that Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were married?”

“Bog,” Marianne said, “Let's get married so we can get divorced and end this madness.”

“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers!” Sunny said, “Shall We Dance, the character are celebrities rumored to be married so they decide to get married just so they can get divorced and get the press to leave them alone.”

“It's a good plan.” Bog said.

“But they fall in love and don't get divorced.”

“I think we'll follow through,” Marianne snorted.

“No doubt.” Bog agreed.

“Thanksgiving next week.” Marianne said.

Both their sleep cycles were completely ruined at this point in the semester so they were wandering the streets, treading through the darkness between each golden pool underneath the street lights that dotted the roads. The moon was full and darting in and out from behind clouds. Sunny and Dawn had passed out on the couch after movie night so Bog and Marianne had decided to wander a bit where they wouldn't disturb them with their loud discussions.

“And after that everything goes starts happening all at once.”

Bog sighed. The rest of the semester was going to pass by in a frantic rush of activity and in no time at all it would be Christmas break and the Summers sisters would be flying off to spend the holiday with their father. The thought of those lonely weeks without Marianne made his shoulders slump a little more than usual as they walked along. And after that it would be Spring. He never liked that time of year and now it was also their last semester before graduation.

The last few months before the end of this strange friendship.

What else could possibly happen? Marianne's home was states away and there was no reason for her to stay. Or for him to go. And he couldn't possibly . . . ask her. He had no right to.

Even if he did love her.

Bog almost walked into a street light, shocked by the audacity of his thoughts, daring to actually admit that truth even in the privacy of his head. He would have smacked his head right against the concrete pole if Marianne hadn't taken his arm and pulled him to a stop. “If you're as tired as all that, Bog.” Marianne said, threading her arm through his and turning them around to retrace their steps to the apartment, “You'd better get some coffee in you before you try to drive home.”

“Just . . . just got lost in thought.”

“So many thoughts to get lost in, this time of the semester.” Marianne nodded.

“Yeah.”

Arm-in-arm, they continued walking. Over the years Bog had made a study of deliberately not thinking about things, heading off thoughts before they could take root, throwing up layers of armor to protect himself. Growling and snarling at the world so that nothing would come close enough to hurt him. But this stubborn little thought, that he loved Marianne, had managed to set down a network of roots before he even realized it was there and now . . . now he was sliding his hand down to interlace his fingers with Marianne's and they walked the rest of the way back in silence.

He walked her to the door, assuring her he was fine to drive back. He was trying to rush off, horribly afraid that if he stayed any longer than necessary he'd ruin everything and try to kiss her.

“Good night. See you tomorrow.”

Marianne said nothing. She yanked him into a hug.

“Don't go anywhere, okay, Bog?”

Bog wasn't quite sure how to take this demand, or what exactly Marianne meant by it. He was a little preoccupied with returning her hug and hoping she didn't break any of his ribs with all her fierce squeezing. So he laughed and said lightly, “Only if you promise not to either, tough girl.”

“No, seriously. Don't go anywhere. Take care of your stupid self. I don't . . . I don't know how to get along without you anymore. Idiot. I . . . I really . . . I really care about you, yeah? Just promise.”

All at once he knew exactly what she was talking about. Finally it hit him that no matter how often he told her not to worry, not to care about him, that he pushed her away, she wasn't going to just stop. She wasn't going anywhere. That even if he didn't think it was worthwhile to take care of himself, she did. And he had generally found her to be a person of sound judgment. That the things that hurt him . . . didn't hurt only him. Not anymore.

“Yeah. Okay. I promise. I really, really promise.”

Griselda was still up when Bog got home, in spite of the late hour.

“Georgette's daughter had another baby,” She told Bog as he discarded his keys in the bowl by the door and entered the kitchen, her tone slightly accusing. “We got up a lot of casseroles for her girl and then started planning a quilt. Lovely turquoise and white, for Georgette's new little granddaughter. Lost all track of time! What about you? How's Marianne?”

“They're all fine.” Bog replied, ignoring the bait. “I was just . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck, but he realized he was doing it and quickly folded his hands together in front of him to stop his nervous fidgeting. “I was just wondering if you still had the number for that doctor you were talking about a couple months ago.”

Griselda carefully put down the kettle she had been filling at the sink. A packet of sleepy time tea got crumpled underneath it. “You actually gonna make an appointment? Really?”

Bog nodded.

Griselda snatched her purse up off the table and dug around frantically until she found her wallet and the business card, almost afraid if she didn't hurry Bog would change his mind. She put it in his hand and smiled her huge, wide smile. “Finally! Did that girl talk some sense into you? Bless her! C'mere, c'mere!” She hugged her son and he not only allowed it, but hugged her back. Awkwardly as ever, but he hugged her. Something that happened far too rarely for Griselda's liking.

“That girl is so good for you!”

“Yeah. Yeah, she really is.”

Later that night Marianne had the tables turned on her when she was woken by an unexpected text from Bog. There was a picture of the inside of his refrigerator, the contents of which, from fresh fruit to the gallon of milk, were staring unblinkingly at the camera. All decorated with googly eyes. Marianne smiled at her handiwork, wishing she could have been there to see Bog’s reaction to it in person. The picture was accompanied by two words:

You win.

Chapter Text

“Why are you on my truck?”

“I like to feel tall.”

Marianne was standing on the hood of Bog's gray truck, pacing the small space in an effort to counter the chill of the Autumn afternoon. Arms crossed, she plopped down and leaned against the windshield. “It's a free country.”

Bog stood halfway between the front door of his house and the truck, temporarily frozen in place. He had come out of the house, head down and keys jingling in his hand, trying very hard not to think about anything at all. Marianne's unexpected presence was not helping that. Well, it did for a moment. Bog's surprise at her sudden appearance shocked his mind into complete blankness. She had figured so prominently in his thoughts over the weekend that he almost felt she must have overheard him and responded to his mental summons in some way.

The brief blankness was quickly followed by an overwhelming feeling of happiness at seeing her, but that in turn was followed by the anxiety that had been lurking around the corners of his thoughts the past two days. He felt a little sick, but he had been working on that even before Marianne appeared. His stomach had been churning and his hands tingling when he had come out the door, but at the sight of Marianne his heart had given a not unpleasant thump and his thoughts derailed, veering into more pleasant territory before reality reinstated itself.

“Free country? Not on my truck, it isn't. What are you doing?”

Marianne put her hands behind her head and reposed in exaggerated relaxation. “I came to see if you wanted me to drive you to your appointment.”

“You could have called.”

“You would have said no.”

“Oh, and I won't say no now?”

“Not if I took the trouble to come here, out of the pure goodness of my heart.”

“Manipulative little thing, aren't you?”

“Cunning.” Marianne stood back up on the hood as Bog walked over, “Clever.” 

She smiled down at him smugly and his heart skipped a beat. He tried to tell himself that his heart had been erratic all morning, that Marianne's presence was not the cause.

Had it really only been since Friday night—or early Saturday morning, rather—that his defenses had finally failed him? It was Monday afternoon now and he was on his way to the doctor's office. And he was having a little trouble breathing. He hated doctors. He hated their offices, their examination rooms, their white coats and medical jargon. He had been snarling and shouting at workers all day and his mother had told him to stop pacing and slamming doors or she would chase him out of the house with a broom.

“Did my mother call you?”

“Yeeeah.” Marianne leaned to the side, head on her shoulder, biting her lip in slight embarrassment and tucking a stray lock of hair back under the purple and black knit cap she was wearing.

“Meddling old baggage.” He glanced back at the house and saw a curtain twitch itself back into place. His face twisted up in resentment and he took a step back toward the house.

“C'mon, Bog, the lady loves you.” Marianne patted his shoulder, making him halt his advance. He sighed and leaned against the truck next to where she was standing as she continued, “She told me you are a shambling human disaster mere inches away from crumbling into pieces and that I should come with bandaids and glue.”

“Did you?” Bog had folded his arms tightly around himself and was staring at his worn-out sneakers, finding it easier to talk when he wasn't looking at her.

“I was out of the cool bandaids with skulls so you're going to have to do without. Or should I have taken Dawn's pink ones?”

“No, no, I'll bleed out, It's fine.”

“I did bring glue.” She pulled a glue stick out of her coat pocket and waved it under his nose until he looked up. Bog rolled his eyes and sighed.

Marianne thumped down to sit next to Bog, swinging her booted feet so that her heels drummed on the bumper. There was a small but distinct space between them that Bog was suddenly very aware of. He wasn't sure if it wasn't enough distance, or too much. It would be the easiest thing in the world to bridge that gap. A simple movement and he could put his arm around her, pull her close and just lean against her . . .

“That bad a day, huh?” She asked after he continued to stare at his own shoes for longer than she thought called for. While she had at one point in the semester doodled all over them with a marker she did not think so highly of her art as to deem it more interesting than the current conversation.

“I'm fine.”

Marianne bridged the gap between them.

By punching Bog in the arm.

“Hey!” He rubbed his abused shoulder, all other thoughts washed away in a rush of pure indignation.

“Sorry,” Marianne folded her arms and looked lofty, “I have an allergic reaction to bare-faced lying. Makes my muscles spasm.”

“Oh, nice. Good one. You know what, though?”

“What?”

“I think the condition is catching.”

He punched her in the arm.

She was so taken by surprise that she started to fall off the car, even though the force of the blow shouldn't have been enough to even budge her. Bog hastily attempted to pull her back, but when he did she grabbed onto him and pulled him off the car too. He landed heavily on his shoulder, feeling the corners of the driveway brickwork poking through the fabric of his hoodie and hearing his keys jingle as they landed somewhere nearby. “Marianne!” He complained in a pained groan.

“You punched me!” She said, laying nearby on her stomach and examining the elbow of her jacket for possible rips.

“You punched me first!”

“You tried to pull your stupid “I'm fine” thing!”

“I am fine!” He reached over and pulled Marianne's knit cap over her eyes.

“And I'm a heavy weight wrestling champion!” She pulled her cap back up and propped herself on her elbows. Her eyeshadow was smeared and a smudge of mascara had been dragged across her forehead by the hat. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

“I don't know. Are we going to beat each other up every time?”

“Highly probable. That should give you incentive not to be such an idiot. Look, your mom has the all time high score in interfering with your business, but she knows you and she doesn't call me like she did unless she's really worried about you.”

“Hold up,” Bog pushed himself up into a sitting position, dry leaves crackling under his hands, “How many times has she called you “like this”?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“This is a regular thing? You two are keeping tabs on me?”

“Yes. There's a gps tracker in your phone and all your co-workers report back to central command, aka Griselda, at hourly intervals. And I'm totally messing with you, Bog. This is maybe the third time she's ever called me.”

“What were the other two times?”

“Well, one time I called her when you disappeared that weekend and wouldn't answer my calls. We're getting off the subject. How've you been sleeping?”

“Look, the doctor is going to ask all these questions, I don't need you interrogating me too.”

“Pretty badly, huh?”

It had been three in the morning before he had fallen into a fitful sleep. He had spent a large portion of these sleepless hours staring at his phone, willing Marianne to make one of her late night calls. When they didn't seem to work he had tried to will himself to call her, but couldn't manage it. He'd been fueling himself with coffee to make up for having had only four hours sleep and the prospect of driving to and from the doctor's office while only half-awake increased his anxiety considerably. He had thought about canceling, imagined the relief he would feel from doing it. Right now he wondered if he talked to Marianne long enough maybe it would end up being too late to make the appointment.

“Yes.” He said, finally, “Pretty badly.”

“Have you eaten?” Marianne was still laying on her stomach, legs swinging back and forth behind her. “Anything besides coffee, that is.”

Bog considered the question, trying to remember when and what he had last eaten, shifting to draw up his knees so he could fold his arms on top and rest his chin, back curved, shoulders pulled up protectively. His keys glittered dully among the dead leaves. He picked up the keychain and fidgeted with it.

“If it takes you more than five seconds to respond then you haven't.”

“What business is it of--” Bog snarled, but did not finish, interrupted by the hand that settled lightly on his shoulder, the touch of it stinging him like an electric shock that seemed to eat up all the oxygen in his lungs and cut off his ability to inhale a fresh supply. Marianne had moved to crouch next to him, waiting for him to look up and meet her eye.

“Hey, Bog?”

“W-what?” He wished she would just punch him again. He knew what to do when she punched him. This gentle touch? He had no idea. His jacket was half-hanging off after their tussling and there was only the thin fabric of his t-shirt between her fingers and his skin. He was painfully aware of the position of each of her fingers and how her thumb rested on top of the knob of his shoulder joint.

“At the risk of endangering my whole emotionless demon vibe I have going,” Marianne went on, fingers tipped with dark orange nails exerting a gentle pressure on his shoulder, “I'm going to hug you.”

“Please don't.” He said, too quickly, and unable to look away from her eyes. She was so close, he would barely have to move to lean over and kiss her. Bog gritted his teeth together and grabbed the intrusive little thought, stuffing it back out of sight, breaking eye-contact with Marianne for fear she could somehow see it peeking out through his eyes.

“This is for your own good.” Marianne continued, unaware of his internal struggles.

Bog leaned away, regretting that she lifted her hand from his shoulder, but also relieved. “Please do not turn into your sister, it would be devastating.”

“It's happening. Not me turning into Dawn—hugging you. Hugging is happening. Prepare yourself for the inevitable!”

Bog knew if he told her to stop she would. Her teasing was meant to give him an opportunity to do so. But he didn't really want her to stop. So he compromised.

“You'll never take me alive!”

Bog shoved her back and started to stand up but Marianne sprang, clinging to his back, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and pinning his arms to his sides, her chin digging into his shoulder as she struggled to hang on. Leaves rustled, disturbed by their antics, and Marianne was laughing at Bog's half-hearted attempts to pull her off. He ended up surrendering, dropping his arms and sitting on the driveway, laughing weakly, Marianne draped on his back and laughing in his ear.

“I should know better than try to win against you, tough girl.”

“Idiot. You know you're a mess.”

He gave a pained little laugh. “Yeah.”

“Hey,” She dug her chin into his shoulder until he turned his head back to awkwardly face her. “That doesn't mean I don't think you're the coolest guy I know.”

Bog felt his face, already rather warm, flood with red. He might have recoiled, if he could have moved at all. But there was a distinct comfort in the fact that Marianne's face was bright red, too. Their gazes locked, they stared at each other, trying to think of where to go from there. Marianne was a warm weight against his back, her arm across his chest, and part of him very much just wanted to stay like this for awhile, just let the whole world pass by while they were safe in this little bubble together and he could get lost in her eyes—like molten amber.

Oxygen abandoned him again when he realized she was leaning closer, close enough that her cheek was perilously close to brushing his, his skin prickling at the mere proximity. Her eyes had turned away, freeing his to watch the curve of her cheek and line of her jaw, the way her dark lips were slightly parted from where her smile had faded but not quite abandoned her altogether.

In flash Marianne snagged the keys out of his hand unresisting hand.  “Gotcha.” She patted his chest and pulled away to stand up. She hooked a hand under his arm and helped him to his feet, brushing some leaves off him before saying, “I'm driving!”

“You--you are not!” Bog said, straightening his hoodie, thoughts still scattered.

“Watch me!” She slid into the driver's seat of Bog's truck and put on the seat belt.

“You don't even know how to--” The engine roared into life, “--start the engine without flooding it . . .”

“Get in loser, we're going to consult with medical professionals.”

Bog let out a breath, deflating as some of the tenseness left him. He headed over to the passenger's side and opened the door. Marianne pulled her seat forward and adjusted the rear-view mirrors to accommodate her shorter stature, flashing a triumphant smile as Bog slid into his seat.

“You win, Mari.” 

 Filling out the medical history took some time. Then there was waiting. That at least was made easier by the distraction of Marianne. She had brought along a permanent marker and was drawing mustaches, hairstyles, and clothing on pictures in magazines. Together they turned a housewife into a helmeted motorcyclist and transformed her living room into a forest full of disembodied demonic eyes. They defaced several magazines in this manner and Bog was feeling nearly cheerful when he was finally called in.

The appointment took forever. It was two weeks long. At the very least. He had to have a physical and discuss the origins of his scars and assure the doctor that his tattoos had not given him diseases from the use of dirty needles. Then the discussion of his depression, which when voiced out loud seemed vague and unreasonable. Like a problem he shouldn't be bothering a medical professional about. And his discomfort made him snappish and uncooperative, the doctor's patience only irritating him further.

But he left with a prescription—after another endless discussion of medications he had been on in the past—and returned to the waiting room. The relief was starting to hit him. It was over. He'd done it. And, even better, Marianne was waiting for him when he came out.

“C'mon, since you behaved yourself so well we'll get you ice-cream.” Marianne said, putting down a sports magazine she was defacing with doodles of cute bunny rabbits looking in horror at the hunting merchandise.

Bog shook his head. “I hate you.”

“Mmhm.” Marianne linked her arm with his and towed him outside.

Once in the parking lot Marianne pulled a lollipop out of her pocket. It was one of the cheap kind, flat crystal discs of sickly shades. This one was an amber-yellow, like fresh tree sap. “For good behavior. And,” She produced a sticker from her pocket, green with a white cartoon daisy on it. She stuck it to his coat, “This is from Dawn.”

Bog stood, looking at the lollipop in one hand, the sticker on his hoodie. The tension of the day was beginning to ease off and it was a little easier to laugh, though his first instinct was to glower at her with tired eyes. She smiled brightly, lips coated with dark purple lipstick today. She was infuriating and wonderful and he was so tired.

“You're . . .” He flipped the lollipop back and forth between his fingers, “You're something else, Mari.”

“Yeah.” She sighed, a little wistful despite the humor of her next words, “Repeat that with disdain and you'll sound just like my dad's side of the family at holiday get-togethers.”

He folded up, hands stuffed in his pockets along with the lollipop, and he lowered his himself until his forehead rested on her shoulder. He closed his eyes, finally remembering how to breathe again, for all he was so tired. Too tired to be self-conscious of how close he was to Marianne, or to pay proper attention to the fact that she made no complaint about him using her as a prop.

“You're something else,” He said again after he had gotten the hang of breathing again, taking in the comforting smell of Marianne. She smelled of rosemary—probably from her shampoo—of coffee, and of a coat that had sat too long in a closet and gotten musty. It banished that bleached clean smell of the doctor's office that covered up a dozen subtler scents that reminded him of hospitals and bad times.

“You're something else. And I that with zero disdain because I don't want to get punched again.”

“Darn straight.”

“Thank you for dragging my tattered carcass hither and thither today.”

“No problem. I have this irrational concern for the wellbeing of your tattered carcass. Are you just going to fall asleep here?”

“Maybe.” He was in danger of putting his arms around her and doing just that.

“Just need to know so I can plan my schedule accordingly. Email my teachers, let them know I won't be coming to class because a tree fell on me and it was so pathetic I didn't have the heart to punch if off.”

“So soft-hearted. That's not like you.”

“Don't let it get around.”

It was when Bog actually started to straighten back up that Marianne suddenly threw her arms around his neck and pulled him back down. “Sorry, but you're getting hugged twice today.”

“Okay.”

“And I'm sorry I'm so pushy. I'm sorry I'm loud and annoying and keep shoving in where no one asked me to be—whoa!”

Bog had pulled his hands out of his pockets so he could put his arms around her and pick her up off the ground. Surprised, she held on tighter, nearly strangling Bog in her efforts to keep herself from falling. Her shoulder was jammed against his windpipe, but he smiled. He wanted to tell her never to stop, to keep coming and dragging him out of his wallowing and back into the sunlight. He wanted to tell her she gave him the strength he'd lacked for years, that he couldn't imagine doing without her anymore. But he didn't have the right to say any of it. To burden her.

“Thank you for being loud and annoying and interfering.”

Thank you for being perfect, is what he really wanted to say.

“No . . . no problem. Thanks for taking care of yourself. Let's go get your prescription for special vanilla filled.” She let go and hopped to the ground, leaving Bog feeling slightly downcast.

“Are we back to that Piemaker business?” He asked, ducking into the truck and slumping down into the seat, his whole being radiating relief. Marianne pulled the truck out of the parking lot and joined the flood of after-work traffic.

“I'm gonna bake your antidepressants into pies. Speaking of pie, let's get you fed before anything else. What say you to pizza and watching the Pirates of Penzance?” Without further ado she burst into song, “Poor wandering one! Though thou hast surely strayed, take heart of grace, thy steps retrace! Poor wand'ring one!”

Marianne sang with exaggerated soulfulness, alternating hands on the steering wheel so she could gesture extravagantly. Bog rolled his head back on the headrest and joined in for the second verse:

“Poor wand'ring one! If such poor love as mine, can help thee find, true peace of mind—why, take it, it is thine!”

They finished in a fit of giggling.

“Bet I can get further in the patter song without stumbling than you.” Bog challenged.

“Bet you're wrong.”

“Alright, three, two, one--”

Together they burst into song: “I am the very model of a modern Major-General, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral . . .”

“Have you never seen a man in a kitchen before?”

Bog threw out the question like a challenge, looking out of the corner of his eye at the small group assembled in the doorway to watch him hunch over a cutting board and wield a rolling pin to flatten lumps of buttery dough.

It was Thanksgiving day and Griselda had taken it upon herself—with Bog's full approval—to invite Marianne, Dawn, and Sunny to dinner. Marianne and Dawn had passed on the idea of going home, too busy with end of the semester projects to want to run off and deal with the stress of a family get-together. Bog hadn't said a word for or against the idea of Marianne staying in town over break, but Griselda had noted the little smile that came over his face when she told him Marianne would be spending Thanksgiving with them. As she did every year Griselda had invited Bog's coworkers from his construction job, including Steph and Thane, though none of them would be arriving until dinner time.

The three special guests had shown up early in the morning, grocery bags containing their contributions to the dinner in hand. “Sparkling cider!” Dawn had held up the bottles when Griselda let them in, “We've always had sparkling cider with dinner! I was going to make pie, but I didn't have time.”

“That's okay, sweetie,” Griselda had assured her, “We've got the pies department covered.” And she had directed them to the kitchen where they found the heavenly scent of roasting turkey and Bog up to his elbows in flour and looking displeased at the appearance of their cheerful faces.

“Bog, when I compared you to Ned the Piemaker, it was only in jest, but I seem to have hit upon a hidden depth.” Marianne smirked.

“Hm.” He put a hand on his hip and gestured at her with the rolling pin, “Don't get your hopes up. I'm rubbish at fillings.”

“I can't believe you know how to bake, Boggy.” Dawn said, still hugging a bottle of cider.

Bog rolled his eyes and hunched his shoulders a little more, uncomfortable with being discussed like this. “Why not? You are Sunny are always baking up muffins and cookies together.”

“But I'm a short weirdo.” Sunny pointed out, “It fits my brand and is a point in my favor with the ladies. Or, lady, I mean. You, on the other hand, are huge and scary with hardcore tattoos and scars. It feels like you should be too busy biting the tops off of beer bottles to have the time to spare for baking.”

“I bet all his scars are from cooking accidents.” Marianne said in a mock-whisper.

Bog couldn't help but smile despite his irritation and traced a floury finger down the faint scars on his chin, “This was from on really disastrous attempt at flan.” He confided.

“Flan is a pudding. How do you get wicked scars from pudding?”

“I said it was disastrous.”

“Oh, Bog,” Marianne said sadly, making her eyes go wide and mournful, “You've been deceiving me all this time. I thought you were tough as nails and bit the heads off of small animals in your spare time. But it seems you're nothing but a secret baker with a collection of personalized aprons.”

“Yeah, nice floral pattern, dude.” Sunny said.

“How did I ever get saddled with all of you comedians?”

“You give us so much material to work with.” Marianne smiled.

Bog scooped up a handful of flour and blew it into their faces. There was much choked dismay and Bog grinned at the dusty chaos. Marianne, naturally, tried to grab her own handful of flour to retaliate, but Bog pushed her back with his elbow, “Hey, hey, tough girl, unless you're going to help then you don't bug the cook.”

“I'm going to help. I'm going to help a bag of flour get dumped over you and your pretty flower apron!”

“It was the only one clean!”

“And you look darling in it.”

“Get away.” Bog clawed up his floury hand and menaced Marianne's face until she backed up lest she get floured. “And put away those cameras!”

Dawn and Sunny lowered their phones and smiled, beaming sweet innocence at Bog.

“You wouldn't be getting so much guff, sweetie,” Griselda said from the other side of the kitchen, “If you had made the crusts last night like I asked you to.”

“Mother.” Bog sighed.

“I don't see why you're so embarrassed about it. Such a hand he is with pastry, ever since he was little.”

“Mom.”

“Always wanting to help me in the kitchen, so I taught him all sorts of things. You should have seen him! I have pictures of him somewhere just swimming in one of my aprons, he was such a skinny little thing!”

“Mom!”

Marianne patted his shoulder. “It's okay, Bog, we still think you're dark, mysterious, and cool.” But she couldn't keep a straight face and leaned her face on his arm, laughing helplessly, her hand still on his shoulder to keep her balance. “It's got little pink flowers on it, Bog! The Phantom of the Art Department is wearing an apron with little pink flowers on it.”

Bog, reaching the limits of how much humiliation a human being could endure, silently poured a handful of flour over the top of Marianne's head.

“You jerk!” Marianne shoved Bog and he staggered back a few steps, an evil grin lighting up his face. She snatched up a handful of flour from the now unguarded bag and it exploded across his chest and face in a white cloud.

“Stop it! Stop it, you two!” Griselda ordered.

But they did not listen, intently fighting over ownership of the bag of flour. A great deal of dust was kicked up before Griselda managed to snag her son's ear between her fingers in a vise-like grip, eliciting a very undignified noise of protest from Bog.

“This is a kitchen, not a battlefield, you lovesick loons! Keep your courtship down to less destructive levels, would ya? That goes for both of you!” She grabbed Marianne's ear too.

“Ow! Griselda!” Marianne protested.

“Shush! My kitchen, my rules. You two going to behave yourselves?” She tugged on their ears so their heads were tilted further sideways.

“Yes, mom.”

“Yes, Griselda.”

She released them and they rubbed their ears, trying to ignore the giggling coming from Dawn and Sunny.  “Now behave. Marianne, sweetheart, help Bog with the pie crusts, that's a dear. Dawn, would you clear off the dining room table? Sunny, I have all these jars I need opened . . .”

Griselda swiftly organized her guests into a makeshift Thanksgiving workforce. Still coated with flour, Marianne learned the secret to an excellent and flaky pie crust was using vodka instead of water. “Are we allowed to test the vodka for quality?” She asked, sniffing the open bottle.

“Only if life becomes too unbearable.” Bog handed her a tablespoon, “And the pie gets first go at it. We have to make do with the dregs. Aren't you going to clean up?”

“Aren't you? And, nah. I didn't dress to impress and I'm probably only going to get more flour on myself.” She rolled up the sleeves of her baggy Christmas sweater, shaking excess flour off into the sink. “It's not like anyone here is going to care. Actually, I would love to see my dad's face if I came out of the kitchen looking like this at a family get together. His side of the family is so dignified—oh, it would be priceless.”

“My dad's family would love it. Especially if you came bearing pie, too. Used to be dozens of us, it felt like, jammed together at the table. They'd call for meals and we'd all just appear in whatever state we happened to be in and nobody cared so long as our hands were clean.”

“Ah, the rustic Scottish Highlands.”

“Whole weeks we'd go without seeing the sun,” Bog said in tones of fond remembrance.

When the doorbell rang everyone paused for a moment and looked at each other, bemused. No one else was expected just yet. Steph and Thang had just texted to confirm their arrival time, hours from now. It couldn't be the mail, on a holiday. The bell rang again and Dawn skipped off to answer it, Sunny right behind her. Those busy in the kitchen heard the door open and Dawn say, tentatively, “Hello—oh! There's a guy at the door with a baby and he has Bog's nose!”

“Tell the baby to give it back, then,” Marianne called out, puzzled.

There was a murmur of voices in the hall and after a moment or two a man appeared, framed in the kitchen door, “Oh, everybody's in here!” Bog stiffened at the sight and sound of the newcomer. He was almost as tall as Bog, but not so much that he had to fear low-hanging doorways, and he was wearing a stylish brown winter coat trimmed generously with fur and the hood pulled up over his head. Of particular note was the fact that the interloper was carrying a toddler cradled in one arm, maybe about two years old and dressed up in a tiny red Christmas sweater and matching hat with reindeer patterned on them.

“Hi, Bog!” The man shook his head, the hood falling back and revealing a tanned face that had an uncanny similarity to Bog's despite close-shaven hair and a broad grin. His nose, as Dawn had been trying to say, was indeed just as long and pointed as Bog's, and additionally it seemed the stranger had the same prominent cheekbones.

Bog had flinched when the man appeared, stepping back and snarling something incomprehensible. The only thing discernible was, “Roderick!”

“I see you still know how to curse in Gaelic!” The stranger said. “Nice apron, by the way.”

“Oh, the man has Bog's nose.” Marianne said, a bit feebly. Realization struck and she pointed a finger at the man, “Furioso!” It was the cousin who had been pestering Bog with endless texts. The cousin who thought he was funny. Without his makeup his similarity to Bog was more pronounced, though where Bog skinny and gaunt his cousin was broad, his limbs not so sharp and awkward. He stood with easy confidence, shoulders thrown back, his stance somewhat military.

“You saw my Mad Max cosplay!” The stranger—Roderick—grinned even more hugely, shifting the toddler as it attempted to grab at the collection of piercings decorating the Roderick's ears. Thwarted, the baby tried to make a grab for the eyebrow piercing, but again met with no success. “Hi, Aunt Griselda!” Roderick said, leaning his head to avoid the baby's grabs.

“Roderick King!” Griselda crowed, throwing up her hands, “What are you doing here?”

“And why do you have a baby?” Bog asked.

“I found him outside and thought I should keep him!”                          

Bog opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but stopped and turned around with a dismissive wave of his hand. He untied his apron, brushed flour off his arms and rolled down his sleeves, wondering if he just didn't acknowledge Roderick then perhaps his cousin might disappear.

“You did invite me, Aunt Griselda! And might I say it is lovely to hear your sweet voice in person again?” Roderick said.

“That was months ago and you never said you were coming, you terrible boy!” Griselda hugged the huge man.

“If I had said I would be coming Bog would have probably skipped town!” Roderick said with keen insight.

“I would have been on the other side of the country!” Bog growled, slouched over in the corner of the kitchen furtherest from the intruders. Marianne raised an eyebrow at him, but he just looked away, arms folded and expression dour.

“Who is this little munchkin?” Griselda took the toddler. His little cap was removed and revealed that the baby's golden curls had been shaved on the sides so he had a mowhawk, which Marianne found strangely adorable.

“I stole it!” With the baby taken Roderick advanced on his cousin, arms extended, “Bog! Booog! How are you, cousin of mine? It's been years! We have so much catching up to do!” He slung his arm around Bog's shoulders, ignoring the taller man's distinct snarl of dislike, “Haven't seen you since the funeral. You've gone gray!”

“I have not!” Bog said, stung into replying. “I just don't dye it anymore. And there's flour in it.”

“You used to dye your hair?” Marianne appeared to have teleported across the room upon hearing this interesting factoid, materializing next to Bog with a keenly interested expression on her face.

“He used to be a beautiful raven-wing black.” Roderick ruffled his cousin's hair and got himself shoved away for his pains. Undeterred, he went on, “He had a whole black and white rocker look going on. He was going to be the next Elvis, him and his guitar.”

“Guitar?” Marianne demanded.

“That was a long time ago.” Bog mumbled.

“He always carried a comb and jar of hair gel around so he could fuss with his hair.”

“I knew you were a secret styler.” Marianne grinned, nudging Bog with her elbow.

He jabbed back at her and glared. “In my misspent youth. Anyway, girls who don't know the meaning of “too much” when it comes to eyeliner shouldn't cast stones. And if I recall I was missing my comb half the time because someone kept borrowing it to fix his hair.”

Roderick grinned cheerfully. “You don't get to look as good as I do without putting in some effort. And who might you be?” Roderick asked Marianne with a winning smile and flirtatiously raised eyebrow.

“Not Interested.” She said, holding up her hands to keep Roderick at arm's length.

“Taken, hm? Aw, she's cute, Bog! Look at you two, all covered in flour! You kids upset the flour while canoodling?”

Both Marianne and Bog made disgusted and uncomfortable faces, but before they had time to properly express their fury Dawn returned, yet another stranger in tow. “Sorry, took a minute to clean up the snow,” Dawn said, looking pointedly at Roderick's boots and the snow melting puddles on the floor around his feet. Roderick shrugged, unashamed. Dawn And Sunny ushered in a slim, blonde woman who looked ill-at-ease and apologetic. She was a beautiful woman, but seemed to be hiding it behind an over-sized sweater, large-thick-framed glasses, and a long flowing skirt. Rippling blonde hair flowed down her back from underneath a tan knit cap and she tossed it back over her shoulder as she took off her cap and glanced around the small crowd of people.

“This is--” Dawn began.

“Adeline!” The name escaped Marianne's lips before she could even think, and she met the woman's startled hazel eyes. The woman was apparently of a naturally pale complexion, but at the sight of Marianne she turned gray. Bog watched this, torn away from his own discomfort upon seeing the flicker of panic glance across Marianne's features. She had gone white, too, her eyes huge, and Bog could hear her breathing had suddenly gone shallow and rapid.

Griselda, too wrapped up in the baby to notice this byplay, addressed Adeline, “So this is your angel? Roderick, when did this happen?”

“Nah,” Roderick laughed, “We're not married! I mean, Addy's not my girlfriend. She's my best friend and roommate and she's a package deal with Gwill. My little not-son!” He patted Gwill's curly mohawk fondly. He turned back to Bog and Marianne, “Anyway, how long have you two been dating?”

Marianne looked away from Adeline and Bog looked away from Marianne long enough to give an automatic response of, “We're not dating.”

Roderick pursed his lips and considered this. He burst into laughter, shaking his head. “Yes, you are!”

“No, we're not.”

“Used to date?” Roderick tried again.

“Never.”

“Married?” He persisted, “Bog, did you get married and not tell us? My mother is going to be distraught. You know how she likes to keep up on the family business.”

“No!”

The stumped Roderick for a moment, but he quickly recovered, saying, “. . . in complete denial about your feelings for each other?”

“Yes!” Griselda rasped.

“Um.” Adeline put in before Bog and Marianne could respond, “Where is the bathroom . . .?”

“Down the hall--” Griselda began.

“I'll show you!” Marianne said quickly.

“Now tell me what you've been up to,” Griselda said, catching Roderick by the arm before he could say anything or follow the girls out of the room.

Bog, however, quickly went after them. He was concerned about what was happening and it was a good excuse to get away from Roderick. Marianne and Adeline had only just made it to the end of the hallway and neither noticed when Bog came around the corner.

“Marianne, I'm so sorry! I had no idea—I would never have--” Adeline was said, her voice soft and quavering.

“Don't!” Marianne cut her off, “You didn't do anything wrong. You never did anything wrong! You're not responsible for what Roland does. Why didn't you ever call me?”

Adeline twisted her fingers in the sleeve of her baggy sweater, “I . . . I lost your number.”

“I put into your phone myself.” Marianne replied, her gaze steady in comparison to Adeline's rapidly darting eyes, looking back and forth from the floor to Marianne's face, afraid to settle on one target.

“. . . Roland took my phone.” The words came out in a strained whisper which sounded ashamed.

Marianne ground out a curse. “I'm such a moron! I should have tried to get a hold of you—I should have checked! But you moved out? You left him? What happened?”

“I . . . it's complicated. Yes, I did. I did leave. A few months after . . . after everything. Not long after Gwill was born.”

“Have you been okay? Do you need anything?”

“No, I've been really good, actually. I met Rod and . . . and things have worked out really well.”

“Are you living nearby? A couple hours? Well, give me your phone, I'm giving you my number again. Roland is here in town. He's been trying to win me back—don't ask. You ever run into him let me know.” Marianne punched in the number, then a second one. “Dawn's. In case you can't reach me. I'm really sorry, Adeline, that I never checked back.”

Flowing lengths of blonde hair shimmered when Adeline firmly shook her head, “It wasn't your job to look after me.”

“Um,” Bog said, realizing they still hadn't noticed him. Both woman started and whirled around. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, um.” Marianne faltered, looking a little panicked.

“I'm sorry, I'm Adeline Bonceour,” Adeline extended a hand, her movements graceful despite her obvious discomfort over the whole situation.

He took her hand and shook it. “Bog King. Alan, properly, but everyone calls me Bog. How do you know--?”

“I'll tell you later, okay?” Marianne broke in, picking at the end of her sweater in a very agitated way. “Please? It's fine, it's okay, just . . . later.”

“Yeah, okay. Um. Nice to meet you.” He nodded at Adeline.

Bog gave a silent sigh and head back to the kitchen, no escape to be had in this direction. Apparently this Adeline knew Roland. It would be Roland, to get a reaction like that out of Marianne.

Bog slouched, shoulders coming up around his ears. Of all the people it had to be Roderick. And of course he would show up without notice. Bog was almost as irritated with himself as he was with Roderick's presence. He shouldn't let his cousin get under his skin. But Rod had always had a knack of pinpointing other people's insecurities and delighting in making fun of them.

It shouldn't have been so bad now. It had been so many years, Bog wasn't an insecure teenager anymore. No, he snorted, he was an insecure adult now. But one would think he would have improved with time, learned to deal with it. But there was Roderick. Confident Roderick and his easy smile and talent for making friends.

There was Roderick, who Bog hadn't seen since the funeral. Roderick who was tied up in all the memories of the Highlands and Bog's father. Things Bog hadn't thought about in years. Had carefully not thought about. Seeing Roderick stirred up old memories and all of them painful in a dull, aching way.

“Who are you? Why do you have Bog's nose? Are you British?” Dawn was demanding as Bog re-entered the kitchen.

Roderick stood there, the center of attention and enjoying it thoroughly, “Answering those questions in reverse: yes, I'm British, my nose is far handsomer than Bog's, and he's my cousin. And this,” he ruffled the baby's yellow curls, “is Gwill.”

“Gwill?” Bog was surprised into speaking, “Like our uncle?”

“His name is William,” Adeline said, appearing behind Bog, looking slightly less nervous, “But Rod calls him Gwill.”

“I like Gwill better. And so does Gwill. Don't you, Gwill?”

“Gwill!” The baby said, waving his hands in the air and grabbing for Roderick's earrings. He spotted his mother and lurched in Roderick's arm, reaching out to Adeline. “Mom!”

“Oh, play favorites, why don't you?” Roderick griped, handing the baby over to its mother. She took him quickly and held him a little possessively, as if afraid someone would take him away. “You've always liked her best, don't deny it!” Gwill giggled and smacked a kiss on his mother's cheek. The faint ghost of a smile briefly crossed her colorless face. Roderick pressed his hand to his heart, “He flaunts it right in my face!”

“Mm.” Adeline kissed Gwill back, “My boy knows who's in charge.”

Roderick pointed a finger at Adeline, mouthing so everyone could see, “She is.”

“Yes, you look completely henpecked.” Bog said.

“Aw, the girls are always in charge. I mean, no way you can deny that Marianne is the boss of your little outfit.”

“Seeing as we haven't started dating in the past ten minutes,” Marianne said, appearing in the doorway looking white but determined, “That means we still aren't a couple!”

Roderick snickered, pushing back his coat and putting his hand on his hip. “You are seriously trying to sell me on the platonic angle? Dude, we know platonic, Addy and I, and you two are not it.” Roderick grabbed Adeline, managing to scoop her right off the floor with just one arm. He smacked a kiss on her cheek. “This? This, here? This is my tiny, cute and beloved friend who comes in a set with tinier, cuter friend.”

Adeline looked displeased, but not surprised at this manhandling. “Rod, please put me down.”

“Never.”

“Rod.”

“I can keep doing this until she says my full name with emphasis. Ow!” Roderick's head jerked to one side when Gwill finally accomplished his long coveted goal of hooking a finger through Roderick's eyebrow piercing and pulling hard. It took the efforts of both Dawn and Adeline to free Roderick without damaging his eyebrow and by that time Gwill and transferred his grip to the fur trim of Roderick's hood and had to be detached all over again.

“Our apartment is childproofed,” Roderick remarked, “But my face is not. Oh, he's pulling the straps loose, somebody take him!”

Bog reached through the crowd and took Gwill out of Roderick's arm. Gwill put a finger in his mouth and considered Bog's unhappy face for a moment or two before grabbing at his nose.

“Hey, Marianne, pull my finger.” Roderick said.

Marianne didn't move from where she leaned against the counter with her arms crossed. “If I do is your arm going to fall off?”

“You are . . . no fun.” Roderick's face fell, “No wonder you and Bog made a match of it, party poopers.” Adeline helped Roderick get his coat off, revealing his right arm was missing from the elbow down, replaced by a prosthetic which was currently coming unstrapped. “Sharks bit it off.” He said in response to Sunny and Dawn's curious looks.

“Sure you didn't lose it on Fury Road?” Marianne retorted.

“Good one!” Roderick said, unabashed, “No, I was in the army for about five minutes. Where I was attacked by sharks with military training who bit my arm off. Bit of a wrench, really, but it makes for some good gags. Thanks, Addy.” Adeline had fixed the straps and Roderick rolled his sleeve back down over his elbow. “Now, Bog, who are all these tiny people? Do you actually have friends?  I was expecting a lonely empty house, but there are actually people here. Real people. Not your speed at all, you brooding loner.”

Bog shifted Gwill in his arms and grumbled something under his breath, leaning on the counter by Marianne. He was counting down to the moment when she said something like “he's not so bad”, or “He's kind of funny”.

Roderick leaned down and peered at Dawn, having no compunctions about invading people's personal space. “You don't seem his sort of crowd at all. You're all smiles and sunshine. Look at her, Adeline, I think she's made of glitters and rainbows! I want to keep her.”

“Oh, nooo.” Dawn hid behind Sunny, which was not very effective seeing as she was considerably taller than him. “I'm already taken!”

“Oh, didn't see you down there!” Roderick said to Sunny.

“Wow,” Sunny said, his expression deadpan, “I have never heard that one before. Actually, Bog, you've never done that. Let me take this moment to say that I appreciate that, dude.”

“No problem.” Bog freed an arm from baby-wrangling to accept Sunny's fist bump. “I don't discriminate. To me everybody is short.”

“Leave Sunny alone!” Dawn said, moving to stand in front of Sunny and glare as sternly at Roderick as her sweet nature would allow.

Roderick stared down at her. “It's like being threated by a kitten.”

“Wait until I get started.” Marianne said.

“Another small fluffy animal.” Roderick laughed.

“You need to show him the pictures from Halloween.” Sunny told Marianne. “He'll rethink his views on small fluffy animals.”

“What, what, there's a joke here and I need to know it!” Roderick said, “You shall tell me, small sunshine person! Also, you will disclose how Mr. Personality managed to make friends!”

Bog glowered, but was distracted when Gwill, deciding he liked this man with such a grab-able nose, kissed Bog heartily on the cheek. “Oh, thank you.” Bog said, unable to help laughing a little.

“He's been doing that to everyone lately.” Adeline said, “Everyone he likes, anyway. You're very good with him.”

“Excuse me.” Marianne pushed herself off the counter and left the room. Only Bog was paying enough attention to hear her take her coat off the rack right before the front door open and shut.

There was a scattering of early snow still on the ground and it clung to Marianne's shoes when she stepped off the cleared walkway leading to the front door and cut across the lawn to Bog's workshop. The little building was detached from the house, set far enough away so that the sounds of hammer and sawing would not disturb the inhabitants of the house. It was kept locked, but Bog had entrusted Marianne with a key in case she needed to grab tools or supplies for one of their projects.

It was warm in the workshop. The temperature and humidity had to be kept just right to keep the wood in good condition. The room smelled strongly of drying wood and faintly of glue and varnish. Wood was stacked by size and types in orderly piles on assigned shelves. There were tools hanging neatly on the walls and tiny drawers full of screws, nails, nuts, bolts, and whatnot. It was Bog's space, so it was perfectly tidy and organized.

Bog did that. He created order around himself. Marianne appreciated that. She had never had the knack for order herself. When she tried to hard to plan things she usually ended up making an even worse mess. When she was self-conscious she tended to start tripping over her own feet from over-thinking things. Time had shown her that she worked best on the fly and without thinking.

There were two chairs half-way assembled, but not anything to actually sit on. Marianne paced restlessly through the workshop, trying to outrun her own thoughts. Seeing Adeline had shaken her up more than she let on. Seeing Gwill. Yes, the baby had definitely been the worst thing, sweet child that he was. Once upon a time she had been happily dreaming of walking down the aisle with Roland, wondering how many kids they would have, if they would look more like her or him, or a wonderful blend of the two of them.

But he'd gone and shattered all those dreams. No, worse, he'd stolen them, twisted them, and gave them to somebody else. And the things he had done to that somebody else . . . poor Adeline. She'd gotten the worse end of things. Marianne had her family, still, money, prospects. Adeline had had no one in the world and not a penny to call her own. No wonder she had stayed with Roland so long. He had been all she had.

Back in the kitchen Dawn had been more than eager to take Gwill and coo over him. Bog followed Marianne's path and grabbed his coat on the way out the door.

Roderick saw Bog leaving and made a move to follow and see what he was up to. Griselda, noticing more than Bog gave her credit for, held up the knife she had been using to cut potatoes and stopped Roderick in his tracks. “You leave those two alone.” She ordered.

“What?” Rod asked innocently, “I was just going to see Uncle Alan's workshop.”

“You're looking for trouble. I remember that look you've got on your face. Every time I saw it about five minutes afterwards Bog would be screaming bloody murder and trying to rip your throat out. Leave him and his girl alone.”

“So they are dating?”

“More or less. They just don't know it yet.”

Then

“Where have you been? You had us all worried sick, Marianne! We've been frantic! I had your phone traced, your credit card tracked, but there was nothing!”

Marianne had expected this. That's why she had kept her phone turned off and hadn't used her card since she withdrew an ample amount of cash at the outset of her impromptu vacation two weeks prior. Just because she expected it, though, didn't mean her father's blatant invasion of her privacy didn't set her teeth on edge. A righteous indignation welled up in her, past the aching fatigue of restless nights spent sleeping in the back seat of her car, the tired burn of eyes that had been worn out with crying. She had thought she'd been ready, thought she had calmed down, but coming home to be faced with these accusations of callousness on her part made the dying embers of her anger burst back into full flame.

“I called.” Marianne clenched her teeth together to keep everything but her words from bursting out, “I let you know I was okay.”

“I had no idea where you were or what you were doing!” Marianne's father stepped forward, looking as if he were going to hug her again. Marianne backed up a step, her hands balling into fists, arms and shoulders going rigid. He had hugged her the minute she walked in the door and the gesture had made her stomach churn and skin crawl.

“Roland's been looking for you, too.” Mr. Summers said, backing down when he read his daughter's body language.

“I don't care what Roland does!” Marianne wasn't quite shouting, not yet, “As long as he stays away from me!”

“Sweetheart, he's worried about you. We're all worried about you. You were gone for two weeks. Where have you been? Where do you go?”

Now

“Here's where you went.”

When Bog opened the door of his workshop he heard the soft, sharp sound of a dry sob. It cut off when the door hinges creaked and a draft of cold air blew into the room. Marianne had been pacing up and down the length of the workshop, stopping when Bog came in. She was turned away, a fist pressed against her mouth and her shoulders visibly tense.

Bog shut the door and walked toward her. “Mari, are you--”

“I'm fine!” She said before he could finish the question, “Fine! Just needed a minute.”

Bog came around to stand in front of her and rapped his knuckles on her forehead. She glanced up, outrage cutting through for a moment. “Muscle spasm.” He explained, “I'm allergic to bare-faced lies.”

A grin twisted painfully on her face. “Guess I deserved that.”

“Yeah. What's wrong?”

She tried to reply, but her words were swallowed by a sob. She closed her lips and covered her mouth, desperately trying to keep back to the tears.

“Hey, hey,” Bog put his hands on her shoulders. He could feel she was shaking, bent over and tense, arms pressed tightly to herself, trying to contain the hurt she was feeling.

While Marianne had not had another full-blown panic attack since the one in the restaurant parking lot she had come close a few times, usually after an incident with Roland. Not nearly every time, but sometimes when her buttons were pressed . . . But Bog had been there that handful of times and she'd regained balanced fairly quickly.

Marianne turned away but Bog threaded an arm lightly around her waist, pulling her so she leaned back against his chest. She was jerking with the too quick breathing, inhaling but not exhaling, heart pounding so hard that it felt to Bog like it was trying to escape. Her hands tangled around his forearm, fingers tightening with convulsive strength. “Breathe out, okay?” He let his own breath out so she could feel his chest falling and she exhaled a shaky breath, choking on it a little. “Good, good, keep breathing.” He stood there with her until her breathing fell into sync with his and the tension in her body started to ease, her heartbeat slow. She was clinging tight to the arm he had around her, while his free hand brushed her hair back.

“What a day. I'm already ready for it to be over.” Bog said, talking at random to distract Marianne, when her breathing grew steadier. “Bet I can last longer than you, though.”

“You already kind of did.” Marianne retorted, seizing on the topic eagerly, her voice shaky, “That's not a fair bet.”

“We'll count it from when we go back in.”

“What're the stakes?”

“Loser volunteers to help with dishes.”

“Okay. Deal.”

A period of silence followed. Bog wondered if it was pushing it, but he asked, driven by curiosity and a hope that knowing the problem would aid him in providing some sort of help. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Marianne laughed, humor undeniable despite the pain. She bent her head, picking at Bog's sleeve with trembling fingers, her tone forcefully light as she said, “Adeline . . . she was the woman Roland was cheating on me with. Well, actually, he knew her first and I guess I was the other woman, technically.”

For a moment Bog couldn't comprehend what she was saying, it was so unexpected, so absurd. He had never spared a thought for the other woman—Adeline—but if he had he would have thought the worst of her. But the delicate woman he had just met . . . he was finding it hard to muster a dislike her her austere and quiet manner. It was easier to shift the blame to Roderick.

“She's—what the—I'm going to kill Roderick! He's pulled some low tricks but—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Marianne cut off his tirade before it could properly being, “I don't think he has any idea who I am. Did you see Adeline's face?”

“Yeah . . .” Adeline and Marianne had both looked like they were ready to faint.

“This is just a cosmic joke on us. She left Roland awhile back.”

“Oh.” Something clicked in Bog's thoughts. The baby with bright yellow hair. “That kid?”

Marianne bent her head. “Roland's kid.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “This must be about the worst holiday dinner ever.”

“That would require Roland and my dad both being here, I imagine. And I like Adeline, she's just about as sweet as Dawn in a quiet sort of way. It just . . . took me by surprise to see her here. I wasn't thinking about . . . that stuff. And this kind of brought it all up again.”

“Must be in the air.” Bog said, thinking of Roderick and summers in Scotland.

“Finding out about Roland, running away from the wedding . . . I kind of pulled a disappearing act.” She stepped away, sniffing but not crying, and Bog reluctantly let her go. She sat on the floor, her back against a cabinet, and hugged her knees. He sat down next to her.

“Where did you go?”

The question her father asked nearly two years ago, repeated now in much different circumstances. There is no demand in those words, no poison, it is only a question. No, not just a question. Behind it there is concern, much as one might ask, “Where does it hurt?” as a preliminary assessment, wanting to know if you needed help. Two years ago Marianne, hot and raw with anger, refused to answer the question. Today there was only an ache to show her where she had pulled on old scar tissue. Bog was sitting next to her, his pose identical to her own, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them. There was that space between them once again, that appeared whenever they thought too hard about things, but right now the space didn't matter. He was looking at her, waiting for a response and willing to accept a rebuff.

Marianne laid her cheek on her knee and looked sideways at Bog. Her mouth pulled up with a smile, humor bubbling up from underneath the pain. “I went to egg Roland's house.”

Bog gave a surprised laugh, his whole face restructuring from withdrawn and slightly sad to a sudden grin, his eyebrows lifting and changing his entire appearance. “And here I thought it might be something dramatic!”

“It was so dramatic at the time!” Marianne protested, “The guy at the grocery store was so suspicious of me, but he had no reason to deny my purchase of six dozen eggs.”

“Did he ask?”

“Yeah. I told him I was making omelettes. That I really, really liked omlettes. I'm sure I looked tragic and possibly murderous. I think the cashier was trying out figure out how I might kill someone with eggs.”

“Wow.”

“I had it all planned out. I hadn't even known he had a house out of town, but I found out when I dug up . . . everything else. I was going to go to Roland's house and wreck it. Key some choice phrases on his car, smash some windows, I don't even know what all anymore.”

“But you didn't?”

“Don't sound so disappointed. No. I got there and . . . Roland wasn't home, but Adeline was.”

Then

Marianne stood on the porch, a grocery bag full of egg cartoons in hand, frozen when the front door opened, the house's inhabitant roused by the sound of Marianne's car screeching to a halt in a spray of gravel in the driveway. Marianne had been expecting Roland and was prepared to smash the whole bag of eggs over his shiny yellow head. It was not Roland, however, it was the woman whose face had recently been etched into her head. The woman who had been kissing Roland in the pictures someone posted on facebook. It had been pure chance that Marianne had come across them in the online album of a friend of a friend. A few questions to the right people garnered Marianne the information that Roland had been seeing this woman for quite some time and then everything had begun to unravel.

The woman—Marianne couldn't even think of her name in that moment—was standing in front of her now. Marianne hadn't been angry at her, somehow. She hadn't seemed real up to this point, just a prop in a melodrama of betrayal. She was entirely real now, slender and blonde, wearing a pale green dress, elegant in its simplicity, her delicate face showing traces of tears. She was, even in her sadness, a beautiful woman, and held herself with a natural poise and grace that was a stark contrast to Marianne's clumsy nature.

“Marianne Summers?” The woman asked, her soft voice quavering only a little.

“Yes. Um?”

“Adeline. Adeline Boncoeur.”

Marianne twisted the plastic handles of the grocery bag in her hands, tangling it with the baggy sleeves of her shirt. She had done her crying, and plenty of it, after the initial revelation. It had been her anger that had gotten her this far and it was extinguished at the sight of the faint tear tracks traced down Adeline's thin cheeks.

“Hi.” Marianne said, her voice too bright, “Would you like to help me kill Roland in extremely slow and painful manner?”

“Oh.” Adeline looked apprehensive, giving a nervous smile. Marianne knew that kind of smile, it had been on her own face often enough. It was a smile put on because it was expected, a smile to hide pain and uncertainty.

“It was a joke. Or my attempt at one. Sorry.” Marianne freed a hand to scratch at her shoulder, crumpling her shirt under nervous fingers.

“Oh.” Adeline said again. Her expression didn't change much, but she looked almost as if she were trying to really smile as she pushed her long hair back over her shoulder. “No, not today, thank you. Do you—do you want to come inside?”

“You live here?”

“Yes.”

That explained why Roland had never told her about the house.

“How long . . . how long have you two . . .?”

“Two years.”

“Oh.” Marianne's throat constricted. She had been dating Roland only a little over a year. “I guess that makes me the other woman, then.”

“I'm sorry.” Adeline said with obvious sincerity. She looked a little lost, as if expecting anger and unsure what to do with Marianne's oddly friendly overtures.

“Me too. Look, I don't know what you plan to do, but I'd strongly recommend you dump his cheating carcass.”

Adeline looked down, hands clasped loosely in front of her. While Marianne's expressions played clearly across her face, Adeline was much harder to read. When she stopped attempting to smile her face fell into a neutral expression, only the slight tightening around her eyes giving away the pain she must be feeling.

“What?” Marianne prodded, the bag of eggs swinging when she threw out her hands, “He cheated on you!”

Adeline addressed the porch rather than look up at Marianne. Her half-whispered words sounding tired but resolute. “I love him. I want to make it work.”

“Why would you?” Marianne burst out, “He was going to marry someone else! He was going to marry me! That scumbag obviously doesn't care about either of us except for what he can get out of us. I know what he wanted from me—my dad's money and power. He certainly didn't want me. Why do you think you're any different?”

The words were harsh and Marianne regretted them, because she was venting her anger at Roland on this poor woman who had done her no harm except to be duped too.

“I love him.” Adeline repeated, expression growing a little more firm, even if her eyes were still bright with the threat of fresh tears. She had drawn herself up and Marianne realized again how lovely and elegant Adeline was. So that was it, then. Marry Marianne Summers for her money, and keep Adeline Boncoeur on the side to make up for everything his wife lacked. No wonder he had so willingly put up with her awkwardness. She thought it had been loving acceptance of her short-comings. But it was merely tolerance, the price to be paid for the money and influence their marriage would have brought him.

“He's taken care of me.”

“But he doesn't love you. He loves money and his hair, and not in that order.”

“He's all I have. He's all we have.” A subtle emphasis and gesture from Adeline struck Marianne with realization.

“You're . . . pregnant? Roland's . . .?”

Adeline nodded, a smooth inclination of her head.

Bile was rising in Marianne's throat and the air seemed to have vanished. But she croaked out, “Give me your phone. Give me your phone!” Almost shouting when Adeline hesitated. Adeline, frightened but the outburst, complied. Marianne punched in her number and handed the phone back. “Look, I know Roland. He makes you feel small and unnecessary, like his attention is some big honor you don't deserve. And I know it's going to go wrong. There'll be another rich girl he wants to marry, or he'll just get tired of you. You want out, you need help, call me, okay?”

“I--” She held her phone like it was going to attack her, overwhelmed by the intensity of Marianne's words and actions.

“Okay?” Marianne almost shouted the word and Adeline drew back a little at the force of it. Something in her manner made Marianne think that she was used to being told she was in the wrong and feared to contradict anyone. How many times had Roland so subtly subdued her like he had Marianne, telling her how she ought to talk, to act, who she ought to be. How many times had she put on that empty smile to please him?

“Just please take it.” Marianne said, her voice lowered to a reasonable volume and rough with the effort of it. “I can't tell you what to do. But you need anything, call me.”

Adeline took her phone in both hands, falling back into her natural poise. Her hair shone in a golden wave under the porch light as she nodded her head again. “Yes. Thank you, Marianne.”

But Marianne was running back into her car, far away from Roland's secret house and his secret girlfriend. The car screamed down the road, at least twenty miles over the speed limit, before her inability to breathe made her pull over, nearly sending the car into the ditch as she swerved. She fell out of the car, tangled up with her bags of unused eggs, and onto the gravel on the side of the tidy, upper-class neighborhood street, crying so hard she thought she was going to choke.

Now

“I hate that he makes me such a mess! He made so many promises.”

“I'll bet he did!” Bog replied.

“But why did I believe him? I was so stupid! And it hurt so much and it still hurts sometimes. It isn't fair. It isn't fair that he gets space in my head, rent-free. “

Bog hated how Roland could hurt Marianne even when he wasn't there. For the moment he forgot about the invisible barrier between them and put his arm around her, letting his hand rest tentatively on her flour-dusted sleeve. What he wouldn't give to knock that moron's teeth in.

“It's just . . .” Marianne accepted the arm around her shoulder and leaned on Bog, arms wrapped tight around herself. “I kind of had a dream. Find that perfect guy, have the fairy tale wedding, the whole nine yards. Of course, my vision of a fairy tale wedding didn't include guests . . . And I was stupid, I thought that I could have that with Roland. Then I see that baby—Gwill—and he looks just like Roland. It's like . . . it's like somebody stole my dream and twisted it all around and gave it to somebody else. I don't want that anymore, I don't want him, but . . .”

“It was a part of you and it got destroyed.” He remembered another day, it felt so long ago now, when he had stood in the workshop and watched his world walk out and he hadn't had the strength to even try to stop her. It wasn't an experience he thought he could survive twice. What he had once had with her . . . he didn't want it back. But it still hurt.

“It was everything. It all started off . . . differently. Dad's been planning to have me take over his business, have me work my way up. I kind of liked that idea. I had this picture of getting married and being a super-mom, with half a dozen kids and running a business at the same time. Then Roland came . . . and he sort of squashed everything out. He was going to be the CEO and I was going to stay home and take care of the kids by myself. Then it was all smashed to pieces and I didn't know who I was anymore.”

“Seem to have gotten that pretty well figured out now, tough girl.” He squeezed her shoulder. He couldn't think of a more vivid and definite personality than Marianne's.

“Huh, I wish. My defining trait is “angry”.”

“No, that would be “stubborn”. I've never seen you angry without a right good cause behind it.”

“Really?” The question was cautiously hopeful

“Really.” He assured her.

“Even when I threw DVDs at you because we couldn't decide which movie to watch?”

“You weren't really angry. We were just having fun.”

“. . . I guess so. I'm . . . I'm just used to thinking of myself as angry. That's what I was for the longest time. It was the only thing I had left. And I didn't want any of that stuff back. All that stuff that made me weak. Wanting all that stupid, girly stuff.”

Bog tried to sort out his thoughts, disentangle past and present, ignore the echo of a door long shut and focus on Marianne. What he had wanted then and what he wanted now. He found that these things had not fundamentally changed. The distant dreams of his past were wreathed in fluffy clouds of naivety but reduced to their core he saw that his dim notion of what he wanted now was the same: a home. A family. Love.

Bog let go of Marianne, stood up and went over to a shelf, running his hands over the labeled bins and drawers, making tiny adjustments to their placements to give himself something to do. His back was turned to Marianne, his turn to hide his face, trying to articulate ideas he had long tried to ignore.

“I always . . .” The words stuck in his throat so he swallowed them down and tried to approach things from a different angle. “I need to show you the pictures from our summers in the Highlands. All of us older kids had to look after the wee ones so the parents got a bit of a break.”

Marianne perked up at this random piece of trivia, “Oh, no. You and Roderick?”

“A good dozen of us teenagers running after toddlers and changing nappies. The babies stayed with their parents mostly, but the ones big enough to walk under their own power were our charge all through the day. Take them with us on our hikes and such.”

“You're telling me a bunch of burly young Scotsmen were on babysitting duty?”

“Aye, and we'd destroy anyone who hassled us. Wee ones loved to watch, cheer like mad when we broke somebody's nose.”

“You are being at least sixty percent Scottish right now, you know. Highland child-rearing sounds ideal.”

“All the men of the King family were required to be able to toss a caber, down a man in one punch, and know how to mix formula, change diapers, and a soothe a wee one to sleep with some nice Highland tune about the British being louses and stealing our sheep.”

“What about the women?”

“The same, plus the ability to make a bear of a man shake in his boots if he forgot to wipe his feet before coming into the house. I have some girl-cousins that you'd probably get alone with like a house on fire. Anyway, I learned how to deal with kids.”

“Yeah, you handled Gwill like a pro.”

“I like kids. I grew up thinking that—assuming I would—I wanted--” The words stuck in his throat again and it took great effort to get them out. “I . . . I get it. Wanting that stupid cliché, little house with a picket fence and kids in the yard. It's okay to . . . still want that. Before I screwed it all up with . . . with her . . . I thought . . . I was young and stupid and thought there were happily ever afters. It's okay to want that.”

“Her?”

Bog closed his eyes, trying not to think about the woman he had once planned to ask to be his wife. Tried not to think how he had depended on her while his dad was dying. How she had left him, walked out of the workshop, the door closing one last time behind her. Because he had held on too tight, leaned on her too hard in that horrible gray time. He has assumed too much, thought she had felt as deeply for him as he felt for her. It had hurt so much and it had been his own fault . . . he couldn't let himself make that mistake twice. He didn't want there to be a day when Marianne finally get fed up with him and walked out the door, one last time.

“The mysterious ex, huh?” Marianne said, calling him back to reality and he opened his eyes. She was standing right next to him, that careful space once more between them. “The one who got you on your anti-romance kick?”

Bog nodded.

“You never talk about it.”

“Nothing to talk about. Screwed up. Got dumped.”

“Hm. I could summarize the Roland mess as: Got duped, dumped him. Yet we still manage to find something to talk about. It's not fair you know all my dirty secrets but your past affairs get to remain sacred.”

“I . . . I loved her more than she loved me. Times got hard and I assumed . . .”

“That she's stick with you?”

“Yes, because I was such a brain-dead fool that . . . anyway, she hadn't signed up for the walking disaster that is me.” He waved a hand to indicate his face.

Marianne grabbed his hand to interrupt the gesture and Bog's breath caught at the contact, but she released his hand again almost immediately. “Idiot. You're still walking, that's what's important. And you are super too hard on yourself.”

“Says the girl trying to power her way through a panic attack.”

“Pfft. Don't use me as a role model. I am one hundred percent unstable.”

“You are not! You're--”

“Only slightly unhinged?” Marianne offered dryly.

“Perfect.”

The instant the word was voiced Bog would have given his right eye to pull it back in. He would have given his left for the ability to say something else, anything else, to cloud the air with words until his slip of the tongue was hidden by the fog of it all. Instead, all he could do was stare at Marianne like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car.

“I don't know who you've been talking to,” Marianne said slowly, “But you have been greatly misled.”

“Oh, shut up!” Bog covered his face with his hand.

“Perfect little me with my hair-trigger temper, tendency to forget how to breathe, and an extensive record for assault. Mmhm. I'm pretty fantastic. Twenty-four carats of issues and improperly managed rage. The deluxe package.”

“Marianne, you're not . . . I just meant . . . look, I wouldn't change anything about you, okay? Perfect, not perfect, whatever. I like you and I love--” His tongue stumbled and the last words came out weakly, “--hanging out with you.”

It had actually been what he meant to say, but the sound of his own voice saying the word “love” out loud had tripped him up and changed the dynamic of the sentence entirely. His face felt hot and he gripped the edge of the worktable while he tried to think of what to say next.

He finally finished:

“You're my best friend.”

Marianne bent her head and picked at the end of her jacket to hide the pleased smile that the words inspired. “Thanks, Bog. You're my best friend, too.”

The two of them stood facing each other, shuffling their feet and trying not to look at each other's pleased smiles until Bog suggested, “Should we get matching bracelets?”

Marianne laughed and smacked his shoulder. “I now desperately need to see pictures of teenage Bog babysitting. It is my life's goal from this moment on, I will not rest until I achieve my dream.”

“I think I know where the albums are.”

“What? Not on Griselda's Shelf of Shame?” A shelf in the living room that Marianne had often perused with great interest and immense amusement.

“No, the . . . a lot of the stuff to do with my dad . . .” Bog cleared his throat and things got quiet for a little while. “You feeling okay now, tough girl?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them liked to suggest going back inside. Really, he'd like to stay in the workshop for the rest of the day. Better yet, for this moment not to end. Never have to go inside and endure the dinner, never have to get up on Monday to return to the usual repetitive drudgery of day-to-day existence. He knew that he had to go, though, while he still could, keep moving before the gray pressed any closer. If this moment never ended he wouldn't have to look to the future and see the road stretched before him, laid out in a horrible straight line with no hope of change in sight. He wouldn't have to see Marianne's own path curve away from his.

“We should go back inside before Roderick starts thinking we've eloped.” Marianne sighed.

“You gonna be okay? With Adeline and Gwill?”

“I think so. Thanks. I just needed a reminder that I've got new dreams now. Better ones.” She smiled at him and it was a brilliant smile, untouched by the sadness and anger of the day, a smile based on some happiness Roland hadn't managed to destroy or corrupt. Bog couldn't help but hope that he might be some part of that happiness, might have in some small way contributed to that beautiful smile.

“Maybe we could spent the rest of the evening building furniture. Do you think that's a good enough excuse to avoid human contact?”

Bog suddenly remembered, with a surge of panic, a particular project he very much didn't want Marianne seeing just yet. But a quick glance told him that while the pieces were visible there was no way to tell what they would look like assembled and the plans for the project were safely tucked in a drawer.

He shook his head. “Mom will come and rout us. And I've got to dig out those albums, haven't I?”

“Oh, that's right. Are there pictures of you in a kilt?”

“Maybe. Tell you what, you provide photographic evidence of your wearing a fancy dress and I'll show you pictures of me in my full Scot glory.”

“Caber tossing?”

“Actually . . . yes.”

“Deal. I'll show you my prom pictures. The dress had sequins.”

“No way.”

“Yeah way.”

“This is like being offered high resolution pictures of Big Foot.”

“I'm only doing it because I want to see what you looked like with your hair dyed black.”

“I looked a right idiot.”

“Not much difference, then.”

“. . . ow.”

They continued to delay, talking of this and that, stretching out the moment as far as it would go. Bog veered back to the original subject, wondering about some gaps Marianne had yet to fill in.

“Where did you go? After seeing Adeline? You were gone two weeks, right?”

Marianne had picked up a piece of sandpaper and was rubbing her fingernail across it, inspecting the diminished length and frowning at the chips in her nail polish.

“Where did I go?”

She had never told anyone. It wasn't a big secret, she hadn't done anything exceptional, but she had never told anyone. That little space of time had been hers. All the hurt and loneliness of it, she had guarded jealously. Telling her father, telling Dawn, it would have only eased their minds but she kept it to herself. Kept everything to herself after that, excluding everyone, building up a wall to keep them all out, so they couldn't get close, couldn't change her. Couldn't make her be that weak girl again.

She had never told anyone.

Until now.

“I guess I went home. I'd been away for a long time.”

Then

The house wasn't safe anymore.

She'd fled it to avenge herself by wrecking Roland's house, but it was also because she couldn't spend another minute with her dad. To endure one more well-meaning piece of advice from him, one more consoling look from Dawn.

It wasn't safe, her brain screamed, run, run, run, find somewhere safe.

Sobbing on the side of the road her brain was still telling her to run, find somewhere safe. And when she stopped sobbing, when her heart stopped pounding hard enough to break her ribs, she climbed into the back seat of the car and curled up on the floor, wedged between the seats, weak and aching. It wasn't safe, but the urge to run and hide lessened a little with the comforting walls of the seats rising above her.

As soon as she was able to she was running again. In a blur of rental cars and a plane rides—three layovers because that was cheaper and easier on her small supply of ready cash—she ran until she pulled her latest rental up in front of a house with an unkempt lawn and dusty windows, a For Sale sign hanging slightly askew on a wooden post.

She didn't know how many owners it had passed through in the intervening years, and she didn't care. It was her house. The house she had lived in with mom and Dawn after the divorce, just a short car ride from the beach.

Home.

Her fingers shook when she unlocked the door. She wasn't sure if it was from anxiety or hunger. Probably both. The constant edge of panic made it hard to choke down much aside from some coffee. Thankfully she had managed to pull herself together enough to contact the real estate agent and throw her dad's name around until she was given a key and unrestricted access to the house, pretending to be a secretary inspecting potential properties for her boss.

Marianne had the sense to close and lock the door behind her. It was the middle of the night and one ragged vagabond breaking into the house was enough. She looked the part, in her baggy clothes she hadn't changed in days. The electricity and water wouldn't be turned on until tomorrow, but the streetlights threw in some illumination through the windows and she roamed the house, shining a tiny flashlight she'd had in her backpack to guide the way.

The wall they had painted murals on had been painted over long ago in a dull peachy beige. She and Dawn had tried to paint one last mural together before they left the house but without mom there . . . Dawn had dropped her paintbrush on the floor and run out of the room crying. Marianne couldn't remember what she had done, it was a dull blur in her memory, but she thought she might have screamed and hit the walls until somebody dragged her away. But she wasn't sure if she'd actually done it, or just imagined doing it. After the car accident she had been on a lot of painkillers for a long time and she was pretty sure, in hindsight, that they had given her sedatives, too. To keep her calm. To keep her manageable.

The mural was gone, but the ballet bar was still there. The sight of it stirred up memories of afternoon practices, striving to imitate their mother's graceful movements, of participating in school performances of Swan Lake, running around the house in tutus with Dawn, boldly proclaiming plans to be a ballerina when she grew up. Usually these declarations were followed by an attempt at some overambitious ballet technique and Marianne needing several bandaids or—on at least two separate occasions—stitches.

Marianne tried to get her foot up on the bar but ended up falling abruptly on her rear end when she lost her balance. Grumbling and rubbing the seat of her pants, she stood up, regretting that she had stopped practicing her ballet after the accident. At first she physically couldn't and then . . . she still couldn't. Dawn still did it a little, for exercise, and it gave her a certain grace of movement that Marianne envied.

“Hi, mom, I'm home.” The words landed flat in the empty house.

The empty house echoed her footsteps, magnifying them until she was sure each step sounded like a hammer blow. The safety she had sought, that she had come here to find, it wasn't there.

She still wasn't home.

Now

Bog sensed that Marianne's recounting of her adventures were severely abridged, but did not press for details. She spent more time describing how she had conned the real estate agent into giving her the house keys than she did talking about her plane rides or panic attacks. She didn't even tell him that there had been panic attacks, but he could read between the lines.

“I’ve gotten a bit back into practice with ballet.” She stood on one foot and raised her arms in a rough approximation of a ballet pose, the best she could do in restrictive jeans. “Excellent for leg strength.”

“You’ve threatened my kneecaps enough times for me to remember that.”

Marianne twirled and then dropped the pose. “Then came my biggest crime.” She said, treating it all lightly, like an amusing story.

“What's that?”

“Vandalism.” Marianne said with relish, “I know, hardly impressive. But if you don't count the people I've punched before and since then . . . yeah, my criminal career never took off.”

Then

First she had attacked the blank wall with a marker from her backpack, desperate to dispel the void, to reestablish some trace of familiarity to her old house, find some trace of home. First she just scribbled madly, black wiggling lines across the smooth beige expanse, but after awhile she began to form patterns, repeat shapes, experiment with filling the space.

And with it came a calmness, enough that she had a little space in her head to think again, plan a little bit. Realize she was hungry and leave the house to go find food and a few basic necessities.

Over the next few days she got supplies, cleaned the wall, and primed it for painting. At first she painted with fury, but then she became occupied with the technique, made herself work with control. Spray painting patterns all over the wall of an empty house, careless of the floor or woodwork, a mask and goggles protecting her face. She slept in the car and drove to the beach to walk and enjoy the salty breeze, the house too full of fumes to bear for long. She set up her ipod and speakers and blared rock music while she worked, the tiny speakers unable to produce enough noise to get the neighbors' attention.

The anger in her cooled. It wasn't gone, but there was a space. A calm place in the midst of a raging storm where she was not angry or sad but balanced. For a little while, lost in the application of paint and patterns, rhythmic and almost meditative in its repetition. Paint, she remembered now, did not appreciate being applied with violent anger or languid sadness. She remembered painting with mom and Dawn, how they all started to tune out the world as they concentrated. Why she and Dawn hadn't been able to pain that last mural, been unable to block out the overwhelming reality of the upheavals in their life.

A few days of working on her mural and watching her supply of ready cash dwindle, transformed into spray paint, hot dogs, and cheap beer from the corner gas station, and the calm space in her head grew large enough for her to think properly and sort some things out.

Large enough that she stood back and looked at the wild swirls of color patterned across the wall and she could see the imperfections but not be upset by them. Calm enough that she carefully cleaned the drips and splatters off the floor and woodwork, neatly primed the wall and returned it to an approximate shade of beige. That she could stand in front of the blank wall in the empty house again, the last her trash bagged up and shoved in the back of her rental, and she could say goodbye.

Goodbye to Roland, to lost dreams, and--

“Goodbye, mom.”

The house was locked up, the key put in the little box on the For Sale sign for the agent to pick up later. Marianne sat in the front seat of her car, sitting on a tarp because her clothing and hair was speckled with paint. She turned on her phone, took it off airplane mode, and selected a number from her contacts.

“Hi, Dawn. Yeah, I'm okay.” Dawn's concerned voice pricked at her, rousing her anger, but she pressed on, holding her temper in check, “Dawn . . . that art school you're going to . . . does it have a good painting program?”

Now

“Went looking for home?” Bog absently ran his hand over the worktable his dad had built. He knew that feeling.

“Still looking, I guess.” Marianne shrugged. She and Dawn had grown apart and while there was comfort to be found with her sister there was none of that feeling of security that she was looking for. Marianne still felt regretful over the distance between them, only lately begun to heal. “Anyway, that's the story of my weak attempt to begin a life of crime.”

“You cleaned up after yourself. That's adorable.”

“I'm the worst at crime!”

“Except when it comes to assault and battery.” He comforted her.

“That's kind of you to say.”

“You're so pathetic I can't help it.”

“Shut up or I'll laugh at Roderick's jokes!”

“You'd choke first.”

“. . . yeah. Okay, I guess we should really go back in now.”

“Yeah.”

Marianne glanced around the workshop once more before going back to the house, enjoying the orderly space and smell of wood. A thought struck her: It was a safe haven. She had run for it when hard times came, and like the last one she had found it empty. But this time . . . this time safe haven had come to her. She looked at Bog.

He was home.

The smell of sawdust, that long worried face, that he pushed everything aside—all his own difficulties--to take care of her, that he had always been there for her and never, never asked for or expected anything in return. It was safe to tell him anything. Safe to be herself. He welcomed to be herself.

He shrugged on his coat and turned to look at her, smiling that smile that told her he was trying so hard to trudge through the gloom of a bad day. He looked at her with those sad blue eyes that seemed to turn a little happier when they fell on her. All at once she was over conscious of her hands and feet and found her tongue had grown clumsy and dry, whatever remark she had been about to throw out died before it reached her lips because he was looking at her like . . . like she was everything. He'd seen how broken she was, seen the cracks that marked her, knew all her imperfections. And he still looked at her like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

She'd gone cold and hot at the same time and she wasn't sure if she was breathing and for a moment she wondered if she was having another panic attack.

“C'mon, tough girl, back into the fray.”

He held out a hand and Marianne put her own in it, realizing as he loosely closed his long fingers around hers that she was completely in love with him.

Oh, no.

They barely walked back inside before Dawn appeared and seized Bog by the hand, “There you are, Boggy! I wanted to give you this before everybody got here!” She presented him with a gift bag, pink tissue paper peeking out of the top of it.

He accepted the bag with apprehension and tried to ignore the beaming face glowing earnestly up at him. Griselda was there as well, but thankfully Roderick was nowhere to be seen. “Do you know what this is all about?” he asked Marianne. She shrugged and didn't meet his eye. “And it isn't Christmas yet.” He added.

“But it'll be no good by then, open it, open it!” Dawn bounced up and down until Sunny put his arms around her waist and anchored her in place.

The wrapping paper came away and he pulled out the green Christmas sweater from the shopping trip. He had forgotten about it, but there it was, green with white stripes, candy canes and Christmas trees decorating it in generic holiday cheer. “Didn't we already have this discussion it won't--” Dawn snatched it out of his hands and held it up to his shoulders. “Fit?” He finished uncertainly. It reached all the way across his shoulders but did not fold in expansive drapery around his waist.

“I fixed it!” Dawn explained. Bog took the sweater from her so he could measure it properly, “I hope you like it! Griselda gave me one of your shirts to use for a pattern.”

Bog's first instinct had been to roll his eyes and express his disgust for the cutesy holiday gift. Dawn knew full well his opinion on such things. But she had taken the time to modify the thing so it fit properly, put in a lot of effort. And, he glanced at Marianne and Sunny who were both wearing ridiculous holiday sweaters, she was trying to include him.

“Oh, well, if everyone is doing it,” He said, shrugging off his jacket and then pulling the sweater over his head. “Far be it from me to resist peer pressure. It's a lovely thought, princess.”

“Wow, Bog, you barely gagged at all!” Marianne said.

“You like it?” Dawn asked.

“It's kitschy and everything I despise about the commercialization of holidays. I love it, thank you.” He bent down and hugged her briefly.

Dawn's blue eyes went huge. “Boggy hugged me! You really do like it!”

Roderick came in, lingering in the doorway to take in the sight of Marianne, Dawn, Sunny, and Bog all in their obnoxiously colorful Christmas sweaters. “Oh, nice!” He began, obviously intending to elaborate.

Marianne cut him off. “One wrong step and you will live to regret it.” She warned.

Roderick held up his hand in mock-surrender, not even trying to hide the smirk on his face, “Oh, I'm so scared--”

“Bog,” Marianne said, “It's your house.”

Bog leaned on a counter and waved airily, “Oh, go right ahead. I'll give you twenty bucks if you break his nose.”

Roderick glanced from Marianne to Bog, looking a little uneasy by their lack of reaction to his attempts at stirring up trouble. He looked back at Bog. “Did you just take a hit out on me?”

“I might have.” Bog shrugged.

“As far as guard dogs go maybe you should get something bigger than a dachshund.” Roderick suggested, using his hand to measure the difference in height between him and Marianne.

Marianne moved forward one step, fists at the ready and expression deadly. Roderick stepped back. “Yes. I will be somewhere else.” And left the room.

However, few minutes later when Bog stepped into the hall Roderick pulled him into the spare room where they were putting the guests' coats and sundry winter gear.

Bog shoved Roderick off, tensing up and preparing for whatever small insanity his cousin had planned.

“Okay, Bog,” Roderick shut the door and stood in front of it, blocking escape, “What did your not-girlfriend say to my not-girlfriend? Because unless Addy is in the bathroom pretending she isn't crying for no reason other than she took a fancy to, then your little lady must have said something to upset her.”

Roderick's words were characteristically trite, but his manner was not.

One summer, Bog remembered, some local kids had been picking on some of their smaller cousins. Roderick had bloodied their faces and blacked their eyes without a trace of his usual frivolity. It had been almost frightening to see him doing anything but act the easygoing and charming fool. Bog respected that moment of seriousness and realized that this Adeline must be a very good friend indeed. So Bog respected him enough to bite back a sharp retort and simply say, “Do you know Roland?”

Roderick tilted his head, his serious manner softening a little. “Yes, I know Roland. The question is, what do you know about Roland?”

“Um. Marianne almost married him.”

Roderick stood dead still, eyes going wide. “She's that Marianne?”

Bog nodded. The sweater was prickly and he rolled up the sleeve to scratch at his arms.

Roderick ran his hand down his face, tapping his false arm against his leg. “That's so funny I can't even laugh. How did you end up dating--?

“We're not dating.” Bog snapped.

“Fine. How did you end up mixed up with her?”

“We go to the same school.”

“You're going to school? Thought you'd done the college thing, old man, or did you drop out?”

“Different sort of program.”

“What program?”

“Art.”

Roderick blinked.

“There's just so many possible responses to that I think my brain just froze up. I have to check on Addy, but I will get back to you later with some choice remarks about shaming your Highlander ancestors, I promise. I guess that your Marianne's had a bit of a shock, too. Oh, so you two weren't actually sneaking off to snog--”

“Would you shut up?”

“I will, actually, because I have to go—do you happen to have Roland's address handy? I think since I'm in the neighborhood it would only be polite to introduce my fist to the more tender bits of his anatomy--”

“Just go!”

“Right.”

Roderick left and Bog sat down on a corner of the bed that wasn't covered in coats and hats. Distantly he could hear Roderick tapping on the bathroom door and say, “Addy? I know about Marianne . . . But he doesn't know you're here, okay, luv? He's not going to take Gwill, I promise. Let me in?” There was a faint click when the door unlocked and Bog heard the door open and then shut behind Roderick.

Bog relaxed, his cousin diverted for the time being. He took a few minutes to breathe and vaguely hope that this was the end of the holiday drama.

Steph and Thane showed up, bearing gifts of oyster stuffing, and close on their heels was the rest of the construction crew that Bog usually worked with. They crowded into the entryway, many of them greeted Sunny by name, but this was the first time Dawn and Marianne had really met any of them aside from Steph and Thane so there was a flurry of introductions. Everyone seemed to have heard of Marianne, which made Bog glare at Steph and Thane. They smiled weakly and shuffled around so Marianne was between them and Bog.

“Nice to see you again.” Marianne said, greeting the two of them. “In better circumstances,” She added. The last time she had seem them was at the disastrous dinner when Roland had slashed Bog's tires.

“Didja ever kill that guy?” Thane asked with candid curiosity. Steph nudged him to shut up, but looked interested in hearing the answer.

“Not yet.” Marianne shrugged. “I almost decked Roland for the umpteenth time.” Marianne said in response to Adeline's quizzical look.

Roderick slid into the conversation. He and Adeline had reappeared without comment about their disappearance and Roderick had plunged right back into making a nuisance of himself, “Go on . . .” He now prompted.

“He survived.” Marianne shrugged again.

“Aw.” Roderick slumped in disappointment.

With the arrival of the other guests it became hugely noisy and busy, crowding out any space for reflection or wallowing, and Bog allowed the cheerful tide to carry him along without a fight. He bobbed in and out of focus, the babble of voices turning into background noise until some random voice or comment would pull him back into focus.

Brutus, the campus security guard, had been invited too and Bog had to shoo the massive man out of the kitchen more than once as the final dinner preparations were completed. Herding out some of the construction workers he scolded, “No eating! Not until everything is served. Brutus!”

“Awww!” Brutus put down the serving spoon he had been about to use to sample the gravy simmering on the stove and backed away reluctantly.

Finally, with much fuss and snarling—primarily from Bog—dinner was served and they sat down to eat the bounty Griselda had spent the last week preparing. She had never gotten over missing the big clan gatherings of her husband's family and she loved a good crowd and a lot of noise. Bog did not, but he figured once a year wouldn't kill him. Probably.

“You probably think that all British people sound like Doctor Who.” Roderick was saying to Marianne in response to some comment Bog had failed to catch.

“Then there should be a good reference point.” Marianne disagreed, “Seeing as the actors who've played the Doctor have had a variety of different accents. Plus, the twelfth doctor is played by the undeniably Scottish Peter Calpaldi.”

She pointed at Bog and he held up his hands in surrender before reaching across the table to give her a high-five. “And he's called The Doctor, not Doctor Who.” Bog added.

Roderick blinked. “Did I just—no, hang on just a tick! Did I just get nerd-slammed? Did I just get nerd-slammed by Bog and a hot chick? What alternate dimension have I slipped into? Bog! You used to eat nerds for breakfast, with your guitar and rocker hair! We beat people up in bars together and now you know Doctor Who trivia?”

“I'm fairly sure we were on opposing sides in those fights.” Bog snorted.

“When did you become a nerd? Is this a genetic disorder? Does it run in the family? Am I doomed, too? Addy, if you ever see me pick up a comic book I want you to smack it out of my hands. Hand.”

“Rod, we went to see Captain America together.” Adeline said, continuing to calmly feed Gwill bites of turkey and yams.

“Movies don't count! They only count if you complain about the story lines not matching up with the original comic books.”

“Actually,” Marianne said, “I'm enjoying how the Marvel movies have gone off on their own direction for the most part. What works in a comic book doesn't necessarily work in a movie and I'd rather see original things done well then have to suffer through a contrived attempt at replicating the original story panel by panel.”

Roderick looked at her sadly. “You're one of those people, those tumblr people who write essays about this stuff, aren't you? You and Bog run some sort of nerdy blog, don't you?”

“I'm not so much into superheroes.” Bog remarked, “And my tumblr is for art.”

“You have a tumblr. Bog King has a tumblr! All those summers together in the Highlands and never once did I suspect that one day you would betray all the principles we were raised with and become . . . this. Art school and blogs . . . too much, too much.”

“Rod,” Adeline said, “You cosplay.”

“But in a cool and unnerdy way!”

“You watched The Winter Soldier ten times in a row to study how Bucky's arm works. And Fury Road thirteen times.”

Rod rested his chin in his hand and gazed into the distance, “Fury Road is a masterpiece.”

“So what are you up to nowadays?” Griselda cut in, giving Bog and Marianne a break from Roderick so they could eat their food. “How did you end up in America? And with all that hardware on your face? Didn't your mother have plans for you to be a politician or something?”

“Yup! And she's bitterly disappointed in me. After I got discharged--” He gestured with his false hand, “--I took off traveling. Ran out of money when I ended up in America and got a job and decided to go back to school.”

“What're you studying?”

“Education. I want to work with kids.”

Bog choked on his turkey.

“Who in their right mind would let you near children?” Marianne demanded, “Um, no offense, Adeline.”

“He tried to give Gwill a sip of beer last week,” Adeline replied, unperturbed.

“I did not! I just let him smell it because he makes the most hilarious faces. Like an offended kitten.”

“What about you, dear?” Griselda asked Adeline. “Are you in school?”

“I'm studying nursing.”

“It's very handy because she can patch me up in a heartbeat when I get knocked about.” Roderick nodded. “Actually, she helped me with my physical therapy. She looks all sweet and innocent but don't be fooled, she's a flinty-heated taskmaster.”

“You're just lazy.”

“I'm laid-back. There's a difference.”

“If you say so.”

Roderick grinned, “She doesn't put up with any of my rubbish. I love it.” He kissed Adeline's cheek and—for probably the first time that evening—she genuinely smiled.

“She loves me.” Roderick said in a confidential tone to half the table. “Oops, hey!”

When Roderick had finally taken off his coat he had revealed a great number of chains hanging around his neck and Gwill had been eagerly grabbing at the shiny jewelry all day. Now the toddler had a firm hold of a chain and was tugging gleefully at it.

“Oh, look at this!” Roderick picked through the chains until he pulled one with a pendent on it free. It was half of a broken heart with the word “Best” stamped in it. But somebody had scratched out “Best” and scratched “Just” underneath.

Adeline raised a wrist and displayed a charm bracelet with the corresponding half of the broken heart, this one stamped with “Friends”.

“'Just Friends'?” Dawn puzzled out, then giggled. “Do you guys get asked if you're dating a lot?”

“All the time!” Roderick threw out his hands in bafflement, “I have absolutely no idea why!” He put his arm around Adeline and leaned his head on her shoulder, “I mean, where would they get such a notion?”

Adeline folded her arms and shook her head at Roderick's antics.

“Really, did you have to just scratch it out?” Bog complained, gesturing at the pendent. “It'd be easy enough to put a little soldering on it and stamp the new word over it, if the metal is right.”

“Ugh, not all of us are art nerds.” Roderick said, his arm still draped around Adeline.

“He should have tried fusion.” Marianne remarked.

“Yeah,” Bog agreed, though he only half-knew what the term meant, “A little scrap metal, a high-powered blow torch and you're golden.”

“Of course he could also used acid to smooth it out, and as for putting the new lettering on a couple of basic tools would do. Of course, it would be easier to just start from scratch and pour molten silver in a mold.”

“Oh, don't listen to them!” Dawn said, taking pity on Roderick's confused face and  interrupting Bog and Marianne's serious discussion, “They've never taken a jewelry class in their lives!”

“They're yanking your chain.” Sunny put in. “So to speak.”

Roderick slammed his hand on the table, “Alan King, you had me going! I totally thought you knew what you were talking about! When did you get so sneaky? Usually you'd just blacken my eye and be done with it.”

“I applaud your use of the backhanded compliment.” Marianne said darkly, “Pass the potatoes and shut up now, please.”

Roderick passed the potatoes but did not shut up. “Bog used to be as reliable as clockwork. Tease him a bit and then dodge right quick because he can't take a joke to save his life.”

“Some jokes aren't funny.” Marianne muttered.

“Remember that time, Bog, remember that time you got drunk--”

“Roderick.” Bog said warningly. He recognized the beginning of this story purely from Roderick's delivery of it. It contained enough facts to make denial hard, even if most of it was fabricated or supposition. It was also humiliating. Heat rose across his face and neck as he sought to hold back his temper and refrain from hitting Roderick in front of the other guests.

“But, no, you got drunk and then you pitched head-first--”

“Roderick.”

“--that girl you fancied was there and she saw the whole thing--”

“Rod.” Adeline said quietly.

“Yeah, just a minute, this story is hilarious!”

“Rod,” Adeline insisted, her voice still quiet and even so the rest of the table couldn't hear her, “I think if you go on Marianne is going to kill you before we even get to dessert.”

“Oh.” Roderick, who had been focusing his attention on Bog's sullen face, finally looked over at Marianne and felt a twinge of fear at the murderous look she was directing at him. He looked somewhat impressed. “So small. So much anger.” He said, but subsided, changing the subject and talking about a fight he had gotten into earlier in the week.

When the evening was wearing on Bog was pulled from the blur of noise and lights by Marianne tapping his arm. “You promised me pictures.” She said.

“Yes.” Bog remembered to breathe again. Roderick was regaling the other guests with stories of his youth—primarily ones that featured Bog in a ridiculous light—so Bog was glad to escape, “Probably in the spare room.”

“Grab some dessert and meet me there.”

Marianne arrived after he did, her arms laden with dishes and a couple bottles of beer in hand. Bog was rummaging in a stack of boxes, his own stolen treats on the bed.

“Griselda saw me,” Marianne said, carefully maneuvering to set the dishes down while her hands were still full of the beer and some cutlery. “But I think we're pardoned on the strength of her pity and that we'll be hanging out together and we all know that will eventually lead to marriage.”

“Ought to get some advantage from it, I suppose.”

Bog accepted a bottle and pulled out his pocket knife and selected the bottle opener, opened his, then handed the knife to Marianne. “I need one of these.” She remarked.

“Too late, I already got your Christmas present.”

“And it's not a knife? Lame.”

“But I'm delivering on the pictures.” Bog waved a stack of albums in triumph.

“Mmm, gimme!” Marianne took a swallow of beer and put her bottle down on the floor, plopping down to sit cross-legged on the carpet and flip through the album. She was immediately rewarded with a picture of teenage Bog with black hair, wearing black slacks and leather jacket. He sat astride a motorcycle that looked about to fall to bits. He was surrounded by a gaggle of boys and girls about his age, a strong family resemblance showing among them. Bog had a guitar case slung over his back and was smiling at the camera over a pair of sunglasses.

“I knew there was a motorcycle somewhere in your past!”

“You've found me out.” Bog sat down next to her and grabbed his stolen pumpkin pie off the bed and began eating out of the middle of it. Marianne grabbed a fork and stole bites of his pie while he tried to whisk the pan out of reach until she threatened him with the fork.

Marianne nearly spit out beer when she found a picture of Bog wearing his kilt and a leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders. “Woooow. That is some brave fashion sense.”

“Give me that.”

“No, I want to put it on the fridge at the apartment.”

“I'm humiliated, you can stop now.”

“No, I love it! You look like the protagonist of the most bizarre movie ever. All about the wandering Scot guitarist on a quest—for revenge!”

“Might I remind you, princess, that you owe me a prom picture?”

“Blah!” Marianne relinquished the picture, “Fine!”

They spent a comfortable half hour going through the albums, Bog talking about his summers spent abroad, even telling a story or two about his dad, which he didn't usually. Griselda sought them out when the guests started to leave, telling them to come be polite and not to leave dirty dishes in the bedroom.

Marianne sprang to her feet, gathering up an armful of dirty dishes and dashing off to dispose of them. Bog stayed behind a minute to put away the albums. He moved and box and noticed that the albums had been sitting on two guitar cases.

He was surprised to find them there. He had thrown them out, he thought, one bad day years ago. He pulled the guitars out, fiddling with the clasps on their cases but not opening them. It had hurt so much, when he stopped being able to play. There used to be that easy energy, of happiness always within reach if he only made an effort. Idly picking up the instrument and the melodies springing up under his fingertips. Then there came a time that his hands betrayed him, that no matter how hard he tried everything was out of reach and the effort was not worth the disappointing result. Bog ran his hands over the instrument cases again. They must be a mess, the guitars. If the strings had been tight when they were packed away the fret-board might have cracked. He had just shoved them away—he thought in the garage, if he hadn't thrown them away outright—but they were here. His mother must have moved them.

He put them back, the albums on top.

What was it like, he wondered dismally, to have a brain that worked? To have that emotional energy. Marianne had it. She moved so fast, he would never be able to keep up. Someday she would get rightfully tired of waiting for his dragging footsteps to catch up with her. He couldn't ask her to wait.

Roderick, Adeline, and Gwill were the last to leave. Griselda wanted some time to ask Roderick about his family and how he was getting on, then loaded him down with several containers of leftovers. Dawn and Sunny stole Gwill and were cooing over him in a corner as he feel asleep, exhausted after his exciting day.

Bog should have suspected something. Marianne was being too cheerful. They stepped out of the house to help carry the food to Roderick's car and she wasn't even complaining. Adeline was still inside, putting Gwill back in his winter gear. Roderick unlocked the car, keeping up a steady stream of chatter.

“Cheer up, Bog!” He said after relating another embarrassing story from their youthful days in the Highlands. “Can't be as bad as all that. Really, he's always been such a gloomy guy, positively no sense of humor either. Best to smile. You aren’t going to win over the ladies on your looks alone, you know.”

“Hey, Roderick?” Marianne said with such intense cheerfulness that alarms were going off in Bog's head, but his arms were full of tupperware and Marianne was on the opposite side of the car with Roderick.

“Yeah?” Roderick asked brightly, turning to look at her.

“Shut up!” Marianne's fist slammed into Roderick's face and he toppled backwards, unprepared for the blow. He tried to grab at the car, but it was to his right and his prosthetic slid uselessly against the metal, unable to get a grip on anything. He sprawled out on the ground, churned up snow flecking the fur of his coat. Bog was aghast, but not enough to be unappreciative of the stunned look on Roderick's face as he scrambled ungracefully down the side of the car to writhe in the snow.

“What the bloody--” Roderick said thickly.

“I said shut up!” Marianne said again, her false cheerfulness gone and her anger unrestrained, “Can't you just shut up and leave people alone!” She looked ready to start throwing more punches, but Bog had run around the car and grabbed her just as she lunged forward. He picked her right up off the ground and she kicked furiously at the air, “Put me down, I'm going to kill him!”

“Oh, no!” Dawn was standing on the porch, attracted by the noise, “Sunny, she finally went killer rabbit on him!”

“Told you,” Sunny said from inside the house.

“She's absolutely mental!” Roderick said, scooting backwards in the snow until he felt he was out of range and it was safe to stand up. He worked his jaw and gingerly felt the split skin over his cheekbone. “Crazy!”

“Watch it, or I'll let her go.” Bog warned.

“Aren't you two a match made in heaven!” Roderick snorted, checking his fingertips for blood.

Adeline came out, Gwill in her arms and Griselda right behind her. “Oh.” Adeline said, looking at Roderick's battered face and Marianne's barely contained rage. She handed the sleeping Gwill to Dawn, “Excuse me, I've got a first-aid kit in the car.”

“Addy, she hit me!”

“I can see that.” Adeline opened the door to the back seat of the car and pulled out a bag, merely saying, “Excuse me,” when she had to pass by Bog and Marianne.

“She's insane!”

“You're stupid.”

“Addy, you're supposed to be on my side!”

“You make that very hard, Rod.”

Bog looked down at Marianne. “Is it safe to let you down?”

“Yes.” Marianne said sullenly.

He let her go, watching her warily, but she made no attempt to renew her attack. “Sorry, Adeline.” She said.

“It's fine.” Adeline had cleaned Roderick's cheek and stuck a bandage over the cut. “I'm surprised you managed to wait until the other guests left. Is your hand okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Marianne ran her hand over her redden knuckles but found the skin intact.

“Addy!” Roderick complained.

“Here's some ice, dear.” Griselda came out with a baggie full of ice and handed it to Roderick, “Thought we'd need something like this sooner or later today. Nice to see you, Roderick, send your family my love.”

Roderick and Adeline were waved off, Griselda remarking, “This is how things usually ended when we visited my husband's side of my family. That boy has a face that attracts fists. Come inside, it's freezing out here.”

Bog and Marianne stayed outside, standing side-by-side in the snow, waiting for the headlights of Roderick's car to fade and the front door to shut behind the others. The moment he heard it close Bog opened his mouth to speak, but Marianne cut in before he could get out a word.

“I'm sorry. I'm an idiot and I can't keep my temper but he wouldn't shut up and he wouldn't leave you alone and you're having a bad day--”

“Are you serious? That was glorious!”

Marianne looked up at him. “What?”

“The look on his face was priceless! I would have hit him myself, but he just thinks that's funny, getting a reaction out of me. He seriously didn't know what to do with you—you took the wind right out of his sails. Thank you.”

“Oh.” Marianne relaxed and smiled a little. “Huh. Um. Usually when I punch somebody I get a lecture on anger management.”

“I think you managed very well, seeing as you didn't jump across the dinner table and hit him over the head with the gravy boat. I admire your restraint.”

“You are literally the first person to ever, ever say anything like that to me.”

“What? No one has even complimented your form before? That was a textbook right hook, beautifully thrown. Is your hand okay?” He reached for it, but stopped himself when Marianne moved back, holding her hand to herself and rubbing her bruised knuckles nervously. He let his hand fall and looked up at the stars coming out. “I only stopped you from hitting him again because I didn’t want you to be obliged to pay for his hospital stay.”

“So darn sensible. Next time just hit him yourself and save me the trouble. I wonder what Addy sees in him.”

“Hm. He’s a jerk, but he’s a decent jerk. Deep down. Deep, deep, deep down.”

The house was set back from the main road and there were only a few neighbors scattered around the nearby area so the light pollution was minimal and on a clear night like this one the stars made an impressive display. Hands in his pockets, Bog leaned back and tried to pick out constellations. In his pockets his fingers encountered a crinkling wrapper and he pulled out the lollipop Marianne had given him the other day.

“Hey.” He poked her in the arm with it, “For you. Since you behaved so well.”

“Idiot.” She snorted.

“Menace.”

“Well.” Marianne kicked at the dirty clumps of snow littering the driveway, “That's Thanksgiving over with.”

“Sorry about all the drama.”

“Oh, hey,” She tossed her head to get her bangs out of her eyes, “it's still way better than it would have been with my dad's family. Those gatherings are like non-stop emotional triggers, no escape. I just hope Dawn isn't mad at me.”

Dawn was not mad. When Bog and Marianne trudged in out of the cold Dawn said, “Well, that was inevitable! We're going to watch It's a Wonderful Life after we finish up the dishes, coming?”

“Yeah.” Bog headed to the kitchen but Dawn pulled Marianne aside and said—in what he assumed was intended to be a confidential tone that he wasn't supposed to overhear, “Boggy's face when you punched Rod! I think Bog fell in love with you all over again!”

“Dawn!” Marianne said in horror, “Dawn! Oh my—shut up!” She fled down the hallway and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Dawn standing there, very confused.

“That was . . . different.” Dawn said slowly, glancing sharply at Bog, who was still lingering outside the kitchen.

He held up his hands, “I didn't do anything!” 

Dawn so far had no idea who Adeline was, only knowing that Marianne had met her before at some point. Bog didn't think it was his place to tell her that Marianne was probably feeling sensitive after a tumultuous day of old hurts dragged up into the light and aired out.

“Nothing, huh? Maybe that's the problem.” Dawn replied, “I personally suggest kissing her already.”

“You—why—shut up!” Bog spluttered.

“I second the motion!” Griselda said, sticking her head out of the kitchen to join the conversation, startling Bog so badly he nearly fell over.

“Mom!”

“I can hear you!” Marianne shouted from the bathroom.

“My point still stands!” Dawn shouted back at her.

“Guys,” Sunny spoke up, drying his hands on a towel as he came out of the kitchen, “Do you really think this this helping? It's not like they're going to suddenly agree and fall into each other's arms right in front of us. Leave them alone and help me with the dishes! I'm only one guy and there are mountains in there.”

“Pah. You've gotta nag them or they'd never get anywhere.” Griselda complained. But she went back into the kitchen, patting her son's arm as she passed him.

“Sunny,” Bog said, “You are my favorite person.”

“Don't get excited. If you guys kissed now I'd lose the betting pool.”

“. . . the only thing preventing me from wholesale slaughter, Sunny, is that I'd hate to see Dawn cry.”

“Don’t I know it.” Sunny grinned, retreating to the safety of the kitchen.

They had sat down to watch It's a Wonderful Life, to the vocal dismay of Bog and Marianne. Marianne had come out eventually and sat rigidly on the couch next to Bog while they watched a movie. She was tucked up in the exact center of her cushion, the space between them almost tangible, it was so obvious. Marianne had taken the afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped herself in it so she was a stiff cocoon with a vicious look glittering in her eyes. Bog had awkwardly folded his arms and angled his legs away to respect her space, even if he wasn't sure exactly why she was reacting so strongly to Dawn and Griselda's usual teasing.

Partway through the movie Marianne noticed Bog nodded off, jerking back awake when the action on-screen was particularly loud. But by the time the angel got his wings and they turned off the television Bog was slumped over the arm of the couch, fast asleep thanks to beer and large quantities of turkey.

He remained asleep as they all gathered their things to go and prepared to head out to the car. Marianne ducked back into the living room to see if she could say good night before she left, but he hadn't stirred and she was hesitant to wake him up when he seemed to be getting some decent rest. She tucked her discarded afghan around him and considered drawing something on his face. 

He always looked so tired, Marianne thought, looking at the dark shadows under his eyes. Even for a student he looked exceptionally tired. And sad. She hated how sad he looked. Sometimes she just wanted to squish his face and tell him to cheer up, but she knew that wasn't how it worked.

“We're leaving,” She said experimentally. 

He didn't move and his breathing remained steady, the side of his face cushioned on his arm, the prickly knit sleeve of his Christmas sweater no doubt irritating his face. Carefully, she shifted his head with one hand and slipped one of the couch pillows under his head. He was drooling a little, she noticed, and she had to try very hard not to giggle out loud. Brushing his rumpled hair back into place, she let her fingers linger on his face, feeling her own face redden when he gave a sleepy murmur after she ran the back of her fingers down his prickly cheek.

Dang, she had it bad.

Him and his stupid, sad face.

“Feel better soon, Bog.”

Bog woke up not long after, confused to find himself alone in the dark living room and wondering whether or not he had dreamed Marianne coming in and placing a kiss on his face. She certainly wasn’t there now.

When he got up and caught sight of himself in a mirror he was able to confirm one thing for certain:

Marianne had drawn a curly mustache on his upper lip with a marker.

Chapter Text

NOW

Bog wasn't sure it if was better or worse.

That Marianne was in love with him too.

Bog clamped a piece of wood in place on his work table and pulled his carving tools across the table so they were within easy reach. It was late and he should be asleep. He'd had to wake his mother up and demand the key to his workshop. Griselda was relentless in flushing him out of his workshop in the evening, ordering him to get some sleep, and always careful to take the key off of Bog to make sure he didn't slip back out. Seeing that Bog wasn't going to sleep that night whether or not he had access to his workshop she had finally handed the key over along with a sleepy grumble that, “If you just told that girl how you feel you'd probably sleep like a log.”

Bog had only just managed not to slam the door behind himself.

He had always known Marianne liked him. She wouldn't bother with anyone she didn't like. He understood that, he was the same. She was the best friend he had ever had. Which, Bog conceded to himself, wasn't really saying much. But even before he had known—alright, admitted—that he loved her he had known she was someone he wanted in his life forever. If at all possible. He also knew that it wasn't possible. That this brief, idyllic time was always going to end.

Good things didn't happen to him.

That was a fact he had accepted a long time ago and he wasn't about to contradict it now. He had accepted that he was going to be alone. Once he hadn't been. Once he had been happy. But that was over. That was the past. He had done his best to prepare himself for the end of this interlude, to step out of the comfortable oasis of the semesters and back into the dreary gray of reality.

He hadn't expected to ruin everything by doing something stupid like falling in love with her.

But it had been so easy. He hadn't even properly realized it was happening until it was too late. Yes, he had always been peripherally aware that she was the sort of person he could fall in love with. She was different and she clicked in with him so effortlessly. And it wasn't just some sort of moonlight nonsense about eyes and hearts skipping beats—even if his heart had been irregular in its rhythm as of late—no, it was something else. Something . . . something that was just right. How they argued without actually disagreeing, how they could sit in comfortable silence together, how Marianne seemed to . . . accept him. No, not just accept him, but . . . approve of him? That had to be the most mystifying part, that she would enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed hers.

Yes, falling in love had always been a danger.

But not really. Neither of them had wanted that, so that was fine too. Neither of them wanted that. And so he had assumed he would be alone in this feeling, that it was strictly one-sided.

Until after Thanksgiving.

Bog chipped bits off the end of the wood, waiting for a pattern to occur to him, for his hands to start working while his brain was otherwise occupied. He just wanted to lose himself in the rhythm of his work and not think of anything at all.

But he couldn't forget what had happened. What had begun with a suspicion, what might have been just a dream of Marianne kissing his cheek good night. Bog laid down his tools and rubbed his knuckles against his cheek, the movement causing a sandpapery sort of rasping. He had been ready to write that off as a dream. Now he wasn't so sure. Well, no, now he was pretty sure it had actually happened.

And he wasn't sure if it was better or worse.

Earlier that week . . .

Bog hadn't even known she was in the room.

He probably would never have known she had been there at all if she hadn't tripped over his tool box and nearly gone done for the count.

Bog had been sitting at a worktable, head pillowed on his arms, staring off sideways at nothing. He did that a lot lately. It was probably the medicine he was on. It had only been a week since he'd started it and things were . . . off balance. The stuff the doctor prescribed to help him sleep made him groggy and the anti-depressants hadn't kicked in yet. He was used to his tendency to drift off from reality if he stood still too long, but it had gotten significantly worse with the addition of constant grogginess.

It had been Bog's intention to avoid Marianne and the clatter of her fall and sound of her voice as she wordlessly exclaimed over her situation twinged at him like a guilty conscience. A slow dread filled his stomach, smothering the brief spark of gladness that lit his heart when he realized Marianne was nearby. A haze lay over everything and made his movements slow as he pulled himself upright and broke his unfocused stare with a tired blink. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to summon up the concentration to deal with the matter at hand.

When he opened his eyes he found Marianne was upright again, by the head of the stairs, looking only slightly frazzled and cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. Her shoes were on her feet and her backpack was slung over her shoulder like she had just arrived. But she was also carrying a painting that had been up against the wall when Bog had arrived in the studio. Apparently she had been there for some little time and was now preparing to leave.

“Are you alright? When did you get here?” Bog asked after a pause that went on far too long, him struggling to summon up a relevant sentence and Marianne standing there looking at him, noticeable uneasiness stiffening her posture.

“Uh . . . awhile ago. I thought you were asleep. I was just going to . . . I didn't want to wake you . . . got a class . . . after this.” She smiled weakly and readjusted her grip on the canvas. “Um. Anyway. You okay? You were kind of spacing.”

“Yeah.” Bog slumped back over the table, leaning his elbows on it and digging his fingers into his hair, trying to keep himself from drifting. “I'm fine. Just tired.”

Marianne's backpack went flying and slammed into the couch, knocking the cushions askew. The painting was thrust up against the banister with a clatter and Marianne's boots sounded sharply on the floor as she marched over to Bog's worktable. He blinked at her, watching as she kicked a stool on the opposite side of his table and dropped down into it, her hands slammed on the tabletop loud enough to make Bog pull back a little.

“One more attempt to force feed me those tired, empty excuses, Bog, and I will destroy everything you hold dear, starting with your truck and ending with your Star Wars memorabilia. Which goes first, the Sith lord robes or the model of the Millennium Falcon?”

These threats were uttered in a flat, serious tone. This, combined with Marianne's eyes narrowed to slits in purple eyeshadow and her lips pulled back in a snarl, somehow added up to a picture of hilarity.

Bog couldn't help it.

He started laughing.

He laid his head on the table and just laughed and kept laughing until he felt his throat start to ache and tears form in the corner of his eyes. He laughed so long he started to feel a knot of panic tighten in his chest because he wasn't sure he could stop.

“Dude.” Marianne said, her anger pushed aside by growing confusion. “You are freaking me out. Bog? Okay. You're not stopping. I guess asking if you're okay is kind of dumb right now. Um. There, there?”

An awkward pat on Bog's shoulder nearly made him choke on his laughter, but it also seemed to shock him out of his giggle-fit. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry--” He sat up and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing away the tears and fogginess that clouded his vision, gasping in a breath and letting it out as a very undignified and wavery giggle.

“Shut up. You're fine. I shouldn't have threatened the Sith robes. Obviously I went too far and cracked your sanity.” She patted his shoulder again, neglecting to remove her hand after completing the gesture.

“Huh, I'm pretty sure it was cracked before you showed up. Sorry, but I have been tired. All kinds of tired.”

“Oh. Is that why you've been avoiding me?” The hand on his shoulder gathered up a pinch of his sleeve and fidgeted with it. Bog thought vaguely of covering it with his own and stilling Marianne's restlessness, but he didn't move.

“I haven't—! Um . . . I haven''t, I've just been . . . why have you been avoiding me?” He shot back.

“I--” Marianne began to say, then shut her mouth with a snap, breaking off whatever she had been about to say. Her hand went still and heavy on his shoulder.

The two of them regarded each other with a nervous wariness, both swallowing their automatic denials of the truth. They hadn't seen each other since Thanksgiving, even during times when they usually crossed paths in the studio or on campus. Neither of them had so much as texted the other. There had been a complete silence for three days. Hardly more than a weekend, but Bog couldn't remember the last time they had gone that long without talking. When he resolved to avoid Marianne he had been perversely bothered by how easy she made that to carry out.

Marianne pulled away, her head leaving Bog's shoulder. He couldn't repress a sigh at the loss of the small, warm weight that had pulled the world a little more into focus. Marianne slumped in her chair, shifting around so she could prop her feet on the table and gaze up at the toes of her boots as she crossed her arms. She watched the light catch the ends of the laces, seeming to find it fascinating. Bog folded his arms on the table again and rested his chin on them, content to remain silent as long as Marianne was.

Almost.

Bog know why he had been avoiding her, but why had Marianne decided to do that same? Had she realized that he . . . his feelings? But, no, she couldn't have. Could she? It would explain why things felt so stained and awkward between them. If she suspected how he felt . . .

“Are you okay?” Bog asked her, trying to pick his words with care,  “Did something . . . happen? You've been, well, a bit off. Since Thanksgiving afternoon.”

“So have you.” Marianne crossed her ankles, the heels of her boots leaving scruff marks on the tabletop. She continued to examine her shoes and avoid meeting Bog's eye.

“I'm always a bit off.”

“More than usual.” She amended.

“Eh,” Bog shrugged his shoulders without sitting up, “Roderick gets under my skin.”

“He's a real twit.” Marianne agreed, checking the knuckles of her right hand and admiring the bruising that still stained her skin. “But you'd been off before he showed up. What's on my favorite pine tree's mind?”

“What's on my favorite pocket ninja's mind?” Bog countered.

Marianne swung her legs up and off the table, bringing them down onto the floor with a bang, bright brown eyes making their way at last to look Bog in the face. “Ugh, you're infuriating! I asked first!”

“No, I asked first and you evaded. And I answered.”

“Oh, please, we established that it wasn't Roderick that was the problem.”

“No, we didn't. You claimed--”

Marianne reached across the table and smacked the flat of her hand on top of Bog's head.

“Hey!”

“Dang, I thought that might be the off-switch. Or at least the snooze button.” Marianne said, ruffling up his hair, “It must be around here somewhere.”

“Ugh.” Bog groaned, “Calling you a pocket ninja is insulting to the subtlety of the noble ninja. You're a wee Amazon.”

“You need a haircut.” Marianne remarked, tugging strands of Bog's hair straight and eying the length of them. “I should let Dawn go at you with some scissors. She loves a challenge.”

“I don't know how many more hits like that my self-esteem can take. You come here and assault me with threats against my vehicle--”

“Your truck or the Millennium Falcon?”

“--then have the nerve to question my choice of hair styles.”

“Is it a style if it's just something you let happen?” Marianne gave his hair one more good ruffle and then shoved his face down until his nose was squashed on his crossed arms. “Scruffy Scot!”

“Enough!” Bog lunged across the table, grabbing at Marianne. She gave a startled yell and tried to retreat, but Bog caught her by the overall strap, tethering her long enough for him to stand up and reach across the table properly.

“I will not be manhandled!” Marianne declared, struggling to free herself while Bog circled the table.

“Neither will I!” He retorted, letting go of her overall strap long enough to wrap both his arms around her and pick her up off the ground. She was facing away from him and began to kick at the air, her arms pinned to her sides. “Now tell me what's wrong!” He ordered.

“Nothing's wrong!” Marianne insisted, kicking harder.

Bog squeezed her tight, “There goes my allergic reaction to lying! Muscle spasms, you know!”

“My allergic reaction to this sort of treatment is involuntary disembowelment of the closest person! You tell me what's wrong! I asked first!”

“No, you didn't!”

“I don't care, you answer first anyway or I'll crack your kneecaps!”

“I don't negotiate with terrorists, no matter how tiny they are!”

“Put me down, you emaciated giraffe!”

“Not a chance, you wee berserker!”

“Berserker?” Marianne stopped kicking so she could think over this title. She craned her head around so she could see Bog's face and gave an approving nod.  “Hm. Nice.”

“Thank you. I don't think I heard emaciated giraffe before, so well done.”

“How about underfed and drooping vulture?”

“Variations on that, yes.”

“The world's grouchiest pine cone?”

“As far as I know, tough girl, you're the only one who calls me a pine cone.”

“At least I'm original, then.”

“Oh, you're one of a kind.”

“Thanks. So are you.”

“Fortunately for the world at large.”

“Keep it up and I'll get Dawn over here to give you a pep talk. She'll make you tea and do your nails. I was actually supposed to meet her between classes and get my nails redone, so I have the manicure set in my bag. This is no idle threat.”

“Terrifying. But I believe we were talking about you.”

“I believe we weren't.”

“Well, then I suppose I'll just have to drop you out of a window.”

“Idle threats.”

“Are you calling my bluff?”

“I am.”

“All right, then.” Bog hefted her up into his arms more securely, one arm behind her back and the other under her legs, and carried her over to the window.

“Knock it off!” Marianne demanded, thumping his chest with her fist. “Put me down, moron!”

“No, no, I have to prove that I'm a man of my word.” He reached out with the arm Marianne's legs were hooked over and tugged the window up. The process was made difficult because the window was stiff and Marianne was covering his eyes. Victory was Bog's in the end, he got the window open and a frosty chill crept into the room.

“You wouldn't!” Marianne gave up trying to blind him and latched her arms around his neck to prevent herself from being dropped.

“Out you go!” Bog lifted her higher.

Marianne braced her boots on the windowsill and pushed back hard against Bog. “You cockroach! Put me down!”

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing is wrong!”

“You're a terrible liar!”

“I just don't want to talk about it!”

Not talk about it, or not talk about it with him?

“Did I . . . was it something I did?”

“Um.” He could feel Marianne grow still and how she took a steadying intake of breath, as if he had hit a nerve. For a few moments they stayed as they were, feeling the bite of cold creeping through the open window, listening to the hum of the heater as it kicked on.

“Oh.” Bog let the word out in a quiet breath. So it was something he did. But what had he done? How had he given himself away? She must think he was so pathetic. Or just creepy. Bog quickly set Marianne back on her feet and hurried to shove the window shut. He pulled at the latch, focusing on getting the rusty thing to snap into place, and did not look at Marianne. “I won't keep you from your beauty appointment. Sorry that I . . . bothered you.”

“No, no, no, wait a second!”

“No, it's okay. I'll just--”

Bog made a move to walk back to his table but Marianne grabbed the back of his hoodie in both her hands and yanked him back. “You are not allowed to go away sad because you think you did something wrong!”

“You don't have to--”

Marianne stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. The gesture silenced Bog and the sudden hammering of his own heart all but deafened him as well. He looked down at the hands clasped in front of him and somehow he was unable to think of what to do with his own. They fluttered in the air as if they would rest on Marianne's to mirror her pose. In the end he simply let them fall.

“What--?”

“You don't get out of it that easy, pal.” Marianne spoke into the back of his hoodie, “Dawn canceled the manicure appointment due to forgetting she had an essay due in three hours.” She took in a breath, “As for the idea of you having done anything wrong . . .”

Bog braced himself for whatever she might be about to say. Was she going to rip his face off for being such an idiot that he fell in love with her? Let him down easy? That made him cringe. Or would she just laugh?

“You haven't.”

Bog didn't realize he had been holding his breath until he started breathing again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I'm sorry I've been weird.”

Bog brought his hand up and covered Marianne's where they were clasped over his stomach. She hadn't figured it out. “I'm sorry I've been weird. Do you—do you want to talk about our mutual weirdness?”

He felt Marianne nod. “My time is yours. If you want to talk, I mean. If you want I can just . . . go.” Her hands tensed up and her uncertain tone made it clear that she wasn't quite sure if she wanted to go or stay.

Which Bog understood, because he wasn't quite sure if he wanted her to go or stay. It seemed Marianne did not know about his feelings after all, but he felt absolutely transparent. As if the moment she let go and they turned to face each other it would be written all over him for her to see.

“'Cause I can just go down to the lobby and do my own nails before my next class.” Marianne said after a pause, her hands were shaking underneath Bog's fingers now.  “I always do a terrible job on my right hand, though. And I always skip the sealer coat. But who cares? I'm just going to ruin the whole thing next time I have to wrestle the lid off a jar of paint.”

Bog took her hands in his and pulled them apart to free himself from Marianne's hug. When he let go she pulled her hands away, but Bog turned around to face her and took her hands again. He really wanted her to stay. Awkwardness aside, it was shaping up to be a terrible day and it would only be worse without Marianne around.

“I could . . . um.” He began uncertainly. The way she as curling her fingers around his made him forget his words.

“Yes?” Marianne asked hopefully.

“I could . . . do your nails for you.”

Marianne let out a startled laugh, her pensive expression breaking and her face lighting up with laughter. “You---you could do my nails? What do you know about the fine art of nail polish application?”

Bog managed a grin. “Once upon a time I was going to be a rock star and I learned how to do my own makeup. Part of my look was pointed black fingernails.”

Marianne yanked her hands free and seized the front of his hoodie. “Are. There. Pictures?!”

“Yes. Videos, too.”

“Show me!”

“Only if you talk about what's bothering you.”

“Ah!” Marianne gave an anguished cry and shoved Bog away. “That's not fair!”

“The band was called Broken Carapace. I named it.”

Marianne dropped herself on the couch, feet flying up into the air and then descending back onto the floor with a bang. “Fine! Let's paint out nails and talk about feelings because I must know more about Bog's rocker stage. Stop grinning. You've won the battle, not the war. Let's see if you can live up to all the big talk.” Marianne pulled the manicure set out of her backpack and threw it at Bog.

Bog caught it and sat down on the couch next to her. “I can also give you eyeliner tips.”

“You are a man of many talents, Alan King. Why haven't I heard about this band before? You certainly have the voice for it.”

“You're not so bad at carrying a tune yourself.” Bog damped a cotton ball with nail polish remover, “Hand, please.” He held out his own.

“Um. As you command.” Marianne presented her hand after a noticeable pause, placing it in his.

“Uh.” Bog said, clearing his throat and looking away for a moment to try and compose himself. Trying very hard not to think about the way Marianne's hair fell when she leaned her free arm against the couch and tipped her head down to watch her fingers trace the dusty patterns in the cushions. He directed his own eyes to her hand and began removing the old layer of polish.

“Your cuticles are a mess.” He remarked.

“Stupid cold weather wrecks havoc with my hands. I miss moisturizing just one morning and by the afternoon I'll have cracks in my skin deep enough to bleed.”

“Just one morning?” Bog snorted, “Half the time you can't even find where you put your lotion.”

“Oh, yeah?” Marianne dug in her backpack one-handed and retrieved a bottle of hand lotion which she waved in triumph. “Boom. There it is.”

A glance at the label of the bottle caused a smirk to creep across Bog's face. “Sugar cookie scented? You stole that from your sister, didn't you? Couldn't find your own and you stole your sister's.”

“Shut up!”

Bog was rolling the bottle of polish—glittery blue-black—in his hands when he brought the conversation back around to the original subject. Wrenched it back, actually. He was all too inclined to let it all drift away in the haze that had settled around him, but with Marianne sitting so close, his hand around her wrist to keep her from fidgeting, kept pulling him back.

“Is it Adeline and Gwill?” He asked, “Is that what's bothering you?”

“I guess.” Marianne said, looking away from Bog. “Roland, the art show, my dad calling and asking me about my Christmas plans, what I'm going to do after graduation in the Spring, and . . . and other stuff. Everything all at once. Things I'm not ready for.”

“We're ready for the show, nearly.” Bog pointed out, painting a stripe of polish down the center of a fingernail and then on either side, carefully not to get any on Marianne's skin.

“Yes, praise be! That's one thing I don't have to completely panic over. Thanks to you and your mad organizational skills. But . . . I'll be sad to have it over. All this build up for one night of cheap appetizers and a handful of bored students grimacing at having to endure looking at our stuff for extra credit. Then a week later we take it all down.”

“Yes, but we'll have earned our freedom from Plum's tyranny. Our after hours work time will be safe. And she can't pull something like this a second time because it's our final semester in the Spring and we won't have time to dance to her tune.”

“One semester left . . . I'm not ready for it to be over.”

“Me neither. Other hand. So why have you been avoiding me?”

“I haven't!” A sharp look quelled her and she sighed in defeat. “I dumped so much stuff on you on Thanksgiving. Stuff I've never told anyone. I almost told you some things that . . . I'm not ready to tell. I freaked out. Overloaded. After an info dump like that I thought you might appreciate a . . . break from me.”

“Hand!” Bog warned, before she dragged her wet nails through her hair. “A break? No! No. I was worried that . . . So . . . there's . . . nothing wrong? With us? I really didn't . . . do anything wrong?”

“Of course not! If anything you do things too right.”

“What do you—hand!” Bog exclaimed when he saw Marianne was about to start picking at the seam in a couch cushion. Her hand flew up and she began to shake it to dry the polish more quickly.

“Thanks. What about you? What's up with you?”

Bog had finished painting the first coat and should have let go of Marianne's hand. Instead he looked down at it, small and delicate in his own misshapen fingers. He ran his thumb over the bruising on her knuckles, barely whispering over her skin, and smiled at the memory of how she took Roderick out with one shot. Why did she have to be so tough and beautiful? Faced with such a combination he hadn't stood a chance.

“I'm so tired.” Bog said at last. “All the time. I don't care about anything but I care too much, too. My sense of time is all wrong, the days have been so slow, but I almost didn't realize the weekend was over. I didn't mean to avoid you, exactly, I was just . . . not wanting to bother you. Waiting for you . . . to call me first. Hoping I might get a random call at some ungodly hour asking about who was the best voice actor for The Joker.”

“Mark Hamil.” Marianne said.

“Hey, Heath Ledger did a fantastic job--”

“That's live-action, not voice acting. Different category.”

“Oh, I stand corrected!”

They both laughed softly and looked away from each other.

Marianne swung her leg forward and nudged Bog's ankle with the toe of her boot. “Sorry you're feeling so crummy. Sorry I didn't call you.”

“It's not your job to babysit me and my woes.”

“I make it my job. It's called friendship. It's a popular concept, you should check it out.”

“Nah, I tried it out once or twice but it wasn't for me. I'm all take and no give.”

“Hardly. You have saved countless lives by talking me down from heat-of-the-moment murder. I can't believe how you put up with my freak outs. Have I ever said thank you for that? Because . . . thanks.”

“Eh, what are friends for?”

“Dude, seriously, do you have any idea what that stuff means to me? A lot. It means a whole heckuva lot. I haven't had anyone to talk to like this since mom died and since we met I've been . . . happy.”

Bog screwed the cap back on the bottle of polish and dropped it back in the bag. He folded his arms and bent over, pulling his jacket tight around himself, trying to take up less space.

“I'm going to let you down.” He said, “Whatever I've been doing right, I don't know how I've done it. It's a fluke, I can't replicate it. I'm going to let you down and it'll kill me because I don't want to let you down, you of all people . . .”

“You don't have to try. You're you and that's what makes it work. Just keep being you.”

“I'm . . . I'm a mess. I'm ugly, pathetic—look at me! You know! How can you not be tired of all this . . . mess?”

“How could I ever get tired of my best friend? Besides, if I dumped you I'd have to buy my own power tools.”

A laugh caught in Bog's throat. “The truth comes out.”

“You really do need a haircut.” Marianne fiddled with the locks over his ears.

“Hand.” Bog scolded.

“This one's dry. Haircut. Need. And a shave.” She curled her fingers, smoothing his hair back behind his ear and letting her fingers curve around to brush down his cheek and across his prickly jaw.

Bog stopped breathing.

He wanted to lean into that touch that had skimmed over his face. Instead he hunched further over and sighed. “Why do you waste your time on me? I'm not worth the effort.”

“How many times are you gonna make me say that it's not time wasted?”

“I just don't believe that somebody like you would find anything worthwhile in me. I don't know what you see, but someday you're not going to see it anymore and—and . . .”

And I'll be alone again.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Bog.” The smell of nail polish grew stronger when Marianne pinched his chin and made him look at her. “But you're wrong. I know you can't see that right now, but it's just not true. I like being your friend. I like you.”

The words were entirely sincere and she was leaning into his space to ensure he looked her in the eye, practically nose-to-nose with him. He had shifted to the end of the couch, as far as he could go without getting up, and she had followed him, refusing to let him disappear.

She was so close.

He really, really wanted to kiss her.

He pulled away from Marianne and leaned back against the couch, facing away from her.

Marianne brushed the hair off his ears again and his shoulders gave an involuntary twitch at the touch. “It's okay if you're tired. I like you even when you're tired. Really bad weekend?”

“Mmhm.”

Marianne began humming, continuing to run her fingers through his hair in a calming pattern. He felt his eyes begin to slid shut. The worry that disturbed his sleep had abated and the person he most wanted to see was sitting right next to him.

Marianne started to sing, soft and low.

“I don't know where I'm goin'

But I sure know where I've been.

Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday

And I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time

Here I go, here I go again.

Tho' I keep searching for an answer
I never seem to find what I'm looking for
Oh Lord, I pray you give me strength to carry on
'Cause I know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams

Here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time

Just another heart in need of rescue
Waiting on love's sweet charity
An' I'm gonna hold on for the rest of my days
'Cause I know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams

And here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time
But here I go again, here I go again,
Here I go again, here I go

Bog was falling asleep and he drowsily turned around so he was facing Marianne again. He loved her so much. So often that hurt, but right now he was just happy. Happy to be near her, happy to be her friend. On the edge of sleep, Bog said, “You make me happy, too.” Through the crack of his not-quite-closed eyes he saw her freeze, felt her hand stop. Red blossomed over her face. Then, she smiled. A soft, warm, happy smile. And it was directed at him, her hand resuming brushing his hair. He caught her hand, and, still on the edge of sleep, he succumbed to impulse and pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

Marianne gasped.

Bog snapped out of his sleepy haze, sitting bolt upright and struggling to say something, to apologize, to explain. Anything. Inarticulate words died in his throat when he looked into Marianne's eyes and realized that she hadn't taken her hand away. When he tried to pull back she held on more tightly. Bog waited for the ax to fall, for Marianne to brush it off, to tease him, to tell him she didn't feel like that. Anything.

“Oh, no.” She whispered. “You too? I mean--!”

“Too? What—? Wait. What?”

“What?”

“What did you mean—?”

“Why did you—?”

“Do you mean that—that you--?”

“And you--?”

“I—I—um. Yes?”

“Yes?”

“I mean--”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. No! Yes! I—I have class!”

Marianne's hand slid free from Bog's loose hold. She crammed the manicure supplies into her backpack and bolted off the couch. She fled, crashing down the stairs, leaving Bog along on the couch.

He didn't follow her.

NOW

Bog looked at the piece of wood he had been trying to carve.

Hew threw it against the wall, scarring a tool rack.

It was worse.

It was worse that she loved him back.

Because he was going to let her down. He was going to hurt her and she would walk out of his life forever and leave him alone in the dark.

Just like before.

THEN

Technically Bog had won.

The other combatants had scattered, disappearing into the night when faced with Bog's unstoppable rage. Hopefully the sight of their own blood would be a lesson to them to quit harassing the other patrons when Bog was around.

He leaned his back to the rough brickwork of the bar's alley-facing wall, cradling his left arm, feeling his sleeve sticking to his skin as blood seeped from the slash that cut down the length of his arm, opening up an uneven red line across a criss-crossing pattern of scars. Probably ought to get stitches. Probably wouldn't. A drop of blood from a split in his scalp trickled down into his eye and he shook his head to fling it off, the movement rewarded with a sharp stab of pain.

Clutching his head he gnashed his teeth together and rasped out a snarl that fell dully in the empty space and was lost among the trash cans and dumpsters. The space, lit by flickering yellow lamps, was small and quiet, the sounds of the world distant here. Only the faint hum of traffic told him that life was forging on ahead without him. It was a small space, getting smaller now that the energy from the fight was fading away.

“Need any help?”

“No!”

Bog snapped out the word before he was even sure who he was talking to, whipping his head around to find out, his scowl deepening with the pain the movement brought. The offer of assistance had been extended by a short, slight man with a disordered tuft of yellow hair and thick framed glasses that gave him a wide-eyed froggy look. Bog recognized him from the construction crew he had been working with lately. James? No, it was something with a T . . . Bog sank back against the wall. It didn't really matter.

“Because you look like you need help.” The construction worker continued, radiating a nervous but eager energy. He wrung his hands around the handle of a closed umbrella and looked ready to flinch at the lease provocation. Bog was happy to provide that.

“No.” Bog said again, concentrating on the burning pain in his arm, the cracked ache in his head, a background of cuts and bruises filling out the pattern. The pounding of his heart was starting to slow, the rush and focus of fighting wearing off, the energy of the moment departing to leave him once more in the muddy flow of his existence. Now he had to plod through the weary practicalities of living.

“Do you want me to call--?”

“Go away!” Bog shoved himself off the wall and kicked a trashcan toward the insistently helpful man, “Leave me alone!”

“Okay, BK!” The man yelped, dodging bits of flying garbage and scuttling away toward the parking lot.

“Told ya.” A lower voice remarked. Bog caught a glimpse of a heavyset person who had been waiting at the mouth of the alley.

“Yeah, I know. But I had to try.”

“Hmph.” The other person snorted, putting an arm around the small man's shoulders, propelling him out of the gloom of the alley and into the brightly lit parking lot, “Can't help if they don't want it.”

They left.

Bog was alone.

But that was his choice, he insisted to himself. That's what he wanted.

Just to be left alone.

NOW

Technically Bog and Dawn took a class together, but seeing as Bog declined to show up for most of the lectures it hardly counted. “Twentieth Century Art History,” He complained more than once, “Giant balloon animal sculptures and piles of rubbish heaped on pedestals. Polish up a rock and call it Serenity in Lack of Motion and sell it to some pretentious idiot for millions.”

“You're just upset that you can't break into the market.” Dawn teased.

They stood outside the classroom, waiting for the teacher to unlock the door. Bog had condescended to attend class that day because a a guest artist was going to be talking about the influences of ancient Celtic art and twentieth century art movements in his work. It had sounded possibly interesting enough that Bog decided to take advantage of the extra credit offered for attending.

“I'm furious. A man paints tomato soup cans and becomes immortalized in text books, I want a piece of this action.”

“If I were a millionaire—” Dawn began.

“Aren't you?” Bog pointed out.

“I'm not. Dad is. And not exactly a millionaire. Just 'reasonably well off'.” She made quotes in the air with her fingers and waved away the topic. “If I were a millionaire I'd buy a sculpture from you, Boggy. Ooh, no, I'd commission one special!”

“I don't work in pink or glitter.”

“Aw, Boggy! Do you work with butterflies?”

The teacher had unlocked the door and in gathering up his belonging Bog fumbled with his bag, jarred by the question. “Butterflies? Why?”

“Because I love butterflies!” Dawn said, not noticing Bog's sudden clumsiness except to pick up the pencils that had spilled out of his bag and hand them back to him. “So does Marianne. She uses the patterns of their wings in her work a lot, you know.”

“I know.” Bog said quickly. “I thought—never mind.”

Bog took a seat in the back and Dawn slid in next to him. He had expected as much and didn't really mind. It gave him a reason to ignore everyone else. Usually he just tried to hide behind a text book or newspaper. Even now he pulled out a copy of the campus paper and began to examine the atrocious graphic design and arrangement of text until the lecture began. The students in charge of the newspaper layout either seemed to have no background in graphic design or were trying some overly ambitious experimentation that fell short of the mark.

“I'm sure it must be hard,” Dawn defended the students in charge of the unbalanced monstrosity of text and clipart. “Having to balance classes, clubs, and putting out a paper, I'm sure they're doing they're best.”

“They have access to photoshop, that means they have no excuse for the text overlapping with the images. One little white box over the image's edge and under the text and this would be readable.”

Dawn had decided the best way to read over Bog's shoulder was stand behind him and prop her chin on his shoulder, reaching around him to point out positive aspects of the layout. Bog tolerated this with more or less good grace, having been somewhat immunized to her affectionate nature over the course of their acquaintanceship. “No, princess, there is absolutely no instance where Comic Sans is an appropriate choice.”

“But it's so friendly and easy to read!”

“Well, I don't like my fonts friendly. We should watch the Helvetica documentary this weekend.”

“Ugh. I liked it well enough to start—who doesn't like a movie about typeface?--but I've seen it in three different classes now and I'm about up to my eyeballs with Helvetica.”

“Hey, Dawn! Who's your boyfriend?” A classmate at the front of the room gestured at Bog.

“Sunny!” Dawn said promptly, before Bog could muster a snarl of denial, “This is Boggy—Bog. This is Bog. He's my sister's boyfriend!”

“I-I am not!” Bog shrugged his shoulder, jostling Dawn, “Stop spreading misinformation!”

“Okay, he's not anybody's boyfriend.” Dawn clarified. “Yet.”

“So early in the morning,” Bog grumbled, holding up the paper to screen himself partially from the now staring students, hoping none of them could see how red he was turning, “And already I need to dispose of a body.”

“Marianne would hunt you down,” Dawn said cheerfully, giving him a quick hug and kissing the top of his head.

“Get off, get off!” He wave a hand at her until she released him and sat down in the chair next to him, smiling brightly and completely undisturbed by his grumbling. He was never sure if he liked that about her or hated it.

The lecture turned out to be interesting enough to have been worth attending and Bog was in fairly good spirits while he waited in the hallway for Dawn. When the seasons had changed and the Fall products come out in the coffee shops and cafes he and Dawn had discovered that they both had an unreasonable love for pumpkin spice lattes. Now they had started meeting regularly to go enjoy their favorite seasonal treat together. He leaned on the wall next to the door and texted with Marianne. She was in class but was texting to him under the table.

There had been a lot of texting lately. They hadn't been alone together since they had realized that . . . well. Yes.

You nearly became an only child. He told her.

You better have had immediate plans to flee the country because I'd be coming for your blood.

I planned to grow a beard and flee to Scotland.

That's a terrible disguise. You're halfway to the beard at any given time. You pretty much have a beard now.

It isn't a beard it's just stubble.

The stubble is starting to hang down from its own weight. That's a beard.

Been a busy week ok

you look like a lumberjack

I was going for homeless vagrant

that works too. Teacher looking brb

Bog shook his head over Marianne's upcoming misadventure and glanced into the classroom to see if Dawn was coming out yet. After every conversation with Marianne he was relieved that it was over. Even though the moment she was gone he felt incredibly sad and alone.

“. . . record for violent assault. If you keep leading him on who knows how he might react. I don't want to see you get hurt--”

Bog caught the non sequitur tail end of a conversation, this bit of advice being given to Dawn by a handsome boy with red wavy hair who was leaning over her with possessive concern She was glaring at him in an stern manner contrary to her cheerful nature, delicate eyebrows drawn sharply down and mouth pinched shut. Neither of them noticed Bog reenter the classroom.

“Listen, Adrian!” Dawn poked her finger into the boy's chest hard enough to make him lean back a little, “I'm not leading anybody on and never have! Just because I'm nice doesn't mean I'm making any promises—to you or anyone else! Just because I smile at you doesn't mean I'm flirting! Boggy is my friend and he is a gentleman. I know him, you don't, so stop trying to protect me like I'm some little kid. As if it is any of your business in the first place!”

She spun around to leave, but Adrian grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Dawn, listen--”

“Hey!” Dawn said, trying and failing to pull away. “Let go!”

“Just listen for a second--”

“I asked you to let me go, Adrian!”

Bog had worked at a bar for enough years and dissuaded enough overeager men from pestering the women patrons that his movements were almost automatic. He crossed the room in a few quick steps, grabbed Adrian's wrist, freed Dawn, and pushed Adrian back so there was enough space for Bog to put himself between him and Dawn.

“Keep your hands to yourself!”

Adrian turned pale, far more than Bog actually thought called for, and nearly ran out of the room. Bog scratched the back of his neck and glanced down at Dawn, “And here I thought I had been getting soft. What was all that about? Who was he? You okay?”

“I'm fine. Just a guy I flirted with before Sunny and I started dating and now he thinks there's something between us.” She made a face, “He's trying to be my friend. Or, at least, he wants to pretend to be my friend so that when I break up with Sunny he'll be next in line to date me.”

“Hasn't he realized you and Sunny are practically married?”

“Well, he thought I was flirting with you, so he's not great with signals.”

Bog gave a snort of amusement at the idea. There was a thoughtful pause in the conversation as they walked into the hallway. Halfway to the parking lot Bog gave an explosive giggle and by the time he got to the car he was laughing full out.

Dawn, taking no offense to his reaction, added her giggles to his breathless laughter. “Oh, Boggy, it'll never work out between us.”

“Oh, well,” Bog said, as if trying to hide his disappointment.

“No, no,” Dawn patted his shoulder, “It's not you, it's me.” She clasped her hands dramatically to her chest.

“No problem.” Bog assured her, then dissolved once more into laughter. When he finally regained some measure of composure, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes, he unlocked the truck and asked, “Coffee, princess?

“Yes, thank you!”

Bog held out a hand and helped her into the passenger's seat with exaggerated courtesy. He shut the door and leaned on the rolled down window. “Why was he warning you off me, anyway? My natural good looks?”

“Oh.” Dawn bit her lower lip and twisted her fingers together, “Just some silly stuff. Said you had a record or something. That you've been arrested for a lot of fighting. Got fired from a job for violent behavior.”

Bog's felt like he were in an elevator and shot up so quickly he stomach was left behind. The last traces of amusement drained out of him and he turned away to try and sort out his suddenly chaotic thoughts. For a second he was standing on the brink of a part of his life, of himself, that he tried very hard not to think about anymore. A person he had been that he hoped was gone forever and that his friends would never meet.

How did this Adrian know about that? That was years ago now and the circles he had moved in then didn't really overlap with the people who attended this school. How anybody who knew the Bog of old would cross paths with anybody who knew him now was hard to puzzle out. True, some of the construction crew had known him then, but none of them were likely to spread that sort of thing around.

He ran his hand down the length of his arm, feeling the uneven ridging of scars through his sleeve, remembering the vivid red of each one before he had masked them with ink, hidden them behind the soft disguise of plants and flowers. Scars had marked his arms boldly and he had worn them like armor to keep the rest of the world at a safe distance, to let it know he was trouble and willing to fight. So many layers of armor, layered into a fortress to protect himself from being hurt. It had been well-built and kept out pain along with everything else.

It wasn't until that very moment he realized how much armor he had lost and how vulnerable he was. The man who had flaunted his wounds like badges of honor would never have been here, giggling with Dawn, letting himself be teased and manhandled. She would never have dared approach that man, she would have seen the danger in his eyes.

“Boggy?” Dawn leaned out the window and slid her arms around his neck in a hug. The touch was almost painful. She wouldn't be doing that if she knew him. “Are you okay? You know I don't care if you have a record, right?”

He looked at her.

“Whatever happened, that's not who you are now, okay? You'd never hurt me or anyone else.”

“I don't . . . exactly have a record. But not everything makes it onto paper.”

“That's fine, then. I can tell Adrian to put a sock in it. And if you're worried about what Marianne might think—don't. You're so sad before you get your coffee.” She patted his cheek, “Let's get going!”

“Okay, okay.”

He brushed her hand away and went around to the driver's side. The second he sat down and buckled in Dawn threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek with a loud, “Mwah!”

“Oh, come off it!”

“Love you, Boggy!” Dawn tucked a small flower made out of yellow construction paper behind his ear. It was the same type of flower she was always hiding in his tool boxes and bags. The worse he was feeling the more flowers tended to turn up around him. The moments when he found them were like rays of sunshine piercing through his cloudy days.

“. . . thank you, princess.”

“It looks good on you!”

Bog snorted his disagreement, but let the flower where it was.

Dawn giggled, “Hey, do you know this song?”

“What song?”

In response Dawn burst into song, “The flowers that bloom in the spring,  tra la, breathe promise of merry sunshine—as we merrily dance and we sing, tra la, we welcome the hope that they bring, tra la!”

“Oh, no!” Bog started the car, hoping the engine would drown out the song.

Dawn persisted, pitching her voice up to be heard over the rattle and roar of the ancient car coming to life, “And that's what we mean when we say that a thing, is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring! Tra la la la la, tra la la la la, the flowers that bloom in the spring!”

“Oh, I know this song.” Bog backed the truck out of the parking space, “I also know the second half of it! The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la! Have nothing to do with the case! I am a most unattractive old thing, Tra la! With a caricature of a face, With a caricature of a face!”

“Boggy!” Dawn objected, but could not suppress her giggles.

“And that's what I mean when I say, or I sing, Oh, bother the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la la la la! Tra la la la! Oh, bother the flowers of spring!”

After the incident in the classroom Bog began to notice the stares.

Until that point he assumed it was just the usual reaction to his gaunt frame and default expression of murderous irritation. But now that he thought about it the stares had lessened in recent times and were just now experiencing an apparently unprovoked resurgence. Additionally, people were deliberately avoiding him in the halls, where as before they had been contented to simply ignore him.

“You're paranoid.” Marianne told him, “Just like you think people are stealing your stuff again.”

“Someone is stealing my stuff again! And if it's that sister of yours again I'll--”

“No, you won't.”

“Yes, well, but I'll think about it.”

Since Bog had overstepped himself and kissed Marianne's hand there had been an unspoken agreement between them to never mention it again. Both of them had seized on the idea of complete denial with great eagerness and had been industriously pretending nothing had ever happened. And, to a certain degree, it had been working.

There had been a bad few days at the start of things where Bog had waited for her to call him, or to run into her at the studio. But her second attempt at avoiding him was more successful than the first and he barely caught more than a glimpse or two of her as she dashed to and from classes. He spent a lot of nights staring at his phone in case she called.

Finally, one early morning he got up the nerve to finally send her the footage from one of his band's performances. They had actually gotten a few gigs at coffee shops and bars. Gary, their drummer, was also a tech geek who handled their sound systems, filmed a few of their performances for the purposes of making music videos. Bog wondered what Gary and the rest were doing now . . .

Bog sent Marianne the videos and waited.

Fifteen minutes later his phone rang.

He nearly dropped it in his desperate fumbling to unlock the screen and accept the call.

“Hello--?”

Piercing screams sounded in his ear and he did drop the phone. By the time he had scrambled around on the floor in the dark and picked it up he could make out Mariannae talking and Dawn still screaming in the background.

“Look at you!” Marianne exclaimed in delight, “Bog the rock star!”

“Boggy!” Dawn shrieked, “I had no idea you could dance like that!”

“You weren't supposed to show anyone else!” Bog groaned, dropping back against his pillow.

“Too late! Sunny sends his regards!”

“Dude!” Sunny called out, “If you ever put the band back together I will totally be your keyboardist!”

“You have betrayed my trust, Marianne.”

“Your eyeliner!”

“I'm having heart palpitations over your eyeliner!” Dawn giggled, “I would totally hang posters of you in my room.”

“Hey!” Sunny said from somewhere in the background.

“If I were still an unattached teenager!” Dawn amended. “Boggy, Boggy, come over! We're having a Cheer-Grumpy-Marianne-Up sleepover!”

“I am being held against my will.” Marianne added. “Shut up a second, you two! Hang on, Bog.” The background noise grew muffled and Bog heard a door shut.

“We're off speaker.” Marianne said. She took a breath and he could imagine her shaking her head, “Oh, Bog, your cover of Trouble, and how you worked that microphone, so dark and brooding. It's just beautiful. Because I'm evil, my middle name is misery!”

“Well, I'm evil, so don't you mess around me!” Bog sang in response, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth for the first time in awhile. “I've never looked for trouble!”

“But I never ran!”

“I don't take no orders, from no kind of man!”

“I'm only made out of flesh, blood, and bone, but if you're gonna start a rumble, don't you try it all alone!”

Together they sang, “I'm evil, so don't you mess around with me! Yeah!”

Together they both burst into laughter.

“Bog, no pun intended, but you were rocking that look. Your eyeliner was on-point, friend.”

“Shut up, I've seen pictures of your awkward teenage years with the fishnet gloves and your hair dyed six different colors.”

“Oh, dude, my mom begged me to at least pick a color scheme that didn't look like I had been in an accident with a bag of skittles! She wouldn't let me get a nose piercing. She worried I'd catch it on something and tear it out. She was probably right . . .”

“How did you survive to this ripe old age, Mari? Science is baffled.”

“I defy all natural law.”

They laughed, the distant sound of rock music and Dawn and Sunny shouting lyrics distinct in the background. For a moment Bog felt the world was a little bigger than it had been before the phone rang, that if he just reached out he'd find a hand waiting to take his and help him up.

“Still friends, tough girl?”

“Still friends, Bog. Always. There are just things . . . I'm not ready for.”

She sounded so sad. Bog wanted to hug her and let her know he just wanted to be there, near her, however she wanted him to be. At the same time he really wanted to hold her close and kiss her and tell her how perfect, how wonderful she was. The idea of her kissing him back was intoxicating and for a moment he couldn't help but imagine Marianne doing just that, telling him that she thought he was worth loving.

Bog smashed a pillow over his face, as if that could squash out these outrageous ideas.

“Bog?”

Bog took the pillow off his face. “'m here.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to come over now? We're making trail mix from all the leftover food packages in the cupboard. We've got potato chips and cocoa puffs in this thing.”

“As delightful as that sounds . . .”

“You're tired.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. See you.”

“See you.”

And Bog was finally able to sleep.

So long as Bog didn't think too hard about the fact that if he kissed Marianne she would probably respond in kind, Bog found is easy enough to ignore the situation. When he did he quickly squelched the thought with a reminder to himself not to be so arrogant as to assume such a thing. After all, whatever Marianne felt now, eventually he'd wind up messing up and driving her away. The idea of a relationship other than being friends would only end up hurting her. She didn't deserve to be stuck with someone like him.

“What's gone missing this time?” Marianne asked, rummaging around in her backpack for some elusive item. “Not your glue again, I hope.”

“A lot of small stuff.” Bog replied, “My sticky notes, some pencils, and a whole lot of nails. I think people are shopping through my tool boxes. If it weren't so hard to haul them up and down the stairs every day I'd just start taking it all home.”

“Actually, I've been missing some things, too.” Marianne admitted, “My makeup compact disappeared last night.”

“I wondered why I could see your eyes today. That's just you being disorganized, though. You have to dump out your whole backpack every time you need to find anything in it.”

Since Marianne was in the process of doing just that she contented herself with making faces at Bog while she picked through a pile of loose change, wrappers, sticky notes, pencils, and text books. Somehow a stick of soft willow charcoal had gotten in there and had been wrecking dusty black havoc over everything. The floor was daubed with sooty fingerprints and Marianne had gotten a significant quantity on her face, as if to compensate for her lack of makeup.

“I can't speak in defense of Marianne's organizational skills,” Sunny said, he and Dawn crossing over from the other side of the studio to use the sinks, “But I lost three film canisters this week. They were in my bag when I came up here with Dawn and by the time we left they were gone. Tore this whole place apart looking for them, but nothing. And I swear, nobody came in while we were up here. This isn't some elaborate Phantom of the Art Department prank, is it guys?”

“We cannot speak for the Phantom, whoever he or she might be,” Marianne said, “But I doubt he would engage in petty theft without a punchline.”

“Whoever the Phantom is,” Dawn said, rolling her eyes at their inconsistent denials of the phantom's identity, “I'll bet they're married.”

“I am like one hundred percent sure they are not!” Marianne shot back, spreading charcoal on her shirt when she folded her arms around herself, awkwardly rubbing her shoulders. Bog bent over his work and hoped he wasn't turning red.

“Married and don't know it yet,” Dawn insisted. Before Marianne could form a rebuttal Dawn had smothered her face with a damp towel and begun scrubbing at the charcoal, “What's that, sis? Can't hear you over the sound of all this denial!”

“Mmf umf!”

“Marianne, don't bite the towel!”

“Mf.”

“Let go! Boggy, make her let go!”

Bog folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “As if I have control over her diet choices.”

“I'll bet she's been eating all the stuff that's gone missing.” Sunny said, hanging back near the sinks and out of range of the currently ongoing towel war.

“Then she really does eat nails for breakfast.” Bog replied.

Marianne finally spat out the towel so she could properly retort, “Keeps me fighting fit. Mf!” Dawn renewed her efforts to scour her sister's face before Marianne could get on a roll with her sarcasm.

“Why are you doing this?” Marianne demanded once the towel was clear of her face.

“You have a class meeting after this, remember? You're all going to the restaurant. The nice restaurant.”

“Oh, graduating class stuff.” Marianne said, enlightened and displeased, “Bother. Bog, aren't you supposed to be going, too?” She asked hopefully.

“I've got work.”

“Curse you and your legitimate excuses.”

“I wouldn't go anyway. Nobody gets anything done at those sort of meetings. Everybody on their phones looking at cat pictures.”

“You will never forgive Plum for that, will you?”

“She makes me give a ten minute speech for class then she'd better listen, not fuss around on her phone!”

“But the kitty was in a box!” Dawn broke in, “And the box was too small! I want a cat. Marianne--”

“The apartment is a rental,” Marianne reminded her, “And we're not settling in a poor cat only to uproot it after graduation. Anyway, I want a dog.”

“You want a huge dog. If it were a little cute one . . .”

“Yappy rats. I want a dog like Horace.”

“Oh, Horace.” Dawn made a face. “He was . . . a special dog.”

“He was hugely fat and thought he was a lap dog.” Marianne explained. “If you napped on the couch you ran the risk of being crushed under a small barrel of love. You ever have a dog, Bog? I swear I didn't mean that to rhyme.”

“Never had a dog, no.”

“What did you have?”

“Hmm. Lizards, at one point. Cockroaches, crickets, a few garter snakes, and a cat named Crackers. I didn't name him, he came with the unfortunate title. He was an old man with a squint like an ex-prizefighter and only half his teeth. He meowed lopsided. Then there was a parrot, Mr. Evil . . .”

“You had a bird and you named it Mr. Evil?” Marianne had listened to this list with rapt attention, but broke in to seize upon the last item mentioned.

“Marianne, you're going to be late!” Dawn said urgently.

“No, but—bird! Bog had a bird—Mr. Evil! I need to know more!”

“You need to get to your meeting. And change your shirt! Here, I brought you one from home.”

“I can't just leave in the middle of this exciting journey of discovery!”

“It'll just have to wait.” Bog said, “You'll just have to wonder all day long whether or not I had a bird, if his name really was Mr. Evil, or if I'm pulling your leg.”

“You twisted cockroach!” Marianne crammed her stuff back into her bag while Dawn danced around, rubbing at smudges. “Keep pulling my leg and you'll get a sharp kick in the face.”

“As if you could reach that high.”

“Argh!” Marianne darted into the bathroom to change her shirt, emerging mere seconds later, her hair standing on end from the quick-change. “Don't think you'll escape revenge! What happened to Mr. Evil, anyway? Did he escape and go on to make a run for world domination?”

“He's passed on. He is no more.” Bog said in somber tones.

“He has ceased to be?” Marianne asked.

“Expired and gone to meet his maker.” Bog nodded in agreement.

“Bereft of life, he rests in peace.”

“He's kicked the bucket, shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible!”

“He's an ex-parrot!” Everyone joined in as a chorus to this last declaration.

“Have a nice time!” Bog waved, beginning to pack his things in preparation for his own departure to work. “Have fun wondering about whether or not Mr. Evil and I plotted to rule this world with iron fist and claw.”

Marianne paused at the stairs, torn between being on time and dealing wholesale destruction, hands hovering in the air as if they were looking for a neck to strangle. Bog tapped his wrist, miming a watch. She threw down her hands and plunged down the stairs at a breakneck pace.

“Don't forget we're going dress shopping tomorrow!” Dawn called after her.

There was a crash from the stairs and noises of complaint. But a moment later Marianne's feet resumed pounding down the stairs, a dismayed, “Noooo!” trailing in the air behind her.

Marianne jerked the chair out from under the table. It was a heavy piece of furniture and did not come easily, the tenseness in her arm sending strained aches through her muscles, snapping hard when she released the chair and sat down in it.

She was dressed for class, overalls and a red and white striped turtle-neck, baggy winter coat over all. Her hair stood out in half a dozen different directions after she snatched her hat off. As a whole she presented a disheveled and inelegant appearance, not suited for the setting at all.

And she was glad of it.

Glad that Roland could not pretend she belonged in this fancy restaurant. She was so out of place she did not feel self-conscious, whereas if she had tried to dress for the occasion she would have felt awkward and nervous about the tiniest of details. She did not want to be here, the place did not want her there. It was mutual and she did not bother to pretend otherwise.

Likewise, she wasted no pleasantries on Roland.

“What are you doing here?”

The moment she had walked into the restaurant he had waved her over with a smile that let the serving staff know that he was friendly and charming. He sat at the table, drink in one hand, leaning back in a casual attitude that was as genuine as his carefully arranged curls and bleached white teeth.

He gave a little laugh at her question, disregarding her anger and subtly asserting the idea she was behaving badly, “Now, Marianne, no need to be so abrupt--”

“Actually, there is every reason to be abrupt. I thought I was meeting my class to work on a group project and if they aren't here then I need to go look for them. Deadlines, you know.”

“No need, they were here but didn't stay.”

“Why?”

“When I told them I needed to talk to you—when I told them what I needed to tell you—they were quite obliging about agreeing to meet again some other time.”

“Then there's no reason for me to be here either.” Marianne stood up, refusing to let him entangle her with social niceties. Refusing to clench her hands into fists and dig her nails into her palms.

“Now, don't be hasty. Don't you want to know what your boyfriend has been up to?”

“Bog is not my boyfriend and seeing as I actually know him I probably have a much better idea of what he's been up to than you do. Making this conversation pointless.”

Marianne threw out her hands and turned to go. He let her get halfway across the dining room before his smug voice carried over to her, full of false incredulity.

“Why, darlin', haven't you heard the rumors going around?”

She stopped and snapped around to look at him. He was still lounging in his chair, confident of his ability to reel her back in with a few choice words. It killed Marianne to give him what he wanted, but she stalked back to the table and slammed her bag onto the floor when she sat down again. Her hands slapped down on the table and she forced a question out, voice strained from the effort of keeping her voice softer than a shout, “What have you been doing?”

“Why, me?” He sat up straight, fingers touching his chest in a gesture of shock, “Nothing! Nothing like you think, sweetheart. I only have your best interests at heart. You know that.”

“Oh, I know a lot of things, Roland. I know that I want to punch your pretty teeth in and smash this expensive wine glass over your head. What I don't know is what you want from me right now. What do you know about those rumors?”

“Just what everyone has heard. That the company you keep isn't the most . . . respectable. But I didn't want to harshly judge based on pure hearsay, so I looked into your . . . your friend.”

“Isn't that considerate of you.” The irritation and fear building inside her chest began to ebb. If that was all Roland had . . . “Minding my business for me when I specifically told you to keep your nose out of it. Well, surprise, surprise, my dad did the same thing months ago. Birds of a feather and all that, I guess. So whatever you're going to tell me, I already know.”

“Oh, darlin'--”

“Call me another pet name and I will force feed you your own tie.”

Roland chuckled indulgently and went on, “Your father is a busy man, he doesn't have time to think of everything. His background check, very superficial. Not everything makes it onto paper, you see. You've got to dig a little deeper, talk to people. You'd be sadly surprised at what sort of things turns up.”

“I'm sure.”

“Marianne.,Marianne.” Roland shook his head sadly, “I'm worried about you, I really am. You haven't been right since the whole misunderstanding—not yourself at all. I'd hate to see this opportunist take advantage of your vulnerability and get you hurt.”

Breathe, Marianne thought, just remember to breathe.

And keep your hands away from the table knives.

“Say what you have to say, Roland, because so far all I'm hearing is the same song you've been singing since I called off the wedding. And you know what? It's boring. If you don't say anything interesting in the next ten seconds I am walking out of here and looking into getting a restraining order against you. Won't that make classes fun when you have to keep fifty feet away from me at all times?”

“Now, dar--” Roland swallowed the term of endearment when he saw Marianne's fingers twitch toward the elegant steak knife glittering on top of the cloth napkin of her table setting. “Marianne, always so quick to judge.” He shook his head sadly over this regrettable trait, “I supposed you might not take my word for it—though it hurts me to admit it. That's why I had this prepared for you.”

He took a navy blue folder off the chair next to him and placed it on the table between them, sliding it toward Marianne with two fingers. The elegant movement was interrupted when Marianne snatched up the folders and Roland flinched away in fear that she might attack him. He tried to turn the movement into a casual gesture, but faltered again at the sight of Marianne's expression.

She wanted to rip the folder to pieces with her bare hands and storm out of the restaurant in righteous fury, but a calmer part of her brain pointed out that it was unlikely that Roland did not have duplicates of the information stashed away. It would also be best to see what information he actually had. So she eased her grip on the slick blue folder, too late to prevent creases from crazing the covers.

Forget the tie, she wanted to make Roland eat his stupid files. Originals, duplicates, hard copies, and whatever electronics he kept the digital files on. But she only had one more semester to get through. Just one more semester of not giving Roland a bloody nose. Not giving him anything to use against her. Marianne bit her teeth together and wished Bog was there to hold her back. Then she wouldn't have to do all the hard work herself.

“I just want you to understand. Understand that I still care about you, Marianne, that I still want to make things work out between us.” His voice raised slightly so that a passing waiter heard this touching remark. The table, Marianne finally realized, her angry tunnel vision wearing off, was close enough to several others that the conversation could be clearly heard by other diners. Several people were glancing surreptitiously at their exchange.

Of course. Of course he would arrange for an audience.

Let them all see the clean-cut young man trying to woo his girl, make up for his mistakes. Let them all see how hard he was trying, how unreasonable Marianne was. Marianne with her uncombed hair and stained overalls. Obviously he loved her. Why else would he bother with such a grubby looking student?

“Make things . . . work out?” Marianne said when she finally trusted herself to speak without screaming. “You make it sound like there was anything left between us. You make it sound like Adeline was never in the picture. Like you weren't cheating with other girls before and since! You thought Adeline and I were perfect. Quiet, submissive, pretty little nothings, grateful for the attention of the gorgeous Roland Green. So grateful that we'd never mention all your little indiscretions. Isn't it hilarious how wrong you were about both of us?”

“Sweetheart, I understand you needed time and space to sort yourself out--”

“Oh, I'm sorted, thanks. If you think blackening Bog's name will somehow whiten yours and send me running back into your arms . . . you're even more deluded than I thought.”

“Now, buttercup!”

Marianne would not allow herself to lose her temper. That was what Roland wanted. If he couldn't sway her opinions and make her see how amazing he was he was going to make it out that she was literally crazy not to.

No, she would not lose her temper.

Which is why, after she stood up with the folder and her bag bundled under one arm, she very calmly, very deliberately, took Roland's drink and poured it all over his sleek yellow curls. She placed the glass back on the table with a gentle tap and turned away from the table, walking in measured strides toward the exit.

She wouldn't give Roland the satisfaction of seeing her run.

“I saw Roland.”

Bog looked up to find Marianne standing in the door of his workshop. He had let himself get lost in the rhythm of sanding and hastily tweaked a tarp over his project before Marianne came too far inside. She did not notice his concealment, marching into the room and slapping down a crumpled folder on an empty worktable.

“Roland?” Bog hooked a finger around the elastic of his face mask and pulled it off, “Are you okay? What happened?”

Marianne's face was set in grim lines. She marched across the workshop and grabbed a stool, set it in front of Bog, and stood on it so she was almost on eye-level with him “I need a hug. Okay?”

Bog barely had time to nod and put down his sanding block before Marianne was crushing him. Cautiously, Bog patted her back. “I—I've got shovels in the cupboard. Did you bring the body or are we going to have to go fetch it?”

“He lives to perm another day.”

“You have the fortitude of a saint.” Bog could feel how tight her muscles were stretched, how she was shaking, and he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, rubbing at a stubborn knot there. Marianne leaned into him, the fists digging into his back easing up and unfurling, a sigh and some of the rigidity escaping from her. She shifted her head to rest against his neck and for a time she was quiet except for her deliberately even breathing as she tried to calm herself.

“N-need anything?” Bog asked.

“I'm good.”

“Good. Um. Good.”

There was further silence and Bog preferred not to break it.

Marianne did, finally.

“You're not paranoid. Roland's the one who started the rumors about you being some kind of thug.” Marianne said, voice indistinct because her face was pressed into his shirt.

“How--?”

Marianne pushed away, putting her hands on Bog's shoulders, his hands falling to his sides. “He didn't say, but I'm not stupid. He said he'd heard the rumors and checked into them. But I think it's the other way 'round. I think he did a background check and then started the rumors. He gave me the files and told me I should know who I was hanging out with.”

“Oh. Oh!” Bog looked at the folder with a sudden stab of fear.

“I didn't look at them.”

Bog looks at the folders. He didn't want to look at them. For a lot of reasons. He was ashamed. He was scared. He didn't want to walk down that path again, even in memory. It had been a dark time and while he hadn't done anything illegal . . . that didn't make any of it right. He hurt other people trying to hurt himself.

“I won't look at them.” She touched his face with just the tips of her fingers, drawing back almost before she made contact, just enough to make him look up at her. “I don't need to look at them.”

He met her eyes and his stomach gave a sharp twist at the unclouded trust in them. He was going to break that trust someday and hate himself for hurting her.

“You should. Just . . . let me look and see if they're accurate.” He mumbled.

A navy blue folder lay innocently on his worktable, the unassuming sight of it making Bog's fists ache. He could feel the splits in the skin over his knuckles, the throb of blood dripping across his skin, the brief lightning flicker of feeling alive in the middle of unending gray clouds. The look on his mother's face, that look of pain and entreaty that only made him angry because of the guilt that it invoked in him. How the world had dwindled into one endless moment where he was trapped, cut off from the movement and color of the world and couldn't see further than the end of a work shift. All that armor he had donned to protect himself, covered with spikes and barbs so those that tried to help him only got themselves hurt for their pains.

He made to open the folder but Marianne stopped him, putting her hand over his, recalling him to the present. The present where he could feel her touch, see her in all her brilliant color. “You don't have to. What's it going to say? You were angry, got into some fights? I already know you got arrested that one time, remember?”

He knew that she did. But to lay it all out, to peel back the years and relive the circumstances, the state of mind, the person he was then . . . It wasn't a person she would like. But, looking at her, feeling her hand on his, he thought maybe she would understand the person he had been. If not . . . the conclusion would be what he had always thought inevitable.

“I want to.”

“Not if it hurts you.”

“You should know.”

“I know enough. I know you.”

“I . . . you should know. I want you to know.”

He wanted her to see this ugly, pathetic part of him, he wanted her to finally realize there was nothing in him worth loving.

But also, there was a tiny, terrible hope that maybe she would love him anyway.

They sat around the kitchen table, staring at the folders as if they were liable to explode. Griselda had made sandwiches and coffee, but Bog could see a familiar sadness in her eyes. It was so much less, but it was there. A sadness he was familiar with. A sadness he had put there.

Not so many years ago he had stood in this kitchen and yelled at his mother, flung unkind and unfair things at her because he couldn't feel anything properly, because there was no point.

THEN

“I'm not going to make a fool of myself by chatting to a hunk of rock and a patch of dead grass!” Bog told his mother when she asked if she wanted to come visit his father's grave. He didn't want to do anything. “Dad's not there. He's not anywhere. Leave me alone.”

And he went to work, because it was time to go to work. Sheer habit pulled him out of bed in the morning and put him behind the wheel of his car and off to work. He went through the motions because he had nothing better to do, but he had no patience or energy for any extra effort. Especially not visiting his dad's grave. He pared his life down, little by little, eliminating everything that was strictly necessary, eventually redefining was “necessary” meant. After all, when you're always tired what's the point of sleeping? When food is tasteless and your throat closes up at the thought of it what was the point of eating?

He spent a lot of time at the bog. That little piece of land his dad had once had great plans for. It was just about the only place he went that wasn't strictly necessary. It was peaceful, there were no people to disappoint, no one to see him cry. And when he grew too numb to cry it was a good place to be silent and empty. To pretend he didn't exist, to pretend he didn't have endless, empty days to look forward to.

In the quiet of the isolated place he could forget about time. He took out his pocketknife and carved at loose bits of wood and tree roots, forming the rough shapes of hands and figures so that they looked like they were trying to break the surface of the water.

There was something about the eerie figures struggling and failing to break free of the stagnant waters that appealed to him. Something grimly satisfying about coming back and finding they had slipped back beneath the surface, that they were reaching out but nobody was there to take their hand. So he brought a few carving tools with him and his projects grew more elaborate. Not his father's tools. He couldn't bear to go back inside the studio to get them, to remember how his father had taught him how to use the tools in that room.

Every day he watched his carvings decay, sinking back into the bog as if they had never been. No one knew they had ever existed and no one cared when they vanished.

Life, such as it was, dragged on. Work continued, one day much like the next. And patrons made trouble. And Bog dealt with it. Because anger and adrenaline made him feel something. Bruises and cuts stung and pulled him out of the numb haze and back to reality, at least for a little while. He didn't look for trouble, but he didn't run from it either.

Through it all his mother had been there, unwavering in her nagging kindness, and he had repaid her with hurt and rejection. The pain of those times was just not his, but hers too. From when she had lost her husband and watched her son slip further and further away, unable to do anything about it.

The final confrontation got him slashed across the chin before he knocked the ugly out. That's when he lost his job at the bar and spent the night in jail. In the end he wasn't charged. Technically he hadn't started the conflict. Technically he had been defending a patron from some rowdy drunks. But that had been an excuse.

He'd been fired before the police had even put him in the car.

“We're used to trouble now and then,” The manager said while Bog was being pushed toward the car, “But we don't need somebody who keep stirring it up! We'll mail you your check, don't bother coming back.”

But before that, in the midst of the fight, something else happened.

“Need any help?”

The small, eager man popped up, strangely bright in the dark alley. He spoke these words after he had already intervened, taking out one of Bog's opponents with surprising easy, considering his slight build. More credibly, his heavy-set friend, who Bog also recognized from the construction crew, waded in and slugged another attacker right in the gut, making them double over and fall, her look of mild exasperation never wavering.

Bog looked at the small man, his froggy glasses, his hideous yellow argyle sweater vest, surprised at his competency. Bog wiped the back of his hand across his chin, regretting the pull on the open wound splitting his chin.

“Yes . . .”

The three of them had stood together over their fallen opponents as the cops pulled up. “You okay, BK?” The heavier one, Steph, asked.

“Yeah . . . thanks. Why? Why'd you--?”

“You're the best supervisor we've ever had on the crew.” Steph shrugged.

“But . . . I'm horrible.”

“Still better than the last guy.”

“. . . I've got to hear about this guy.” Bog said, holding up his hands as the police approached with handcuffs.

“You needed help.” Thane piped up, as if that were the obvious answer. “We couldn't just walk away.”

“I could have.” Steph grunted.

“Aw, Steph.” Thane said, drooping sadly.

“Kidding.” She said, patting the small man's head.

Since her expression of vague irritation never wavered Bog wasn't sure if she actually meant it or not. In the end he just shrugged, wincing as a police officer wrenched his arms around to cuff him and shove him toward a squad car. He managed to turn back enough to force out a grudging, “Thank you.”

Thane waved cheerfully until an officer grabbed him to be cuffed.

When Griselda got the call that her son had been arrested she had rushed over and had him out as soon as humanly possible. When he was produced and set at liberty she found he was more than a little worse for the wear, hasty bandaids stuck over split knuckles, his chin split open, and a slight but distinct limp in his step. But in spite of his condition and his surroundings his expression was the default of vague anger and apathy that Griselda had grown uncomfortably used to. There was none of the fire that she had once known, the fire that would have had him complaining of the circumstances, telling his story, fighting against the world.

He was silent throughout the bail process and he got into the back seat of the car, staring at nothing, picking at the edges of his bandaids. Griselda didn't say anything either. She had run out of things to say. None of her words ever seemed to do any good, nothing seemed to reach him.

They got home and Bog stood in the entry way, looking at nothing.

“Mom . . .” Griselda turned when Bog spoke, “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Mom . . . I can't do this by myself. I—I need your help.”

NOW

He stared at the folder, so intent he felt a shock run up his arm when Marianne put her hand in his. The world came back into focus, into the present, and, for the first time in the longest time, he caught a glimpse of the future. A wild crazy idea that Marianne would be involved somehow, that the days between the pages of that folder were indeed a thing of the past and not the future, spun through his head. He was outside the flow of time again, but this time was different. This time he was in a safe, warm pocket, shutting out the bad and shutting in the good.

He wasn't alone.

The last time he remembered feeling anything like this was after the first time he had gone on medication.  After it kicked in he went into his dad's studio, where he had not been since the funeral. He scrubbed the place from top to bottom and put together a chair that had been left unfinished. He experimented with some scraps of wood and wire. After a few weeks he had a half dozen out-at-elbows pieces of what might be termed art. They were useless, but cutting, sanding, gluing, clamping, it was all soothing. It made him feel a bit more alive, in an even and balanced way. And when his mother gave him the pamphlet about the 3D art program at the local school he listened to her for a change.

And he wasn't happy, but he thought he might be able to be. In the end he hadn't found a reason to be happy and had stopped taking medication, stopped going to the doctor's, but this time . . . he felt Marianne's hand in his and tightened his hold on it. This time he had a reason to be happy. He wanted to be happy.

So they went through the folder and he confirmed what was accurate and what was not, so they'd be better prepared to fight whatever Roland had planned. Alone with Marianne he rolled up his sleeves and showed her where the pattern covered up the scars and told her the stories behind them. How when his mother had dragged him, too numb to protest, to the doctor and they had found the half-healed injuries that should have had stitches. And he'd tried to make a new start, but he had only been adding another layer of armor over his existing spikes.

“I never had them finished.”

“No?” Marianne asked, tracing the pattern on his arm up to his elbow.

“The sleeves, yes, but where they're supposed to meet across my shoulders and the design on my back . . .”

“There's more? Can I see--?”

“No.” Bog folded his arms over his chest.

“I'm sorry—did I make things weird? I didn't mean to make things weird, I just--”

“No, it's just--”

“--because I've done that before and I really--”

“They're not finished.”

“Huh?”

“They're not finished. They don't . . . look right.”

“Okay sure, I get it--”

“I'm sorry, I just--”

Both of them stopped and waited for the other to finish, which resulted in an awkward silence.

“Maybe you can get them finished after school's over. Introduce me to your tattoo artist. I've kind of being thinking of getting something myself.” Marianne said.

“Yeah, we could do that.”

“So it's a date.”

“Yeah. Um, that is--”

“I didn't mean—not a date date--”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Bog moved to push his sleeves down. Marianne laid a hand on his arm and stopped him. “Everybody has scars. They're just there to show that you fought and survived.”

“They're ugly.”

“They're honest. I . . . I was banged up pretty bad in that car accident, you know.”

“No. I didn't know.”

“Yeah. I don't . . . I don't remember it very well. They had me on stuff for the pain, and then when I started having panic attacks they put me on stuff to calm me down. So when dad arranged for a plastic surgeon to work on the scars . . . that was that. I had no say.” Marianne rubbed her shoulder, “Maybe I would have decided to do it anyway. Maybe I wouldn't have. I don't know. I didn't get the choice. I got sent to the best doctors and worked over until I was . . . fixed.”

“I'm sorry. You didn't need to be fixed.”

“I like your tattoos. You didn't get rid of your scars, you just built on top of them.”

“I hid them.”

“You started over. And you can start over again. Do you know how you want them completed?”

“Well . . . I had sketches, but it's been such a long time I could probably do better. So, no, I suppose I don't.”

“Can I help? Figure out the design? Because I'm totally going to ask you to help plan mine.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I'd like that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Bog said, walking Marianne to her car.

“Yes it is. Roland only went after you to get to me. So he gets to play the hero, rescuing the helpless girl from the clutches of the dragon.”

“Out of gratitude you will fall into his arms and proclaim undying love.”

“That's what it says in his script.”

“But you have to go and ad-lib. Very inconsiderate of you, tough girl.”

“I live to confound the expectations of others. But I am really, really sorry you got dragged into all of this.”

“You're not responsible for that parasite. And I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to be your date to that dinner.”

“No, no you didn't.”

“Well, this has been unexpected, but . . . it's okay. So don't be noble and break up with me or something to keep me safe. I'd drop you in a hot minute if I didn't think you were worthwhile.”

“Comforting.” She bumped him with her shoulder.

“I try.” He bumped her back.

“You're kind of amazing.”

“Oh, well, you're kind of incredible.”

“You're fantastic.”

“You're brilliant.”

“You're gorgeous.”

Bog paused for a split second then burst out laughing. “Reaching a little, aren't we?”

“Shut up!” Marianne shoved him.

“No! Tell me about my gorgeous face. What pushes it over the line from merely good looking to gorgeous? The frown lines? The bags under my eyes? What, I'm terribly interested, please go on.”

“Okay, never mind, it's a stupid face!” Bog had been leaning over, hands in his pockets, to get on level with her for better teasing. She grabbed his face and kissed his cheek. “It's a stupid face but I still like it.”

The grin dropped off his face. Marianne's had vanished, too. They looked at each other and for a moment all the careful distance, the walls they'd put up between each other, disappeared and they were left alone with the simple truth that they were in love with each other. Just like that Monday after Thanksgiving, there was no way to hide it, no way to talk around it. It was so true it couldn't be ignored.

Bog knew that if he kissed her, right now, she'd kiss him back.

The thought terrified him.

So he let the moment pass.

“Um, anyway,” Marianne fumbled for her keys and Bog turned away coughing nervously, “if Roland rears his golden head call me. Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me.”

“Oh no, do not.”

“Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me,” Marianne sang, getting into her car. “I just can't wait until I hear my cell phone ring, doesn't matter if it's day or night, everything's gonna be alright!”

“You're terrible!”

Marianne rolled down the window and sang as she pulled out of the driveway. “Message clear, I am here to reassure you, I'm never gonna leave you alone!”

“You gigantic tiny nerd!”

Marianne waved a hand at him through the window until the car turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Marianne went home from Bog's house, her head hurting, swirling with loathing of Roland's smug face, a deep ache for Bog having to dredge up the past on her account, and a fluttering in the pit of her stomach over her impulsive kiss. She stumbled into her room, pulling out some notebooks for the purported purpose of studying, but ended up laying on her bed, straight and stiff as a plank, just staring at the ceiling. Watching the day's events play out, ghostly across the blank surfaces. Occasionally she'd smack her hand over her forehead and groan because she was such an idiot. She'd made up her mind that she didn't want romance. Why couldn't she stick to that decision?

Dawn peeked in, knocking on the door frame. “Did you two finish disposing of Roland's corpse?”

Marianne sighed loudly.

Dawn took this as an invitation and entered the room, clearing books off the bed until there was enough space for her to lay down next to her sister and imitate her pose. “Whatcha thinking about?” She looked up at the ceiling and wiggled her socked feet back and forth.

“Nothing.”

“Thinking about Bog?”

“No.”

“Thinking about kissing him?”

Marianne's face flooded with a deep red and she grabbed a pillow, smashing it over her face and muffling a serious of embarrassed noises. Dawn giggled and waited patiently for Marianne to reemerge. She did, hugging the pillow and saying viciously, “I just want to kiss all the sad off his stupid face!”

Dawn's giggling increased twofold at this remark.

“Oh, no,” Marianne smashed the pillow back over her face when she realized she had said that comment out loud. It was all the worse that her remark was entirely honest. She just wanted to hold that stupid man and tell him not to worry about things, that everything was going to be all right, that she loved him.

“Too late, too late, you said it! You totally said it!' Dawn sat up and bounced up and down. She snatched the pillow away and grabbed Marianne by the shoulders, giving her a fierce shake, “You said it! No take-backs! No denials! The truth is out!”

“But if I kill the only witness . . .” Marianne said, reaching toward Dawn's throat with clawed hands.

“Empty threats.” Dawn dropped a kiss on her sister's forehead. “You have acknowledged your true feelings. Now you just have to tell him.”

“Noooo!” Marianne covered her face with her arms and curled up.

“Yes!” Dawn tickled Marianne's side until she was forced to uncurl. “Listen, I know something about love. Due to the minor technicality that you refuse to smooch your dude I am officially the one who has been in a loving and healthy relationship for the longest.”

“Oh. That's actually . . . true.”

“Mmhm! So I get to tell you what to do for a change: tell him!”

Dread rolled over Marianne, pinching up her throat and making it hard to voice her next words, “What if he doesn't love me . . . as much as I love him?”

What if she were making the same mistake all over again and seeing feelings that weren't there. What if she were just fooling herself again. It had hurt so badly when her relationship with Roland ended, how much worse would it hurt if things ended with Bog? Marianne wasn't sure she could bear that.

Dawn looked away, biting her lip. “You asked me that once before, do you remember?”

“What? When?”

“Not about Bog. About Roland. You were having doubts and wondering if things were going to fast and . . . and I told you it was fine. Even though I couldn't think of a better answer than that of course he loved you, he was marrying you. I thought it was romantic and true love and everything a fairy tale was supposed to be and . . . I was so stupid and you got hurt and--”

Marianne sat up, “Whoa, it is not your fault! None of it is your fault.”

“I gave you a stupid answer then because I had my head in the clouds. Now . . . now I guess I know something about love, a little. Roland was always so smooth, so charming, he did every little thing right. He always assumed you would reciprocate, that you would be honored by his attention. Like he was doing you a big favor. Boggy . . .” Dawn paused and her serious expression broke as she giggled, “Boggy's a total mess! He is totally in awe of you.”

“He is not!”

“He is so! He looks at you sometimes like you're some sort of miracle. He's so lovestruck it would be adorable except I think he's kind of hurting over it.”

Marianne hugged her pillow. “Do you really think so?”

“It's not a matter of thinking. It's a matter of not being blind. And as for why he loves you.” Dawn grabbed her sister's hands and pulled her to sit up, “You are passionate, brave, strong, take no nonsense and try to save the world one little sister at a time. You guys have been stuck together since you met. Friends or dating, you two are meant to be together forever. You can picture yourself with him in ten years, can't you? Fighting and watching dumb movies?”

“Argh! Don't—don't marry us off! We've never even dated!”

“You've been dating for months. You've been dating since you met! So you might as well face facts and kiss the man!”

“I'm going to die. You're killing me. Please, stop.”

“You know you want to! You two, I swear! Griselda and I are going to have to lock you in a room together and not let your out until you admit your stupid feelings!”

“Please . . . don't do anything.”

“I won't. That's your job! Now, c'mon!” She hopped off the bed and grabbed Marianne's hands, pulling her to her feet, “We are going to make cookies and eat them with ice-cream while we watch a cute movie and pretend we don't have homework.”

“No, no, I can't take romantic comedies right now, Dawn--”

“We'll watch Legally Blonde.”

“. . . acceptable.”

“Thought so!”

Installed on the floor in front of TV with their desserts they watched the movie and talked about everything and nothing. Dawn pried out the details of the day and even managed to extract the incident of Bog kissing Marianne's hand.

“He's smitten! So,” Dawn asked around a mouthful of peppermint ice-cream and fresh, cakey brownie. “How long did it take you to figure out you liked him?”

“Oh, I always liked him.” Marianne said without thinking.

“Whaaat? So long?!”

“Well, I mean,” Marianne stabbed at her bowl of ice-cream and brownie, “I always thought he was a cool guy. And we clicked in right away with so much stuff . . . and he's hopelessly cute. Plus really, really pretty eyes.” Marianne shoved her bowl away and covered her face, “Bury me now, please. Let me die. I sound like you! This is exactly why I swore off love and romance! It makes you so stupid!”

Stupid things like kiss Bog on the cheek. Stupid things like thinking she should have aimed a few inches to the side and kissed him square on the mouth. The frustrating thing was that if she was being stupid she might as well go full on stupid and kiss him, but she kept waffling. If she was going to make an idiot of herself she might as well get something out of it, honestly.

“Why haven't you done something, I don't know, sooner?” Dawn prodded.

“I didn't want to be in a relationship. Neither did he. It was perfect. Why can't it just keep on being perfect?”

Perfect. Simple. Friends. It couldn't be more simple than that. Romance, on the other hand, was messy and complicated and made Marianne feel like she was going to throw up.

“You'll feel better once you've kissed him.” Dawn said wisely.

Marianne threw a wadded up paper towel at her head.

Dawn dodged it. “Have you thought what kind of wedding you'll have?”

“Death, death, death!”

“How many children are you going to have? Four? Six?”

Marianne gave an inhuman shriek of pain and pounced.

“Wait, wait, it's the part where she slams her ex!” Dawn said, pointing at the TV, “Truce, truce, I love this part!”

“Oh, it's the best part!” Marianne released Dawn and they settled back down, reaching for their bowls without taking their eyes off the screen.

“Just kiss him.” Dawn said with her mouth full, “If you're waiting for him to do it you'll die of old age first. Boggy's shy.”

“Ssssh. Watching the movie.”

“Just get to it. That man needs some serious comfort snuggling. And so do you.”

“Shut uuuup.”

“He totally just wants to curl up on the couch with you and take a nap. He's a simple man.”

“I can't heaaar yooou.”

“Do you think he'll get you a ring or--”

Marianne shoved a pillow over Dawn's face.

“Alright, minions, hop to!” Bog said, setting the last container of disassembled sculpture parts from the studio on the curb by his truck. “Load 'em up.”

The art show was nearing and it was time to start dragging all their pieces to be installed in the gallery. They had all been keeping a weather eye open for Roland but for the moment he did not seem to be making any further moves.

“I will be your lackey,” Marianne said, seizing a box and hefting it up, kicking the bottom with her knee to bounce it into a better position. She wove unsteadily toward the truck, at the mercy of the shifting weight of her burden. “I will be your henchman. Flunky. Stooge. Crony. But I refuse to be a minion. Not after those yellow tic tacs invaded the entire world.”

“What if I mean the other one—the fish?”

“That would be acceptable. But I still refuse the title based on possible misunderstandings.” Marianne leaned back and tried to shove the box up into the bed of the truck, but started to tip over backwards under its weight. She might have fallen if Bog hadn't put himself behind her.

“Hey!” She complained, the weight of her box making her lean back against him.

“You don't have to lift your own weight, tough girl.”

“I've got it!”

“You don't got it.” Sunny said, placing a smaller box into the truck.

“I will fight you all.”

“I'm sure you will.” Bog took the box from her and stowed it away with an easiness that made Marianne glower at him. “Don't give me that. It is not my fault nature has left you at a disadvantage.”

“Disadvantage? Disadvantage?” Marianne fumed, “I do not drag myself to the gym three times a week to put up with this sort of thing! You don't even lift, it's not fair!”

“I think I do enough heavy-lifting on the job. It also helps I am twice your size.”

“Fight me.”

“Maybe later.” He ruffled her hair. Marianne shoved him and he stumbled back, almost tripping over the remaining boxes, laughing.

“You will acknowledge me as a serious threat or live to rue the day!”

“I fear for my ankles, I really do.”

“Somebody yell 'timber' because I am about to fell a tree!”

Dawn was perched in the roof the truck, swinging her legs over the bed. Sunny leaned on the side of the truck. The two of them watched the scuffling and shook their heads. “The flirting has gotten a lot more intense lately. Until they do that.”

'That' was when Bog and Marianne broke apart blushing because they realized how close together they had been standing.

“Were we ever that adorable?” Dawn sighed fondly.

“Me, maybe. I was a pathetic, tongue-tied man, desperate for you to notice me.”

“I wasn't much better. Seeing you again after so many years I was all, oh no when did he get so gorgeous?”

“Was it the hair?” Sunny pretended to smooth back his spikes of hair.

“Totally the hair.” Dawn agreed, patting it.

There was a brief interlude while they watched Marianne attempt to tackle Bog and Bog consequently picking her right up off the ground and generally mocking her short stature. Marianne was attempting to get him into a headlock and not entirely unsuccessful in the venture when they were interrupted.

“Are you kidding me? Is that your dad's truck? I thought that thing would have been scrap years ago!”

The bickering broke up and they all turned around to see who had spoken.

Bog dropped Marianne.

She landed on her feet, but had to grab Bog to keep from falling over. Bog automatically grabbed her shoulders to steady her, but his eyes were not on her. They were riveted on the new arrival.

“Been a long time,” The woman said. She was tall. Nowhere in Bog's height class, but of formidable stature nonetheless. She tossed back a curtain of black hair and smiled. “How've you been?” She made a movement as if to hug Bog or at least take his hand.

Bog pulled away, arms folding over his chest. The moments were pure instinct, there was no intention behind them, his thoughts were completely blank. He had no idea what to do. So his automatic defenses kicked in and he closed himself up. His arms were wrapped tight against his chest, fingers digging into his arms. He scowled, because anger would mask his weakness. His shoulders were slumped forward and head ducked low. Dawn could see he'd gone sharp and tense in a way he didn't usually do so much anymore. Every line of him radiated a warning not to come too near.

The woman let her outstretched hand fall back and she adjusted the strap of the purse over her shoulder and pulled a strand of hair out of her gold hoop earrings. She laughed without much humor, “Well, hello to you too, Bog.”

Bog glanced down, his expression turning from defensive to ashamed. “Hello, Ellie.” He turned away and picked up another box, shoving it into the truck, ignoring all the stares of his friends and leaving Ellie standing on the sidewalk.

“Bog, I need to talk to you.” Ellie called.

“Yeah?” He asked, facing away.

“This is important, so would you stop sulking and come talk to me?”

“Hey!” Marianne had been silent up until then, trying to puzzle out what was going on, but she flared up now. “Who do you think you are, lady?”

Bog carefully fit the box into the space between two others, taking his time to settle it into place. “She's Ellie Penleigh. We—we used to date.”

“You—she's—oh.” Marianne leaned in close and whispered to Bog, “I will fight for your honor, Bog, just give me the word. If she's harassing you--”

Bog managed a smile. “You bring new meaning to the idea of a Pocket Protector, tough girl. I should go talk to her.”

Marianne flipped his hood over his head and tugged him back by a drawstring. “Hey, I'll be back here with my sniper rifle. I see her distressing you then I'm going for a head shot.”

“So I'm the damsel in distress, then?”

“Aren't you always?”

Bog shoved her hand away with a small laugh, pulling his hood back down and running a hand through his hair as he turned to approach Ellie. The laugh faded when he looked at Ellie and he felt himself slumping over, trying to disappear.

“Finally.” Ellie said when Bog stepped onto the sidewalk.

“What do you want?” He snapped.

“Hey, what did I do to deserve that?” She folded her arms and looked at him in a way he remembered from long ago. Why did he remember her frowns better than her smiles? “We used to be friends.”

Bog thought that the wound on his heart had scarred over a long time ago. Sure it had its tender moments, when prodded too sharply, but that was just scar tissue. He had thought. But here and now, with Ellie standing in front of him like a ghost come to remind him of his failings, he could feel it reopen. And it was a vile thing, full of poison. Looking at her reminded him of what he was: ugly, pathetic, and undeserving of love. That someone like him would even dare think that Marianne would . . .

“What do you want?” He tried to moderate his voice, but he was afraid if he spoke too softly it would crack. “I'm busy.”

“Look, Bog, I know we didn't part on the best of terms--”

The door had shut behind her quietly, but it was deafening in Bog's memory.

Moping and brooding like you're the one dying! You say you love me but I don't think you do! If you did you'd try! But it's all about you, it's always all about you! You expect me to sit and wait patiently for when you remember that I exist, but I can't do that. I've had enough, Bog. I can't carry this relationship alone, I can't do it if you don't even try. Why won't you even try?

Bog had wanted to tell her he was trying. Every minute of every day he was fighting to keep walking, keep moving, that nothing was easy, that it was an uphill battle that he always seemed to be losing. But she was right, the things she asked of him were easy, were what he ought to be doing. She was right. He wasn't trying. He couldn't even stand up and go after her, couldn't grab that door before it closed and call her back. Maybe if he had, she would have come back.

But he was weak.

So he was alone.

She had walked out of the door and taken the last traces of happiness with her, leaving him alone in the dark while he waited for his father to die.

“No. I suppose we didn't. Is there—is there a reason you're here, Ellie, or is this just . . . happy chance?” The last two words were spoken with grim sarcasm.

“Still as cheerful as ever.” Ellie sighed, refolding her arms.

Dragging yourself around like it's the end of the world. You should at least keep busy, but you insist on sitting around doing nothing at all. I have to practically force you to leave the house to go anywhere b ut work and the hospital. Do you really think this attitude is going to reassure your dad? Think of somebody other than yourself!

“It's my trademark.”

“Look, I didn't come here to make trouble for you. A couple days ago I got a weird call, some guy asking me all about you. I don't even know who it was or how he knew we used to date, but he had some angle about being a lawyer or investigator and kept me on the line. Pressured me to talk about if you'd ever lost your temper, gotten violent, that sort of thing. Obviously I told him he was barking up the wrong tree. You've always been such a fraud, looking like a complete bad boy but you're really just kind of sweet. Honestly, that was always kind of a disappointment.”

She smiled. She was teasing. But Bog still winced at her words.

“I'm so sorry to have misled you.”

“Can you turn down the attitude for a minute, please? I thought this was important, that you should know, and it was weird to just call you out of the blue.”

“So you decided to ambush me in public?”

“Stop being dramatic. This guy who called me was really pushy and creepy and I wanted to make sure you were okay, alright? Have you been okay?”

She reached out again but a sharp look from Bog made her drop her hand again. He remembered the ring he had bought to put on that hand, planning to propose once his dad was well. Back when there had still been hope.

“Does it matter? This guy leave a name?”

“No, he didn't.”

“No? Not Roland or anything like that?”

“No, no name at all.”

Marianne had been sitting on a box and bouncing her feet up and down to keep warm, but when Bog said Roland's name she jumped to her feet and jogged over.

“Not that I was listening,” Marianne began. Bog gave a soft huff of laughter and she jabbed him with her elbow. “But, I heard you say something about Roland? What's he done now?”

“She got a creepy call from some guy trying to dig up dirt on me.” Bog explained.

“Who's Roland?” Ellie asked. “Um, hi, by the way. I'm Ellie. You are . . .?”

“Marianne.” Marianne replied shortly. “Roland is my creepy ex who doesn’t like me having friends.”

“Oh. I see. Are you in trouble, Bog?”

“Why does it matter to you? Is that everything? A guy called you trying to dig up dirt on me. And you didn't. Thank you for that, I suppose. Sorry that you had to trouble ourself over it.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Marianne said, standing oddly close to him, Bog thought. “He calls you again record it or something. I'm sorry he called you up like that. That's . . . really super slimy. Um, listen, take my number. If Roland contacts you let me know and I'll handle him.”

“Not in front of witnesses.” Bog muttered.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Ellie accepted the number Marianne scrawled on a torn-off piece of sketchbook paper. “You a student here, too?”

“Yup. Painter. Photographer, illustrator,” Marianne pointed at Sunny and Dawn, “and sculptor.” She tilted her head at Bog.

“Sculptor? Really?” Ellie's tone was disbelieving and she gave a little laugh as if she'd heard something ridiculous.

“Yes, really.” Marianne replied flatly. “Nice meeting you, have a nice day, thanks for everything. Bye.”

Marianne turned around and marched off and Bog began to follow her, but Ellie called him back.

“Bog, please, I just wanted to know if you were doing alright, and . . . well, I guess I just wanted a little closure.”

Ellie glanced down shyly and smoothed her black skirt. She was wearing business attire, black skirt and jacket and a white blouse. When Bog had known her she had worn ripped jeans and leather jackets. Apparently she had put that sort of thing behind her along with . . . everything else.

“You left. It was what you wanted.”

Ellie made an exasperated noise and put her hands on her hips. “I wanted you to follow me, you dope! I wanted you to run after me, I wanted you to prove you really loved me. But you didn't, so I knew it was over. Honestly, I don't know how anyone puts up with your moodiness. I tried to make it work, Bog, I really did. But you didn't.”

“You were . . . you were testing me? You did that to me on purpose?”

Raw pain tore at Bog's heart and left him fighting to breathe. He had never blamed Ellie for leaving, for getting tired of him, but that she had done it so suddenly, so cruelly, to test his devotion? She hadn't talked to him, hadn't believed him . . .

“We had some good times, though. Didn't we?” Ellie went on, not paying attention to Bog's reaction or noticing Marianne slipping back up to stand next to Bog again,  “All of us thought we were going to be rock stars, us and our band. Now look at us. All grown up and responsible. Broken Carapace. Who even picked that ridiculous name?”

“I did.” Bog knew he sounded sullen but he couldn't help it. His head snapped around when he felt Marianne slip her hand into his. She gave him a look that dared him to comment.

“Oh. Well, I'm . . . sorry to have bothered you and your girlfriend.”

“I'm not his--” Marianne began.

Bog interrupted, pulling his hand away from Marianne and crossed his arms, trying to hold himself together, to keep the pain from breaking free. “She's not my girlfriend. After all, who would put up with my moodiness?”

“Bog, I didn't mean that--” Ellie said, looking slightly upset at his remark, but he wouldn't let her finish. Whatever she had to say, he didn't want to hear it anymore.

“Thank you for telling me about the call. It's appreciated.”

Bog turned to go, his eyes smarting and temper bubbling hot and angry underneath his pain. He just wanted to get away and process everything. Just wanted to be alone to catch his breath.

“Bog,” Ellie caught his hand. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry it didn't work out, but can you please, for just one minute--”

Bog didn't even know what he felt. All he knew was that the door on that part of his life had closed a long time ago and, sorry or not, it didn't really matter.

“Good bye, Ellie.”

Bog pulled his hand away and she didn't try to hold onto it.

Bog was quiet the entire time they were unloading sculptures and paintings at the gallery. He barely said a word on the drive back to his house, where Griselda was waiting with dinner for the industrious workers. When they got there he headed toward the bathroom with a gruff mumble of “Excuse me.” He was careful not to look Marianne in the face.

He tried to close the bathroom door but Marianne slammed it back open, her hand flat against it to keep it from closing again.

“Bog, if you are even thinking of going to hide in the bathroom and pretend you're not crying . . . don't.”

“I'm . . . I'm not . . . going to . . .”

“Don't.”

She pulled him out of the bathroom and shoved him into his room, making him sit down on the edge of the bed so she could stand over him with her hands on his shoulders.

“Don't be so dense and think you're all alone, okay?”

“I'm . . . I'm sorry, I . . .” He didn't trust himself to say much more, not with hundreds of old memories seething inside his head, reminding him of what he once had and would never have again.

“It's okay.” Marianne put her arms around his neck and he let his head rest against her shoulder. “It's okay, tough guy. It's okay that it still hurts.”

He was so tired. Everything was so hard and nothing was worth the effort, and his body wouldn't move like he wanted it to . . . but he was wrong there. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding on to her like she was an anchor in a storm, the side of his face pressed against her shoulder, hiding his face in the bend of her arm. She just stood there, brushing back his hair and letting him cry.

(x)

Marianne had come after him. She wouldn't let him sit alone behind that closed door. She practically broke the door down. She understood that sometimes he just couldn't come out. Understood that sometimes he just couldn't. She came inside, came to him, and stayed with him in the dark.

His face was splotched unevenly with red, but tears poured down his face in silence. It hurt, it hurt so much. In a way it hadn't hurt at the time, back when it had all first happened. It was the sharp pain of an infection lanced. Traded in the dull, feverish ache of an infected wound that had festered for far too long. It was like the tears of that day had been waiting, all this time, waiting for a release. He had cried since then, but he had never cried over what happened. Not properly.

“I don't know why you bother. I'm pathetic.” He whispered, trying to get his crying under control.

“You're not pathetic.”

“I'm crying over a girl who left me years ago, how is that not the epitome of pathetic?”

“Bog, I have panic attacks over the jerk who cheated on me. I know all about being emotional. And you . . . you've never really talked about it. Have you? Darn it, Bog, you drive me crazy, bottling everything up inside. It's gotta come out sometime. You're not alone, okay? Whenever you want to talk about it, I'm right here. Right here and not going anywhere. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Afterward, when Marianne had gone home, Bog went to the spare room and pulled out his guitars.

When he had found the cases on Thanksgiving he had been surprised by how clean they were, not to mention the fact he had thought he had thrown them out. He had expected them to be coated with dust, dull with time and neglect. But when he moved the boxes off of them they were pristine, the cases smelling fresh and of cleaner. Opening the case of his acoustic guitar he found it it good condition, when he had feared how much restoration would have to be done if it could even be salvaged at all. Despite being years since he held it he settled it properly in his arms and plucked the strings. It was nearly in tune. Sitting on the floor he tried a few ragged chords. He had lost his touch, but the quicksilver impatience, the fuzzy block that stilled his hands before did not interfere now.

“I thought I heard music.” Griselda said from the doorway.

“If you could call it that. Mom?” Bog was sitting on the floor next to the guitars, “They're both in tune . . . And I thought I threw them out . . .”

“I pulled them out of the trash can.” Griselda sat on the edge of the bed, “So that you'd have 'em when you got your head on straight. Didn't know how to take care of them so I've been taking them to a shop regularly to keep them in order. Did they do a good job? I try to keep them to the mark but you never know.”

“They're perfect.” Bog put the acoustic guitar back into its case, running a hand over the polished wooden body. “You . . . I can't believe you . . .” He looked up at her, an unusual arrangement, “Thank you.”

“Wasn't any trouble.” Griselda waved a hand.

“Not just this . . . everything. I've been horrible to you for years but you still . . . nagged me into living. If it weren't for you dragging me by the ear to the doctor, shoving art school brochures in my face, I'd never have . . .”

“Met Marianne?” Griselda supplied.

Bog rubbed his face and glanced down shyly. “. . . yeah.”

“You love her.”

“Mother.”

“You do.”

Bog covered his face with his hands. He could feel the red creeping up his neck and over his face. “Yeah.”

“Finally.” Griselda stood up and bent down to hug her son, kissing him on the cheek and ignoring the resulting grimace come over his reddened features. “Have you told her?”

“No.”

“Am I gonna have to?”

“No!”

“Oh, hush, I'm not gonna. It won't mean anything unless you say it yourself. But I'm gonna nag you until you do.”

Bog heaved a sigh. “I really didn't expect anything else.”

“After that I'll nag you about getting married, then grandchildren of course, then--”

“Mom!”

“Pfft! I'm teasing you, son! Don't be such a grouch.”

Bog inhaled and raised a hand, about to make a sharp comment, then deflated, closing the guitar case and getting to his feet. “You're a right pain in the neck, mom.”

“I want to hear wedding bells before I die.”

“You'll nag us all into our graves.”

“We'll see. C'mon, I made strawberry shortcake 'cause I figured you needed cheering up.”

“Mom, I . . .” Bog fought to form the words, words he hadn't said properly in years and had grown rusty with disuse. Words he had locked away behind his layers of armor until they grew so dusty and whithered as to be unusable. Word he denied existed, words he had sworn never to use. Words that would leave him exposed and vulnerable:

“I love you, mom.”

Griselda's wide face split into a toothy grin. “I know, son, but that's really nice to hear you say it.”

He let her fuss without more than the occasional growl. He picked at the dessert, separating the slices of strawberries into neat piles, cutting the syrup soaked shortcake into segments with his fork, mixing the red syrup into the whipped cream until it turned a sickly pink.

It was all such a mess.

He and Marianne had bypassed all the usual social dating customs and skipped to an intimacy he had never shared with another person before. They had skipped past crushes, past the immediate attraction that pulled two people together, straight into . . . whatever it was that they had. Whatever it was, he didn't want to lose it, risk it by a badly thought out move. So far in this relationship they had never made any intentional moves, things just happened.

Bog shoved the dessert away.

He looked at the back of his hands. His knuckles were scarred from fighting, an assortment of lines mapped the palms and back of his hands, from fighting, work accidents, from mishandled carving tools. Most of them had faded enough they weren't immediately noticeable in the uneven texture of his skin, but they were there. He was so broken, patched together from bits and pieces. What was going to stop him from falling apart again and hurting Marianne? She deserved better than his patchwork quilt of problems.

Griselda set a small black box on the table, tearing his gaze away from his hands. “Saved this, too. And some other things.” She set a shoe box on the table, but pushed the small black one toward Bog first.

Bog opened the box. “Dad's ring. I thought he was buried with it . . .”

“He wanted you to have it. But at the time . . . I thought it would just hurt you to be reminded.”

The ring was set with an uneven chunk of amber, cracks within its polished surface catching the light. It was held in place by curlicues of copper that twisted together to form the band. He slipped it onto the ring finger of his right hand and it fit almost perfectly.

“You've got your father's hands. Big, rough, but strong and capable. They're good hands. Don't disregard them because of a few scars. Now go tell that girl you love her.”

“I'm . . . I'm not dad. He was . . . he was strong.”

“So are you. Life keeps dragging you down and you keep fighting.”

“But I never win. I'm always fighting.”

“That's life, son. The best thing for you is to find someone who wants to fight alongside you. And if anyone's a fighter it's that girl of yours.”

“And I'm just supposed to be a dead-weight on her until she can't take it anymore? Until she leaves like . . . like Ellie.”

“Look, that girl, Ellie, she wasn't right for you. A relationship is a partnership and ideally that means you both share the load equally, but when one of you's hurt or sick, the other needs to be willing to carry both halves for awhile. If she couldn't see that then it would never have worked out. You were sick, son, and that's not your fault.”

“I'm always sick. It isn't fair to Marianne.”

“Take it from me, you're not. You have your good days and your bad days, like anybody else. And you're working hard, you're getting better. You're allowed to be happy, son. You're allowed to love her and be loved. And,” Griselda took her son's face in her hands and pinched his cheeks, “I refuse to let you die sad and alone.”

“Mom.”

“If you don't marry this girl I'll start looking at those singles websites for you again.”

“Mother.”

“So you'd better get on with it! Now eat your shortcake."

Chapter Text

Tell her.

But tell her how?

How do you just tell somebody that you accidentally fell so deeply in love with them, that they've pervaded into every corner of your life, become so completely entwined in your existence that if you lost them it would tear your world apart.

What, just go up to Marianne and say, “So, hey, I love you, wanna go out to dinner sometime?.” Or, “I really like this best friend thing we've got going but have you considered the possibility of adding in some passionate kissing and all that stuff that we swore we were done with forever?”

He would be lucky if the only thing she did was punch him in the face.

Then again, she already knew. He had messed up and she knew. So why didn't she say anything? They both knew the current state of things and that only seemed to make it harder to actually say anything about it out loud. If he knew, if Marianne knew . . . why did they have to say anything?

Bog twanged at the strings of his guitar in protest to the unfairness of the universe. He twanged again because he kept fumbling chords and was getting impatient with his inability to re-master his old skills as quickly as he would like. The guitar was in perfect shape. Bog was not.

The nervous tightness in his body was doing him no favors either and his stiff attempts to practice seemed a fitting backdrop to Marianne's increasingly strained phone call with her father.

“No, no, dad, I'm not stressed . . . I don't care if you think I sound stressed, I am still not stressed . . . seriously, dad, I'm fine, just busy. End of the semester and all that . . . Yes, dad, I have been making sure to eat properly . . . Yes, dad, I still remember how to do the calming breathing . . . I love you, too, dad, gotta go, bye!”

Marianne ended the call and threw her phone across the room.

Bog leaned out of his seat and caught the phone in one hand before it collided with the studio's skeleton, McCoy.

“Sooo . . .” Bog flipped the phone around in his hand and raised an eyebrow at Marianne, “How's your dad?”

Marianne pulled her face into a wide-eyed grimace and clawed the air wordlessly, unable to vocally express how much and in how many ways her father's good-intentioned fussing drove her to the limit of sanity. Bog had seen how the tension in her shoulders grow and grow as the conversation went on, and how she was fighting to keep her breathing steady.

“Remember to breathe.” Bog reminded her, his tone deliberately sweet, doing his best to push her right over the edge of sanity and into full on madness. The attempt appeared successful when Marianne turned her gaze on him, her eyes murderous in shadows of smeared purple. But a smile slipped onto Bog's face when he saw Marianne's tight shoulders ease a fraction looser.

“Gimme back my phone so I can throw it at your head!” Marianne spoke in a growling exhale.

“Nope.” Bog stood up and held the phone above his head, far out of her reach, placing his guitar safely on an empty patch of tabletop.

Marianne charged across the studio and made a flying jump, catching Bog's arm and trying to drag it down. Bog switched the phone to his other hand and Marianne hissed at him.

“Aw, need a step ladder? Oh, you've nearly got it—whoops!” Bog had dipped the phone down until it was nearly within Marianne's reach before whisking it away again. Marianne stood on his feet and flailed at the distant prize.

“I'm gonna make you eat it. Then I'm going to find out how to remotely change the playlist so you've got Disney songs coming from where it's wedged in your esophagus! Every time you open your mouth people will be plagued by 'Let it Go'. Ugh, give it back or I'll gnaw your stupid, skinny arm off!”

“On a scale of one to ten,” Bog shuffled his feet in an effort to dislodge Marianne but she just threw an arm around his neck and hung on tight, “How bad has your dad been pushing your buttons today? I only caught the sign off, but your eyes had the gleam of someone about to snap.”

“Ugh. Twelve. Every time he calls I'm sure that's because Roland has given him those files and dad is gonna do something stupid like try and pull me out of school. Or, worse, pull Dawn out too. Gimme!” She flailed uselessly at her cellphone.

“Would he do that? Your dad?” Bog's grin over Marianne's futile attempts to reclaim her property faded and a small dread blossomed in the back of his mind. The larger ramifications of Roland's mischief had occurred to him before now but he had said nothing about it to Marianne. Saying it out loud made is more of a terrible possibility and less of a vague fear.

“Undoubtedly. Dad would try, anyway. He'd actually do it over my dead body. I'd sooner move into a cardboard box and beg for scholarships than drop out now. And no way am I going to let him mess with Dawn. The minute she finishes school is the minute she marries Sunny and I will not allow Dad to dig up another objection to that. Oh, come on!”

Marianne once again failed to retrieve her phone. She put her chin on Bog's shoulder and made sulky, complaining noises, her arm around him in a way that totally did not count as hugging.

Or so Bog silently insisted to himself.

Even if it was hugging it was just because Marianne was upset. Sometimes she just needed a hug to help her calm down. That was all.

. . . her hair smelled like rosemary.

He didn't know what to do so he froze in place and cast around for a way to continue the conversation.

“I-I'm surprised they haven't tied the knot already, honestly. Dawn and Sunny. They talk about “when we're married” so often. Dawn cornered me once and told me all the baby names she had picked out.”

“You got off easy. She likes to wake me up at night to ask my opinion on revised lists. Yeah, they totally want to get married ASAP! Or, at least, make it an official engagement and start making wedding plans. But dad made it a condition that Dawn not get herself entangled until after she's finished with school. If she gets pulled out then it'll take her that much longer to finish her degree and she'd have to spend that time away from Sunny. Have you ever seen a sunbeam wilt with sadness, Bog? I have and I would rather not see it again.”

“Well, before you commit to a cardboard box, remember that I've got a spare room.”

“Filled with junk.” Marianne braced on hand on Bog's shoulder and tried to boost herself up.

“Junk can be shifted. Rather junk than you shifted to who knows where. Two. You two. I wouldn't want you two to get pulled out before graduation.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” With a quick movement Marianne finally hopped off Bog's feet and stepped back to consider her phone retrieval options.

“If I dropped out,” The words came slowly, even though Bog had been going over the idea for some time now, thinking it through from every possible angle, “do you think he would let you two stay? I'm not saying I will, but if worst comes to worst . . .”

“My ears do this thing,” Marianne said, dragging a chair over, “Where if someone says something utterly nonsensical I just don't hear it. It is physically impossible for my ears to process such pointless garbage.”

“Seriously, Marianne, the last thing I want to do is be the reason behind your lives being turned upside down.”

“Oh,” Marianne cocked her head to one side, “There it is again.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Didn't hear a thing except the faint whispering of wind through the branches of an over-dramatic pine tree.” Marianne waved her hand to indicate the movement of a breeze, then grabbed the back of the chair and shoved it right up next to Bog.

Grin returning, Bog started moving away and out of Marianne's reach. But Marianne leaped onto the chair and seized the front of Bog's hoodie, cutting off an easy escape. “I will get my phone or kill you in the attempt!” She said through gritted teeth, straining to reach Bog's hand which was still stretched just out of reach.

“In all seriousness,” Bog began again.

“Wind in the trees.” Marianne said, grabbing Bog's wrist and pulling his arm down toward her.

Bog switched the phone to his free hand and held it behind his back. “I was just going to say that if I can help in any way, let me know. Even if it's just making myself scarce for awhile if your dad comes poking around.”

“Unacceptable!” Marianne let go of his wrist and lunged forward to grab at his elbow. The chair she was standing on wobbled dangerously and Bog wrapped a steadying arm around her. “I'm not going to sneak around. You're my friend and there's no reason you shouldn't be my friend.”

Bog snorted and rolled his eyes, “Please. My appearance alone is highly objectionable to the concerned parent, not to mention all the trouble I've been involved with in the past. That's an unofficial record of violent tendencies in that folder if there ever was one.”

“Okay, first of all, there's nothing wrong with the way you look,”

“Oh, please, I--”

“Talking.” Marianne put a finger over his lips to silence him and Bog became aware of how close she was. She was still standing on the chair, almost on eye-level with him, and he still had his arm around her waist to keep her from tipping over. “You look just fine, as far as I'm concerned. Second, you have never shown these “violent tendencies” in front of me or anyone else the entire time I've known you. Considering how aggravating I am it's pretty unlikely you wouldn't have snapped at least once by now.”

“That isn't--” Bog managed to push her hand away, hoping the red blush creeping up the back of his neck wasn't visible on his face.

“I'm more likely to snap. Especially if you don't give me back my phone!” Marianne reached over his shoulder to make another grab at the phone he was holding behind his back. For balance she hooked one arm around his neck and was jamming her own shoulder into his throat.

“Ack!” Bog gargled, “I give, I give!”

“Ha! Victory once more comes to rest on my doorstep!”

“Huh. Let's call it a draw.”

Marianne's shoulder was removed from his throat and her phone restored to her keeping. As she pulled back enough for Bog to see her face again he made another attempt to revive the discussion.

“Look, tough girl, there's nothing I'd like better than smearing Roland all over the pavement and giving your dad my two cents about the situation—consequences be hanged. But that satisfaction isn't worth all the trouble it would cause for you and Dawn. If we just . . . sort of . . . saw less of each other, I guess.”

Coward.

Coward, coward, coward.

How much of this nobility and self sacrifice was concern for Marianne, how much was him scrambling for an excuse to distance himself. To keep himself from admitting to her how he felt. He didn't know. His words were trying to push her away, but his arm was still around her waist, thumb caught in the belt loop of her overalls.

“No compromises, tough guy.” Marianne said, hand still on his shoulder, toying with the ragged edge of the hood. “I'm not giving up my best friend to keep them happy. You think breaking up will stop Roland? Not a chance. Even if you dropped out my dad would still do something stupid. Get a restraining order, try and pull us out anyway, make a huge fuss . . . I'd go crazy, being at the center of all that. Alone.”

“I just--”

Bog was cut off when he got a mouthful of Marianne's hair. She was hugging him tight, her hair in his face. “Shut up. Just shut up. Sometimes I think you're the only thing that keeps me sane. So you go nowhere. Got it? Good.”

Before Bog had a chance to gather his thoughts Marianne had shoved him away and dismounted from the chair, heading back over to her painting.

Bog turned his back to hers, hoping his face wasn't turning red, directing his gaze to the flat black of the windows. The sun had long ago set and aside from a few campus lights the only thing he could see in the window was yellow reflections of the studio's interior. Marianne was puttering around her easel, mixing up colors in tiny jars that she seemed to have an endless supply of. He redirected his eyes to the floor.

Going back to his own work table Bog put his guitar in its case and sat down, picking through a box filled with broken pieces of mirror, laying out the shards on a cutting board. It had been awhile since he worked with mirrors in his sculptures. It used to be one of his standard themes, shattered mirrors laid over pieces like morning dew sparkling in the morning light, or water gathered after rainfall. Hundreds of tiny reflections, cracked and warped.

Considering the stress of recent days Bog was glad to have a quiet evening in the studio with Marianne.

At the same time he was terrified to be alone in the studio with Marianne.

Terrified that he might say or do something that would destroy the fragile illusion of normalcy they had been carefully maintaining since Thanksgiving. It already was prone to thinning in places and he wondered what he might have said if Marianne had given him the chance.

“I need this.” Marianne gripped the collar of his hoodie and tugged.

“What, don't you have a jacket of your own?” Bog asked, even as he shrugged his arms out of his sleeves.

He knew what she really meant. That she was having a difficult day and needed something warm to hide herself in. A blanket to wrap around herself, a pillow to hug, and failing that it appeared Bog's hoodie was blanket-like enough to serve.

“Nope. Just my raincoat and that's not comfy.” Marianne donned the hoodie, almost disappearing in it. She could barely poke her hands out of the sleeves to zip it up.

“You're going to get paint all over it. Again.”

“Oh, you afraid of a little color in your life, Bog?”

“A little? Please, I think you have a two gallon minimum when it comes to splashing paint around.”

“Someday I'm going to sneak into your house and dye all your shirts bright orange. Actually, I probably wouldn't have to sneak. Griselda would let me in and have your shirts piled up and ready to go.”

Bog sighed heavily at the through of his mother. “Yeah, she would.”

True to her word, Griselda had been nagging him incessantly about the current . . . situation . . . between him and Marianne. She had pried detail after detail out of him and was unsatisfied with his reasons for not saying anything. Also true to her word, however, Griselda had said nothing to Marianne. Though Bog had seen his mother exchange significant looks with Dawn more than once, which he found deeply unsettling.

In the face of his mother's prodding and the heavy suspicion he harbored that Dawn knew everything too, Bog was started to feel more than a little self conscious about . . . everything. He felt rubbed raw, robbed of his armor, like the truth was written plainly on his face for all the world to see.

Bog leaned his cheek on his knuckles, thinking of how Marianne had kissed him the other day, wondering if it meant anything. It was just a kiss on the cheek, that didn't have any romantic connotations.

But.

But Marianne didn't exactly go around kissing just anybody . . . But he knew. He knew she felt the same way he did. And he couldn't decide if it terrified him more that she said nothing, or that she might say something.

He kept catching himself watching her, the way the reddish highlights of her hair shimmered under the lights as she tucked it back behind her ear, the thoughtful look on her face as she scribbled in her sketchbook, the neat little shape she made curled up on the couch while wearing the stolen hoodie.

He turned his attention back to his work, but his work shifted into doodling and soon he gave that up too and started inking over some sketches, just to keep in practice. Unfortunately the page he chose had a sketch of Marianne's profile on it and he caught himself glancing over at her to see if he needed to make any corrections. After accidentally catching Marianne's eye he flipped the page over and started to work on something else, feeling his neck getting warm with embarrassment again.

Finally he got involved in the inking of some plant sketches enough to lose himself a bit--

POP POP POP POP

Bog's hand jerked and his pen swerved, cutting a dark line across the page. He slewed around in his seat to glare at Marianne. She was laying on the floor, her feet up on the couch, a length of bubblewrap spread over her chest and stomach. With great precision she was working her way left to right, popping one row of bubbles, then going right to left to pop another.

“Marianne!”

She tipped her head back so she could see him, albeit upside-down, “What?”

“Did you never think that might be distracting?”

“Your face is distracting,” Marianne retorted. Red bloomed in her cheeks when she seemed to realize how that sounded and quickly continued, “I'm bored. Let's go kill a man. You know which one.”

“I keep telling you: after graduation. The moment those diplomas are safely in hand we can force-feed them to Roland and drop him off a bridge.”

“Why must you be so sensible?” Marianne demanded, kicking her legs against the couch and defiantly popping more bubblewrap.

“There are few people who would accuse me of being sensible,” Bog abandoned his ruined sketch and came over to sit on the couch by her feet and pick up the other end of the bubblewrap, joining in with the methodical popping of bubbles. “Where did you get this?”

“There was a big shipment of art supplies and Plum put all the wrap in a corner. She's got a whole stash back there, it's been piling up all semester. There's enough that if we wrapped Roland up and shipped him to the furtherest reaches of the world he might actually survive. If he didn't suffocate.”

Bog pointed a finger at her, “No.”

“Ugh! You benevolent dictator with my best interests at heart!” Marianne kicked her bare feet, popping bubbles with vicious energy all the while.

They reached the middle of the length of bubblewrap, the thing entirely deflated. Bog let it flutter over Marianne's face and she made no move to take if off or get up off the floor. She tugged another sheet over but made no move to pop it.

“You okay?” Bog asked after a lengthy period of silence and uncharacteristic stillness. He leaned over and flicked the wrap off her face.

“I guess.” Marianne pulled the hood of Bog's jacket over her head. “All this stuff with Roland . . . it's really shaken things up. I just want things to stay the same . . . for a little while longer.”

Bog propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, letting out a a sigh. He had long ago stopped viewing change as anything but a bad thing. To risk what they had now for the sake of something that only might be . . . He didn't want to let go yet. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“Yeah?” Marianne tipped her head back to look up at him from underneath the jacket's hood, her bangs pushed over her eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Not that . . .” Marianne crossed her arms, hands lost in the sleeves, “Not that I don't want things to never change. If you get me.”

“I . . . I think I do.”

“I just wish things would, well, wait, I guess.”

“Oh, I hear that.” Bog knew how it was, to have the world speeding along around you, too fast for you to keep up so that it dragged you along, pushed you places you didn't want to go, never letting you have a moment of peace long enough to breathe, to think, to decide.

“Or that I could speed up.” Marianne continued, “That I could just . . . deal with everything like a normal person.”

“If you turn into a normal person I want a divorce.”

“I do what I want. You can't stop me. Watch me, I'm going to rent a chick flick and paint flowers. Wear pink. Switch to a real school. Be a morning person.”

“Uh huh. You'll have to give up the bubblewrap.” He tugged at the fresh sheet.

There was a loud serious of crackling pops when Marianne grabbed it and yanked back, “Precious! No! I renounce normality! Spare the bubblewrap!”

“I thought you might see the light.”

“I still want a divorce.”

“We'd have to get married first.”

“Good point. One step at a time. I have some free time on Monday, we can run to town, get married, and be at a divorce attorney before lunch. Let's make it a messy divorce. Fighting over who gets to keep the dog.”

“Neither of us have a dog.”

“We can pick one up after the wedding and before visiting the attorney. We'll name him Max.”

“I'd rather have a cat.”

“Can we still name him Max?”

“Yeah, but after we divorce I'm going to change his name just to be petty. No pun intended.”

“Okay, but I get the truck.”

“Over my dead body.”

“I'll paint it pink.”

“My dead body or the truck? So, Monday?” Bog pulled a pad of sticky notes out of his shirt pocket and scribbled a quick note, “Monday we get married. I'll put it in my schedule.”

“Unless Tuesday works better for you.”

“Oh, no, Monday is perfect.”

“Good. Should we tell Dawn and your mother before or after visiting the divorce attorney?”

“Can we just . . . tell them nothing?”

“That would be ideal, honestly. Dawn has been--” Marianne stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth still forming her next word, eyes darting up to Bog's face. Red spread over her cheeks and she yanked the hood back down, pulling it all the way to her chin.

“I knew it.” Bog slid sideways, down onto the couch, “I knew they'd been talking.”

Slumped over on the couch, Marianne's legs under his shoulder, Bog rued the day that his mother and Dawn had ever met. They got on entirely too well. Marianne just groaned in pained agreement.

Feeling his skin blotching with red, Bog risked a glance at Marianne. They didn't need to say it out loud, they both knew what Griselda and Dawn has been discussing and why it made them uncomfortable. But . . . but this could be a good opportunity to broach the topic. Actually say something outright . . .

Say what?

I love you?

The embarrassed blush burned on his face, neck, and shoulders. Right now he really hated that inheritance from his father, the pale complexion and beacon-brightness of embarrassment painted all over him.

Bog cast around for something else to think about and his eyes fell on the abandoned bubblewrap. “Let's cover everything with bubblewrap.”

“Yeah.” Marianne's chin poked out from under the hood when she nodded eagerly, apparently also glad for a shift in conversation.

Bog rose to his feet and Marianne flung up a hand. He grabbed it and dragged her into an upright position. “One last hurrah before they kick us out for being mentally unstable.”

“They won't. We aren't.” Marianne wrapped her arms around herself, getting lost in the baggy folds of the hoodie.

“Well, I'm not.” Bog ruffled her her hair.

“Oh, I hate you!” Marianne slapped him with the trailing end of the hoodie's sleeves.

They pulled out the rolls of bubblewrap and began planning how to best cover the studio. In the end they decided to move all the furniture to the edges of the room and cover the painting half of the studio with wall-to-wall bubblewrap. If there was any significant amount of wrap once they were done they would begin the process of shrouding the furniture in bubbles too.

Bog pulled out his pocket knife to cut up the wrap, then frowned, checking in both his pockets before asking Marianne, “Is there a lighter in your pocket?”

“A lighter?” Marianne pushed up her sleeves and rummaged in the hoodie's pockets. She came up with a pencil, three crumpled green sticky notes, a paper flower, and two dead leaves. “No, not here. Since when do you smoke?”

“Not for years. It was my dad's. Mom gave it to me recently. I had it in my pocket this morning.”

“Let me guess, it went missing up here? I'm missing so many paint brushes and and like three tubes of paint. They took my green oxide, Bog. They took it.”

“Tragic. Well, tell me if you see it. The lighter.”

“Yeah, I'll--” Marianne stopped, lifting up her head and listening. “Do you hear that?”

Bog put down the bubblewrap and listened too. Once the wrap settled. the crinkling subsided, he heard a faint scratching from under the floor.

“Oh, great. Do we have rats?” Bog said.

“Ugh. I guess. Oh!” Marianne jumped up onto a chair, “Did you see it? Did you see it?! I think I saw it!”

“Um. No.” Bog considered the sight of Marianne vaulting up onto a chair like the floor had suddenly turned to lava. “Did you really just jump up on a chair--”

“Shut up! I'm not wearing any shoes! I'm not getting rabies because I had more courage than sense! Now toss me my shoes!”

Smirking, Bog went over to Marianne's abandoned shoes, then stopped short, saying, “Oooh, what if it's crawled into your shoe and is laying in wait for you?”

“Then I will throw the whole thing at your face. Now give me my shoes!”

“Careful, it can probably smell fear.”

“Do not quote Disney films at me, Alan King!”

Bog tossed the boots over to Marianne. She caught them and  shoved her feet in, not bothering to do up the laces, clomping back down onto the floor and in the direction of the rat sighting.

“What are you planning to do?” Bog asked, spreading out the bubblewrap while Marianne stalked along the edges of the room.

“Hit it with a board until it's nothing but a smear on the floor.”

“Getting rat blood around is probably a bad idea. How about a box?”

“So we can take it outside and bludgeon it there?”

“I was thinking of setting it free at the edge of campus. We can't properly dispose of the thing if it's dead.”

“Well, I guess it'll freeze out there.” Marianne said optimistically.

“So much determined violence.”

“I'm not allowed to bludgeon the blonde rat I want to, so this one will have to substitute.”

“If I ever offend you I am just leaving the country. I won't even pack, I'll just head straight to the airport and hope you don't catch up.”

“Roderick will give me the addresses of your cousins in Scotland, so don't even think of heading there. Not even the beautiful, mysterious moors of the Highlands will protect you from my wrath.”

“Noted. I know the janitor has catch-em-alive traps in the basement. Brutus will let us in to get one, if he's still on duty.”

“How drearily sensible, Bog. Lead on, pragmatic one, lead on.”

“Look, I've helped restore some pretty nasty houses and stomped on my fair share of rats. I'm telling you it's not worth the mess unless you're tearing out the floor anyway. And if you had ever had a pet rat you wouldn't be so eager to disembowel the things.”

“Okay, point. We will do this the humane way, even though it cuts against the grain.”

Half an hour later they had the trap in place near where the scratching had been heard, baited with cool ranch doritos from the vending machine downstairs.. Marianne passed a bag of regular doritos to Bog and they both munched thoughtfully, considering their work.

“Do rats like cool ranch doritos?” Marianne wondered.

“I don't know of any humans that like them, but it's kind of like cheese and rats like cheese.”

“Do rats actually like cheese or is that one of those misleading cartoon things?”

“I don't know. But this place isn't going to cover itself with bubblewrap.”

Marianne tipped the last crumbs out of the bag and into her mouth. “You see any furry friends give a shout. Or better, a high girlish scream.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

After the easels and tables were pushed against the walls Bog found a floor board that was crumbling on one end. Pressing the solid end with the toe of his shoe he discovered the board was barely attached.

“Hey, let's bring the trap over here. Looks like this might be our friend's front door. Actually, we might even be able to . . .” Inserting the blade of his pocket knife into the crack between the boards Bog pried up the loose one. “Yeah, I think we can fit the trap right into here!”

“Sweet.” Marianne clomped over, still wearing her boots, “Make sure they're not at home before you put your hand in there, dude.”

Marianne unclipped a light from an easel and shone it down into the hole. “Whoa! Jackpot!” The light gleamed off the metal case of Marianne's makeup compact and an assortment of other objects scattered around in a nest of chewed up paper and what might have once been some socks. “The rat is the thief! Told you I wasn't eating this stuff.”

“I stand—or crouch—corrected.” Bog said, peering into the hole, “I think I see Sunny's film canisters. The Phantom of the Art Department's name is cleared.”

“Of this particular crime.”

“It is an inferior crime. We want only the best, most quality of crimes on our resumes.”

“Do you see my brushes or paint?”

“Nope, not my dad's lighter either. Maybe they're under all the shredded paper. We'll find out when we clear it all out and take inventory.”

“Let's clean up everything and put it out with a note.”

“Something like, 'with my compliments, The Phantom'?” Bog suggested.

“Heck yeah.” Bog held up his hand and Marianne smacked hers against it, a grin on her face, “Accept no substitutes!”

Aura Plum arrived at the studio before her morning classes and found that when she flipped the light switch the usual glow of artificial light did not illuminate the room. Flicking the switch a few times just to be sure, she made a noise of exasperation and began to cross the room to try the other switch.

She gave several sharp squeaks of alarm when the floor seemed to give a little underneath her winter boots, crackling and popping with each of her alarmed hops. It wasn't until she had stumbled her way across the studio that she was able to finally turn on the lights and behold the state of the room.

Bubblewrap was laid neatly over the floor, wall to wall, encompassing several easels and nearly all the table tops, chairs, and stools. It looked as if the entire room was being prepped for shipment, all that was left to do was box it all up.

“Such dedication.” She muttered, studying the ghostly effect of the neatly wrapped furniture, like the room was muffled with a form-fitting layer of fog. Louder she said, “Mr. King, Miss Summers, would you be so kind as to explain?”

Somewhere in the studio there was a giggle and then the sound of someone shushing the giggler. Another giggle escaped and was quickly followed by what might have been the sound of someone smacking their hand over the giggler's mouth.

Aura Plum sighed and rolled her eyes, pretending very hard that the situation wasn't actually pretty funny. Crackling over to her office she found the basket full of the recovered items left by the Phantom. That was a favor done for her, anyway. There had been so many complaints about theft she was afraid she'd have to start restricting studio access and have the custodial staff questioned.

A high-pitched shriek made Aura gasp and jump. A crash sounded behind the student lockers and a moment later she heard Marianne Summers shout, “There it is! There it is! Get it!”

A small white shape squeezed out from under the shelves and darted toward Aura. The two miscreants rounded the corner just in time to see Aura scoop up the white creature, cradling it in her arms. They both stopped short.

“That,” Marianne said, “Is not a rat.”

“Of course not.” Aura scritched the creature under the chin, “Imp is a ferret.”

“Imp?” Bog and Marianne asked in unison, looking at the long,  white, snaky creature wiggling smugly in Plum's arms, its little black eyes glittering with mockery. “Ferret?”

“You haven't been teasing him, have you?” She narrowed her eyes sharply at them, her glittery earrings trembling with an edge of indignation.

“Us?” Bog gasped, “Teasing him? He's the devil incarnate!”

“A tiny snake-mammal criminal!” Marianne agreed.

“What is a ferret doing running wild in the studio?”

“Oh,” Aura waved a hand, “He snuck into my bag a few weeks back and stowed away to my morning class. He disappeared but I figured he'd show up sooner or later. He always does. By the way . . . which one of you screamed?”

Bog looked at the ceiling and Marianne bit her lower lip to try and disguise the curve of a smile.

Aura didn't bother to restrain her laughter, the dark look on Bog King's face only encouraging her. Finally she coughed and said calmly, with an elegant gesture of her hand:

“Mr. King, Miss Summers, would you be so kind as to volunteer to clean up this mess after class? Then come see me in my office, thank you. Now,” she turned to the ferret, “who's been a naughty little boy? Hiding from mommy all this time!” She shook her finger at Imp and he tried to bite it, but she snatched it away with the ease of practice and booped his nose instead as she made her way back into her office.

“Good morn—whoa!” Sunny stopped short at the top of the stairs, Dawn bumping into his back and peeking over his head, “Is the school taking precautions against its students bruising themselves on furniture? Is this an insurance thing?”

Dawn slipped past him and tugged off her boots, twirling around the room in her socks, the floor snapping and popping beneath her. “You guys! Do you ever sleep?”

“Evil never sleeps.” Sunny remarked, unlacing his own boots and jumping in to join Dawn's dance.

“That's justice.” Bog corrected, “Justice never sleeps.”

“Does that make you two Batman and Robin?”

“I call being Batman!” Bog and Marianne said in unison. They glared at each other.

“Fine,” Marianne said, “You be Batman, but I refuse to be Robin. I'll be Nightwing.”

“Wasn't he a Robin?”

“He grew out of it.”

“You made me watch the cartoon, I remember. I also remember that he grew out a mullet.”

“It was the 90s, Bog, let it be.”

“We'll be Robin!” Dawn volunteered, “But, Marianne, you'd be good as that mean Robin, the one who died but didn't really.”

“Jason Todd?”

“Yeah, him!”

“Hm. Your argument has merit, young fledgling.”

Sunny pulled Dawn into step with some Swing moves and they began to rock-step and spin around the room.

“So I'm stuck taking care of all these kids again,” Bog complained, “Three Robins at once is too much for Batman to handle. I need a butler. Don't any of you have parents?”

“Pfft,” Sunny scoffed, “I think you two are the ones that need parents! You spent all night packaging a room for shipping! Somebody needs to scold you about getting eight hours and eating your vegetables.”

“No, we don't.” Marianne said, “Dawn pesters me with texts until I send her a picture of me consuming some sort of plant.”

“I practice my mom-skills on Marianne.” Dawn said, ducking under Sunny's arm as he twirled her. “I know everything there is to know about wrangling moody teenagers out of bed and off to school.”

“I'm still working on my dadness.” Sunny paused in his dancing, miming puffing a pipe, wrinkling his forehead and looking solemn. “Son,” He intoned in a deep voice, “Your mother and I are concerned.” Dawn took his arm and nodded seriously. “We're worried that this rock and roll business may be leading you down the wrong path in life. You could end up piercing your face and riding motorbicycles.”

“Whatever, dad,” Bog tossed his head, “It's my life and I'm gonna do what I want. Marianne, hand me that stapler so I can pierce my nose.”

“I'd object, but I need to help Dawn grab some stuff and get to my actual classroom.” Sunny dropped his imaginary pipe.

“Okay, one second,” Dawn flopped onto a patch of floor that hadn't been trampled on and rolled back and forth a few times, giggling while the bubblewrap popped. She hopped back up, “All done! Professor Maureen asked for two of those little card tables so we can lay out all our prints to dry.”

“These here?” Sunny pulled a card table from behind a pile of mannequin parts, “Just any two, or did she want a specific size—WHAT THE--!”

Sunny gave a shriek and stumbled backwards into a bin of plastic flowers and baby dolls. A flash of white darted out from the pile of disembodied limbs and began scrabbling at the side of the bin, nipping at Sunny's flailing feet.

“Sunny Bunny!” Dawn cried, “Are you okay?”

“Hamster-snake criminal!” Marianne said, shooing the ferret away from Sunny, “Add attempted manslaughter to your rap sheet!”

Extracted from the bin, Sunny had a pink plastic flower tangled in his spiked hair. “What the hey, dude.”

“That would be Imp.” Marianne sighed, “Our residence petty thief and saboteur. Long story. Good news, we found your missing film.”

Upon entering Plum's office after class Bog's eyes were instantly drawn to the blue folder sitting on the desk. Among the clutter of paintbrushes, vials of glitter, and other art supplies, the neat navy blue folder stood out like a patch of calm waters in a storm sea of color. It was the same sort of folder that had contained the files Roland gave to Marianne.

A strange calm settled over Bog. It had happened. The thing they had been worrying over since Roland had ambushed Marianne at that lunch. Roland was taking further steps to discredit Bog. There was an orange glow of anger burning at the edge of the heavy calm that laid over him, waiting for an opportunity to burst into full flame. His hand wanted to close into a fist but to his surprise he found Marianne was holding it, her cold fingers giving him a comforting squeeze despite the tight wires of anxiety that he could feel running through her. They sat in the chairs in front of the desk, feeling as if they sat before the brink of some dark chasm of unknown.

“Now,” Plum settled behind her desk and tapped the folder with a sparkling purple fingernail, “The dean and the board of directors received this recently--”

Marianne began to say something wildly inappropriate about Roland, his snooping, and the board of directors, but Bog gripped her hand tightly and she left it unfinished. Plum waited until she was sure neither of them were going to speak again before proceeding, ignoring the dark looks they were directing at the folder:

“Please keep your language professional, Miss King. Um. Summers. Miss Summers. It seems you already know what's in this?” She tapped the folder again, fingernail making a sharp click on the heavy cover. Her face was serious, all her usual giggling fluttering gone, eyes steady and mouth set in a hard line.

“Yeah.” Bog ground his teeth together, thinking of how the darkest times of his life had been laid bare in that folder and then skewed into something not exactly true but not exactly false, “A record of my misdeeds, right?”

“Supposed misdeeds! Look,” Marianne leaned forward, her hand clutching the edge of the desk, “Even if half the stuff in there was true—which it's not—it would be discrimination to hold it against Bog and it's nobody's business to start with so--”

Plum held up a hand to interrupt Marianne, “Mr. Knight is claiming that Mr. King has been harassing him and threatening assault. That's not past history, that's something current and ongoing that needs to be addressed.”

“No, that's me. Threatening assault.” Marianne said darkly, her hand slipping out of Bog's as she wrapped her arms around herself, seeming to shrink down, the light and fire going out of her while old pain and new showed in her eyes. She hugged herself tightly, keeping it all in.

Bog clenched his teeth and swallowed hard, trying to keep from fueling that burning edge of anger, his task made harder by the sight of Marianne's shrunken figure and the terrible fear that gripped him. This was it, this was the end of everything.

Plum discreetly ignored Marianne's comment and continued, “Mr. Knight has also expressed a concern for your wellbeing, Miss Summers, and while he hasn't made any outright accusations in concern of that he has pretty strongly implied some things. Bad company and so on, leading you down dark and unsavory pathways in life.” She made a tight little movement with one hand, a sad imitation of her usual flowing gestures.

“Bog introduced me to the Jeeves and Wooster television series, if that's what you mean.”

Plum took a paper out of the folder and glanced over it. “Allusions to drinking, drug use—which he indicated that you have a history of, Miss Summers, and that he's worried you're in a fragile state when it comes to such things.”

“I do not! I was in a car accident when I was a teenager and was on pain meds for awhile and that was never—I wasn't! I don't!” A spark of fire returned to Marianne and she sat up a little straighter, “There's no truth in that at all.”

“What a load of--!” Bog almost stood up, pushing himself to the edge of his seat, his anger gaining ground, burning in his chest. That Roland would do to Marianne what he had done to Bog . . . it hadn't occurred to either of them. Roland was willing to tear Marianne down and pick up whatever pieces were left.

“That Mr. King has struggled with mental disorders--” Plum continued with a tight calmness.

Marianne stood up so fast she nearly tumbled over, her feet tangled in the rungs of her chair. The chair did topple, Marianne saving herself by grabbing the desk. “That is none of his business! That's nobody's business but Bog's! That sick, miserable--”

Bog was as surprised as Marianne when he put his hand over hers. It cut her off before she could say anything regrettable and Bog's anger dipped down for a few moments.

“Hey.” Bog put her seat back in place and guided her back into it.

“There's also a mention of your history of anger issues, Miss King. Summers.” Plum continued, unruffled by the exchange, though she was staring at the way Bog and Marianne's fingers were tangled together.

“Yup.” Marianne said, pulling her hand out of Bog's and hugging herself tight again, “Those are a thing.”

Plum slapped the folder on the desk, startling Imp from his hiding place in a nest of ungraded papers. He shot off the desk and wiggled under the door and into the studio. A moment later they heard someone give a startled shriek.

“Would you two just listen to me? Honestly, nobody ever listens around here! Personally,” Plum put down the folder, “I think it's a load of hooey.”

Bog and Marianne gaped at her.

“You two are disruptive, disrespectful, and very loud, but you're also getting some of the best grades in your respective classes and have never done a bit of harm to anyone. The annoyance of the Phantom of the Art Department aside--”

“Whoever he might be.” Marianne said.

“Hm. You're good kids. And if Mr. Knight persists with this business then you'll have me as a character witness in your defense.”

“Oh.” They both said. “Thank you?”

“But I will need to know what's what. The dean and the board don't know you, it's our word against Mr. Knight's and Mr. Knight has been generous in his donations to the school since he enrolled. But I have talked with some of the other teachers and several of them are willing to back you two as well. I'm afraid this is all going to be very messy. There's been a call to suspend both of you, but I managed to at least postpone that.”

“Oh. You did?”

“Seeing as you have your show in a matter of days and it's so close to the end of the semester I convinced them not to start anything now. It will start, however, so be prepared. I have class in a few minutes so we'll discuss this more later on, okay? Otherwise, continue on with your strange courtship as usual and stay away from Mr. Knight! If he approaches you tell me. It'll look better for you if you don't keep the encounter secret. And for the love of all things glittery and good do not hit him, no matter how much he needs a good poke in the nose!”

Bog and Marianne stepped out of Plum's office just in time to be caught up in rush of students arriving for the next class. Bog went to grab his bag, conscious of furtive looks thrown his way by the other students. It was just as well that he had to get to work.

He felt like a prisoner reprieved from execution at the last moment while new evidence was under consideration. He wasn't free, but he wasn't dead yet either. He was in a horrible limbo of waiting with a new pile of troubles to worry at him. Roland making accusations about Marianne now! He knew he was scowling in a wholly terrifying way but he couldn't help it.

Except that he saw Marianne was the recipient of more than a few looks as well. He tried to dial back his anger, smooth out his features into something less aggressive. He wasn't sure it was working.

Then Roland walked in, flanked by his three bodyguards.

“Let's get out of here.” Bog said, his lips barely parting in a sneer to let the words out.

“I can't.” Marianne said, picking at her overall strap, “It's critique day. And I'm helping some dudes stretch their canvases after. I'll have to tough it out. It's okay. He can't do anything here with the rest of the class watching. It's fine.”

Bog had his doubts on that score, the way Marianne had gotten smaller again, her hands shaking every so slightly before she tucked them into her pockets. Bog unzipped his hoodie and took it off, setting it around Marianne's shoulders, “Next time bring a sweater,” Bog grumbled, as if she had somehow forced the gesture, “I'd like to use my hoodie sometimes, too.”

Marianne wrinkled her nose at him but then gave him a grateful smile as she slid her arms into the sleeves. “See you later.”

“Yeah. Later.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Bog took a last look over at Marianne before heading to work. She was sitting in the circle of chairs, back curved, arms folded tight across her chest, and her eyes dark and blank.

Bog sat down next to Marianne and she jerked away a little, surprised by movement so close to her. When she saw it was Bog she looked startled, but the blankness left her eyes. “Don't you have work?”

“Called in.”

“You shouldn't have--”

“I'll be in late and work a little later. This way I'll at least get some of my participation credit while making sure you don't have to figure out how to remove blood stains from my jacket.”

“If you stay then we'll both be figuring that out.”

“Nah. I already know how to get rid of bloodstains.”

“You gonna lay some laundry room wisdom on me?”

“First you've got to climb a snowy mountain and find the hidden monastery that has perfected the secret of stain removal for the past thousand years. Only once you have proved yourself worthy by waxing all their cars you may be initiated into the mysteries of the care of besmirched garments.”

“You're trying to distract me from killing you-know-who, aren't you?”

“Distracting myself, really.” He looked up and shot a baleful glance across the room to where Roland was chatting with a couple of girls. He was saying something and flashing a grin while the two girls giggled coyly. Marianne looked too, unfortunately at just the right moment to catch Roland's eye. He waved and raised an eyebrow at Bog sitting next to her. Marianne hitched up her shoulders and turned away again.

The thought of the navy blue folder loomed large in Bog's mind and he ground his teeth together so hard that his jaw ached and tension ran down his neck and shoulders. Maybe staying hadn't been such a good idea after all, because he really wanted to wipe that smirk off Roland's chiseled face. Violently. Bog's life just seemed to be getting sorted when Roland had to come alone with his folders, stirring up painful old memories. Had to come along and make Marianne turn so small and cold.

Marianne was holding onto the sides of her folding chair, scuffing her shoes back and forth along the cracks in the floorboards. Bog scowled at the looks being thrown his way and how the chairs closest to him were the last to be taken. Plum made an inquiring face at him but said nothing about his presence aside from telling him they'd move over to the sculpture area near the end of class to critique his piece then.

While students began to natter on about how they had bared their soul on canvas, Bog was moving his hand to grip the side of his seat, mirroring Marianne's position. No one was really watching him but the presence of so many people was making him nervous, almost too nervous to flick his fingers and brush against Marianne's hand.

Her head jerked up and she looked him right in the eye.

Bog shrugged.

Marianne grabbed at his hand, snagging his pointer and middle finger and squeezing them hard. Bog shifted his legs a little to screen their hand holding from casual view, a deep frown on his face even while he adjusted Marianne's hold and covered her hand with his. He could feel her pulse, going far too fast, and he found himself rubbing his thumb up and down on the inside of her wrist, trying to calm the rapid beating.

By the time Plum had gotten around to her usual demands for the emotional story behind each artwork Marianne had slid over close enough to lean her shoulder against Bog's, head tilted and her shiny brown hair resting ever so lightly on his hunched shoulder. Her hand tightened and loosened as the tension in her body ebbed and flowed.

Bog heard Plum distantly, the feel of Marianne's pulse beating under his fingers seemed to pound as loud as a drum in his ears. Or maybe that was his own heart.

“Art,” Plum said, “Is communication. It's a conversation. All art says something, even if it's just that the teacher made you do studies of hands. You can't help it. It's like your choice of clothing, or hairstyle. No matter what, it says something about you. You just chop if off, then you're lazy or aren't hung up on styles. You spent two hours in front of the mirror, you're vain, obsessive, or both.”

Bog's eyes automatically slid over to Roland's precisely arrange curls and he felt his lips curl up in a smirk. Marianne let out a choked laugh that she quickly covered up with a cough.

“It's externalizing ideas. Even if you never show them to anyone, you artworks are still you trying to figure out what's going on inside your own head. When you do show them to someone you're trying to communicate something, even if it's just that the image is pleasing to look at and you used good technique. Deliberately ugly artwork too. It provokes a reaction, it gets the viewer thinking. The more people look at your art the more feedback you get and a clearer idea of your own inner thought processes.”

“If it's nothing but self portraits,” Bog chimed in, “That indicates you're probably full of yourself.”

A ripple of laughter ran around the circle. Roland carefully uncrossed his legs, brushing a crease out of his pant leg, and directed a cool and dignified look at Bog. “I take it,” He smiled kindly, “that remark was intended for me?”

“Just speaking generally.” Bog shrugged. He knew he shouldn't goad Roland, but Marianne was smiling again and he wanted her to keep smiling.

“Regardless, such a comment shows a lack of understanding about traditional art. Understandable, as you have more of, hm, a contemporary style. It might escape your notice the emotional connections involved in self-introspection--”

“Yeah, I'm sure you've got a lot of emotional connection to pictures of your own face. And mirrors, still water, any reflective surfaces . . .”

The giggling intensified, but there was a nervous edge to it. The class had heard the rumors about Bog King and there was a faint suspicion in the room that he was trying to start a fight. Maybe he was.

Plum coughed and gave him a look. Bog shrugged.

“Now, look,” Roland gestured importantly, expecting the sound of his voice to dominate the attention of everyone in the room, “self-introspection, studying one's own nature and flaws, is critical to building a foundation of true understand of your own perspective. How can I claim to know anything if I don't first know myself? Didn't all the old masters paint extensive collections of self-portraits, that is hardly vanity--”

“That was because they were too poor to afford models!” Bog burst out before he could even think to stop himself, “That's why they'd paint more scenes from life, which were free for looking at. In the modern world you've got anything and everything at your disposal even if it's just from google image search. You could at least threw some drapery or floral arrangements behind your face in your portraits, honestly. Don't you get tired of using all that yellow?”

Roland went on doggedly, obviously realizing that his arguments were far less entrancing than Bog's cutting witticisms. “Of course, in modern times old traditions have a different slant, but that just opens opportunities for explorations, for contrast of now and then, to examine the motivations of the masters.”

“Wow,” Bog murmured in aside to Marianne, “I always wondered how he got into art school. Now I see. He speaks the local dialect of convoluted garbage.”

“His business training prepared him for it.” Marianne murmured.

“Thank you,” Plum finally broke in, overhearing Bog and Marianne's final comments and giving them a stern look, “Mr. King, for your input. It's nice to have you participating in the discussion for once.”

“Hm.” Bog grunted.

“Let's move on to your sculpture, shall we?”

Marianne gave Bog's hand a squeeze before they stood up, breaking their linked hands, and went over with the rest of the students to look at Bog's latest sculpture.

Roland was arching a carefully shaped eyebrow at the piece in a way that reeked of condescension. “It looks good.” He said with great generosity. “Very much your style.”

“I didn't ask for your opinion.” Bog snapped, “And it's not good. It's not even finished. It's an absolute mess and I'm probably going to trash it.”

“Why, Mr. King?” Plum inquired, stepping between Bog and Roland.

Bog lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “If art is a conversation then I stuttered.”

“Interesting. Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“If his art is like his conversation,” Roland remarked in a stage whisper, “this sculpture must represent monosyllabic grunting.”

“Life is a tale,” Marianne said, narrowed eyes directed at Roland, “Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“Please, elaborate, Mr. King.” Plum said firmly, taking advantage of the momentary silence caused by Roland gaping at Marianne and trying to puzzle out exactly how he had just been insulted.

Bog scratched his cheek and shrugged again. “It's not right. It's not what I was trying to say. Look, if we're going to keep on with this ridiculous art as a conversation metaphor then let's start with how infuriatingly difficult it is to say what you mean when you're actually speaking. How much harder is it to translate that to a piece that takes days or weeks to build? If you forget what you were saying, or realize you phrased it wrong, you've got to begin all over again. And a piece of art is like one part of a conversation out of context. If you don't know what came before or after it's like having the answer to life, the universe, and everything, but not the question. Useless.”

No one in the class had ever heard Bog speak for so long and when he paused there was a heavy, bewildered silence. After about thirty seconds a girl in the back gasped and said to her friend in an audible whisper, “I never knew he had an accent! So cute!”

“Forty-two,” Someone else said helpfully.

“Anyway,” Bog coughed, rubbing the back of his neck and ignoring Marianne's waggling eyebrows, “I'd say it's more of a . . . thesis statement. Rather than a conversation. A representation. A discussion starter. I phrased the topic badly and now I need to rewrite. Or, I just don't like how it looks. Like some kitschy attempt at a Autumn postcard.”

“Now, now,” Roland said, “You're being too hard on yourself. Just because it actually looks like something for a change instead of some sort of three-dimensional scribble--”

“Also,” Marianne interrupted, “The base warped and it does this,”

Marianne pushed on the sculpture and it swayed in a dangerous way, leaning toward Roland. Roland jumped back, grabbing a girl and shoving her in front of himself like a shield. But the sculpture merely settled back, rocking in place slightly. The girl smacked Roland's hands and shoved him away.

“So,” Bog put a hand on the piece to steady it completely, “You see there are some structural flaws that need sorting out. Doesn't matter if it's pretty if it's not sound.”

Roland folded his arms and allowed a frown to mar his smooth face.

The moment class was over Roland and his entourage swept out in a huff while a couple of painting students came up to Bog to ask about his sculpture.

“They just wanted to hear your adorable accent some more,” Marianne said after they left, “Did they ask for your number?”

Bog rolled his eyes and grabbed his bag. He was not going to mention how he had overheard a girl saying she was going to ask for his number. Or how her friend had warned her about Bog being, “Kind of dangerous,”

“Don't trash it.” Marianne said as he prepared to leave. “The sculpture. Don't trash it. I think it looks great. The colors are fantastic. I love that you're actually using colors on it. It looks like fire, or Autumn leaves, with all the deep rich colors. Um. Not trying to tell you what it is or anything . . .”

“No, it's okay. You . . . you tell me what it makes you think of. What your reaction to it is. You don't insist it is fire or leaves or anything literal. Just that you make the connection to those things. I like that. You're seeing what's there, not what you're told to see.”

“I know it wasn't what you wanted to say but maybe instead of a mistake it was more of . . . accidentally speaking your mind? It isn't what you meant to say but you did say what you meant.”

“Maybe. I think we've beaten the conversation metaphor to death, though.”

“I know, but now I can't stop.”

Bog dug in his pocket for his phone to check the time. It wasn't there. He had used it to call in and he was almost positive he had put it in his pocket. Or his bag. Somewhere. “Look out for my phone, would you, Marianne?”

“Want me to call it?”

“No use, it was turned off. That stupid ferret has another stash somewhere and no doubt my phone is there. You good?”

“I'm good. Roland's gone off in a snit and I'm going to be with some girls from another class until Dawn swings by with the car. I'll call—oh, yeah. No phone.”

“No phone.” Bog agreed, “We still all meeting up for dinner and arranging the gallery?”

“Yup. See you there. Oh, do you need you jacket back?”

“No, keep it. If Roland shows up again . . . call me at the site, okay?”

“I'll be fine, worrywart. Thanks.”

“Just . . . stay safe?” He reached out a hand to brush back Marianne's bangs, but stopped short, fingers curling away. “Please.”

“You too.”

 “Okay, guys, just let me clean up and then we'll work on your canvases.”

Marianne gathered up a handful of brushes and her cup of paint water, gesturing with them at the three girls waiting on her. They were Marianne's friends, of a sort, having shared several classes with her over the course of the semesters. The three of them had their heads covered in brightly colored hijab. Red, purple, green. They weren't related, Marianne knew, but they had all attended high school together and were very close.

“You know what sizes you want them?” Marianne asked, turning on the tap.

“Yup.” Maggie, nodded, adjusting the fold of purple fabric laying on her neck, and making sure the white fabric flower was still in place over her ear. A camera hung over her shoulder by a flowered strap. Being a photography major she shared a lot of classes with Sunny and had sometimes accompanied him and Dawn on photography quests into the city and countryside.

“Got your wood?”

“Yeah—oh.” Iffa's dark, cheerful face dropped when she looked around and realized that none of them had brought their materials upstairs. “Argh! I brought all my stuff for sculpture class but not the wood for the canvases. Lily, I thought you said you had it!”

Lily looked up from reapplying her lipstick, a pale pink to match with the light pink roses scattered over her green hijab “I thought Maggie had it!”

Maggie sighed, “Okay, I'll take the blame just to move this process along. It's in the car, we'll be right back, Marianne!”

Taking both of her friends by the arm, Maggie moved them all down the stairs, Iffa and Lily still trying to discuss whose fault it was exactly that they were so inconvenienced. Marianne smiled and took advantage of the delay to finish cleaning up her mess and work on scrubbing paint stains out of Bog's hoodie.

“Now, that wasn't very nice, now was it?”

Marianne looked up from washing her paint brushes, hands slowing at the sound of a familiar voice.

Roland.

Roland had come back.

He had waited for Bog to leave and then come back. No, no, no, no . . .

Strolling over to the sink he shook his head and sighed heavily, “First you make a scene at the restaurant and now in class? Marianne, really, this is all getting a little out of control..”

“What do you want, Roland?” Marianne swallowed hard and tried to keep her mind blank, willing the other girls to get back quickly and help extract her from this situation before she went critical.

“I want to know if you bothered to look at that information I took such great care to get for you.” Roland held out a beseeching hand, hoping that his generous offering had been accepted in all proper gratitude.

“Yes, I read that trash. What? Did you expect me to run back into your arms saying, 'oh, I was such a fool'?”

“I expected you to see reason. I expected you to see that . . . brute for what he is. I expected you to realize how much I have always cared about you, that you've not been very kind toward my honest efforts to make it all up to you. I'm really afraid sometimes, darlin', that you're slipping back into a bad place. I'd hate for your father to know how badly you've been doing.”

Paint brushes rattled in the bottom of the sink, swirls of gray paint staining the water as it ran down the drain. “Leave us alone, Roland, or I'll give you a real grounds for charges of assault and battery.”

“Sweetheart, I only want you to be safe. That Bog King is not safe. You might think you've got feelings for him--”

“We're not dating!”

“Oh, Marianne,” Roland shook his head, “Anyone could see that thug is smitten with you and that you, at the very least, are encouraging him attentions. Who could blame him, though, pretty little thing like you giving him the time of day for once in his life . . . Eventually he's going to realize you're stringing him along and who knows what he might do?”

Water roared into the sink when Marianne turned both the hot and cold taps on, hoping to mask the sound of Roland's voice. Her paint brushes were tossed around by the force of the water and she focused on the stains dotting the sink's metal basin.

“We're. Not. Dating. And if we were it would be our business. Me and my friends aren't any of your concern, Roland.”

“I love you, darlin', even after you left me at the altar all I want is the best for you.”

“I left you at the altar because you're a cheating lowlife! You were involved with someone else! You had a son with her! Now you're trying to tear me down so you can sweep in and take charge of the pieces. You're disgusting, in so many ways. Leave Bog and me alone.”

“Sweetheart,” Roland stepped forward and Marianne stepped back, her back hitting the door to the bathroom. She considered going inside and locking herself in until the girls came back, but that felt far too cowardly for her taste. She could handle this. Without violence, even.

Or not, she thought, realizing that Roland was reaching out toward her as if he were going to try and kiss her.

Marianne's hand clenched into a fist.

Roland stopped. “How did you know it was a boy?”

“What?” Marianne's hand relaxed as she tried to figure out this abrupt change of subject.

“The baby. Adeline's. How did you know it was a boy? I know I never mentioned that ungrateful—that is . . . Have you two gotten chummy, is that it? Telling each other stories about mean, nasty Roland? You been talking? Been visiting? You know where she is?”

“No.” Marianne didn't even decide to lie. There was no decision. Roland looked too eager, almost desperate to know where Adeline was. “Word gets around, Roland. You're not as discreet about your affairs as you might think you are.”

Roland did not look convinced. “And who were you talking to that told you--”

“Is everything okay, Marianne?”

The girls were back, holding lengths of wood and looking rather like they intended to use them as blunt weapons. Lily had asked the question, fist on her hip and a block of wood held in her hand like a club.

“Not really.” Marianne took advantage of Roland's distraction and shoved him away, “But I think the problem is just leaving. Right, Roland?”

“Ladies,” Roland smiled, steadying himself and brushing off his shirt, “I was just talking over some things with my little lady here, if you could give us a minute or two . . .”

“Nope.” Maggie said.

Roland waited expectantly for her to continue, to make an excuse he could dismiss. But Maggie and her friends just stood there, staring at Roland with impassive faces.

Roland flashed them all another sparkling smile, but left the room.

All of them waited until his footsteps faded away.

“Okay, so,” Lily broke the silence, “I thought he was kind of gorgeous and charming until now.”

“I didn't.” Maggie snorted, “He told me once that I'd look prettier if I let my hair down.”

“What's his deal?” Iffa asked Marianne.

Gathering up her clean paint brushes, Marianne gave them a tight smile, “Stalker ex.”

“Who doesn't like your new boyfriend?” Iffa winced sympathetically.

“We're not . . .” Marianne felt her face get hot, “Bog and I aren't dating.”

“Oh, sorry!” Iffa said, “I shouldn't have assumed! I just thought—sorry!”

“It's fine,” Marianne said, not meeting their eyes, “So, we gonna build some canvases or what? We don't have all night.”

“Yeah, true.” Lily agreed, “I've got to work on that dress of yours. Dawn's managed to rope like six fashion majors into helping her with it. We've been bribed with cookies and swayed by her puppy-dog eyes. Heads up, Marianne, I think your dress is going to be part of our portfolios.”

“Dawn is out of control.” Marianne groaned, “I just needed something new for the art show. She acts like I'm Cinderella going to the ball.”

“And who is your prince charming?” Maggie asked with a teasing grin, being familiar with Marianne's No Love policy.

“Did you know the kilns in the ceramic studio are hot enough to reduce human bodies to ashes?” Marianne said in her best serial killer monotone, “Just a fun fact, throwing it out there for discussion.”

“Did you know we've been doing martial arts since we were like five?” Iffa asked with a toss of her head, “Bring it, girl.”

“After we're finished with this project,” Maggie said, knocking Iffa on the shoulder with a piece of wood, “We need her skills. For the moment.”

Marianne gave a huff of laughter, “I knew I liked you guys.”

Thanks to some undocumented water pipes being broken when they were digging out the foundations for the new building Bog left work early. The mess had been contained and the site shut down until they figured out who put those pipes in and if they were important.

He was waiting for Marianne on the steps of the studio when she was leaving her last class. Three other students that Bog vaguely recalled from the painting class were walking in a formation around her like some sort of honor guard.

When they saw Bog they fell back giggling, waving good bye to Marianne.

“Hey!” Marianne said, bouncing down the steps and flapping a scornful hand at her departing escort. It did not escape Bog's notice how she lit up with a sincere smile when she saw him. His hoodie was slung over her arm and when she got close enough she tossed it as his head. “Don't you have work right now?”

Bog caught his hoodie and examined it for paint stains. There were several. “Screw up on the site, got sent home early. Are you busy?”

“Well, Dawn was supposed to pick me up but I just got a text from her that something came up. Can't meet for dinner, either, but she and Sunny will be at the gallery. They—um, the girls—were going to give me a ride until you showed up.”

“Who're your friends?”

“A  trio well on their way to world domination, if I'm any judge. I'll tell you about it later. Ready to go to the gallery early, I guess?”

“We've got some time, like three hours. You ever seen The Flash?”

“The new TV show? Nah. I'm more of a Wally West fan than Barry Allen.”

“No, actually, this is the one from the 90s.”

“A 90s superhero show? That sounds like a special effects disaster.”

“It is. It's delightful. A delightful pile of garbage. Also, it stars Mark Hamill in what I consider one of his best—if not the best—roles of his entire career.”

“Mark Hamill? Are you kidding me? The voice of The Joker?”

“Interested?”

“Keenly.”

“Want to watch it while you help me eat all the Mexican leftovers abandoned in our fridge?”

“Are there tacos?”

“Yup.”

Marianne stepped up onto the small stone wall that bordered the stairs and threw her hands up into the air. “Take me away from all this, Bog!”

“As you wish.” Bog picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.

“Are you quoting Princess Bride or Star wars?” Marianne asked his shoulder blade.

“Star Wars, of course!”

“Good, just checking.”

Bog dumped her on the passenger side of the truck. He unlocked the door and grabbed something off the seat.  “Here, this is for you.” He tossed a sweater at her.

“Hey! What's all this?” Marianne pulled the sweater off her head and smacked him with it.

“I have a box of sweaters my mom has given me over the years but--” Bog shrugged.

“They're all in color?” Marianne held up the yellow knit monstrosity.

“Maaaybe. And she gives me so many. So many. Thought Miss California-beaches-and-sunshine might need a couple.” He gestured at a plastic tub tied down in the bed of his truck.

Marianne pulled the sweater over her head, emerging with her hair standing on end. “what tipped you off? My convulsive shivering? Blue lips?”

“More of the way when you step foot outside the building you start screeching until we get in the car and turn on the heater.” Bog laughed, going around to get in the driver's side while Marianne climbed into the passenger seat.

“This all feels suspiciously like a Good news/bad news situation. Who's dying? You? Me? The truck?”

“The truck has been dying for years, that's not news.” The truck wheezed in agreement as Bog coaxed the engine into starting up, “No, I just figured you had a rotten day and might want to just relax for the evening.”

Marianne buckled in and leaned over to rest her head against Bog's shoulder, making him fumble when he was trying to turn the headlights on. “You have no idea. Roland showed up again.”

“What--! Why didn't you call me?”

“Because nothing happened and I think I've got my own group of bodyguards now. Apparently they are ninjas in their spare time.”

“As opposed to you, a full-time ninja. What did Roland try?”

“Just the usual of trying to get me to come to my senses and realize you secretly have a mass grave in your backyard.”

Bog snorted, “Of course I don't have a mass grave in my backyard. That's what the bog is for.”

That evening saw all four of them in the gallery, working on getting everything set up while they discussed the new developments in the Roland situation.

Dawn stood on a step stool, straightening one of Marianne's paintings on the gallery wall. Sunny stood a little ways back telling her when it was level. When the painting was arranged to their satisfaction Sunny came over and Dawn leaned over so she could rest her arms on his shoulders.

“Look at my boyfriend,” She giggled, “He is so small. He is so cute!”

“He is so strong!” Sunny hugged Dawn and picked her up off the stool, spinning her around a few times.

“Well,” Marianne said, looking up from wrestling one of Bog's sculptures into place, “This is all very sweet, but this isn't why I called you all here today.”

“You say something like that you need to be slowly spinning around in a great black swivel chair.” Bog remarked, working on reassembling the pieces of a wooden and metal sculpture.

“Mwah!” Dawn gave Sunny a quick kiss and he set her back on the floor. He kissed her back and conversation was further delayed as he and Dawn kept trying to be the one to get the last kiss in.

“We know, we know,” Sunny said finally, when Bog and Marianne's gagging noises grew too intense to ignore, “We're here to work and figure out how to make Roland disappear without anyone suspecting us.”

“Yeah, that and figure out what to do about dad,” Marianne was wearing the sweater Bog had given her, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She kept pulling the collar up over her lower face and saying she was a circus tent now. Bog kept pulling the sweater back down so her head popped out, telling her she could be a circus tent all she pleased but only after they were finished setting up.

“I guess we'll have to tell him what's going on,” Dawn said, looking dismal at the prospect, “Rather than wait and let Roland get in first with his version of things.”

“If he hasn't already.” Bog pointed out.

“No way he has,” Sunny shook his head, “If Mr. Summers had even gotten a hint about your supposed record you would know, dude. The world would know. A couple of my older brothers are into graffiti and when I was a kid I tagged along with them a few times. Mr. Summers found out and . . .” Sunny let out a whoosh of breath, “You would have thought I was some sort of drug-addled thug, from the way he reacted.”

Bog looked at Sunny. He squinted, trying to figure out how earth anyone could think there was the slightest possibility that Sunny had some sort of shady past. The young man beamed with cheerful goodwill, tempered with an edge of insecurity that he refused to let control him.

“That's not reassuring for me,” Bog said, screwing metal sheeting into place on a skyscraper-like sculpture, “My past is legitimately objectionable. I'm trouble.”

“You're precious.” Dawn said firmly, dragging her stool over to a blank bit of wall, “You're super-sweet and lovely.”

“Seriously, Dawn, take a look at this face.”

“It's a perfectly nice face.” Dawn said, trotting over to him. She pinched his chin and pulled his face down so she could kiss his nose. She patted his cheek and smiled at his automatic growl of displeasure, “It's especially nice when you smile, though.”

Bog bared his teeth at her.

“It doesn't matter what dad thinks of your face,” Marianne said, getting back to the original topic, “I can't imagine that Roland's plan doesn't involve bringing my dad into it at some point. So . . . I guess the best thing to do is tell our side of the story.”

Marianne's lack of enthusiasm for the idea was obvious and she started to pull the sweater over her face again.

Bog pulled it back down. “I'll be doing most of the talking, tough girl, and I promise to keep my temper.” Hopefully he wasn't making promises he couldn't keep. He still bore Marianne's father somewhat of a grudge for that night in the restaurant parking lot.

“I'll get a basket of those squishy stress balls,” Dawn said, “I'll pass you new ones whenever you squeeze too hard and destroy the one you've got. When should we call dad? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is a school day. Let's make it Saturday.” Marianne suggested, “More time and less stress.”

“Also further away.” Dawn said shrewdly, “You can't delay this forever, Marianne.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Dawn waved her hands, dismissing the subject, “Go get your sign and we'll put it up for you.”

The sign was something Bog and Marianne had been working on in their spare time and despite Marianne's complaints they were both pleased with the results.

“Poster board would have been faster and cheaper,” Marianne had said.

“You always try to skimp.” Bog retorted, “I'm not putting this level of effort into something that would look at home in a fifth grade science fair.”

“We still have to finish hauling your stupid huge sculptures into the gallery, we don't have time to waste fussing over a sign.”

“It was your idea to begin with.”

“I didn't mean for it to be a whole project.” Marianne put down her pencil where she had been cartooning patterns on the length of wood. Bog tested the tip of his wood burning tool and found it cool enough to change the tip.

The length of wood was about five feet long and one foot high and had been carefully marked down the middle. The left half was bare, sanded wood with the word “Order” burned into it in precise lines, the right primed white for painting and the world “Chaos” marked in hasty black swipes of a paint brush. Bog's minimalistic “Order” was surrounded with snatches of rigid geometric patterns and bits of blue prints. Marianne's “Chaos” the letters were filled with swirling patterns and bright colors that spilled past the borders of the letters and stained the surrounding surface. In the middle of Order and Chaos was a VS which had been etched into the wood with neat, ruler-straight lines, but was filled with Marianne's patterns.

“Why “versus”?” Sunny had asked, “This is a collaborative thing, wouldn't it be “and”? “Order and Chaos”?”

“Versus makes it sound like a battle,” Marianne explained, “Which automatically doubles the level of epicness inherent in this show.”

After much bickering the sign had been finished and Marianne now pulled it out of a corner and took it over to the gallery's entrance to hang it up.

Bog admired it and looked around the room. Most of Marianne's paintings were hung, covering the walls with bright color and movement. The canvases of the pieces were irregularly shaped, some of them even curving out from the wall. He had watched Marianne painstakingly construct the curved canvases and been deeply impressed with the results.

Still in the process of being reassembled, Bog's sculptures were still already a contrast to Marianne's work. He had chosen pieces with clean, straight lines and neat geometric patterns. The only one that broke away from the theme was his castle piece.

Bog frowned as he slotted sculptures pieces together. Both the castle sculpture and its name irritated him. Dawn's name for it had stuck and now even he was calling it a castle. As well, he had insisted that it didn't fit the theme of the show, but all three of the others—and Plum—had insisted it was too good to be excluded. So there it was, in the middle of the gallery, towering above everything else.

“Like a sore thumb.” Bog complained more than once.

The sign hung perfectly straight, Marianne wandered back to help Bog. “Aside from dad, we've got to deal with Roland's complaints about us. You're threatening him and I'm a hysterical druggie.”

“Kill him.” Bog muttered, searching in his tool box for screws.

“Ah, but how shall we do it?” Dawn said.

“I'll turn him into a flea,” Bog said, “A harmless, little flea,”

“And then we'll put that flea in a box!” Dawn said with great enthusiasm.

“And I'll put that box inside of another box!”

“And then we'll mail that box to ourselves and when it arrives . . .”

“I'll smash it with a hammer!” Bog threw back his head and cackled while Dawn did her best mad scientist giggling.

Marianne and Sunny watched this exchange with some unease. “No more coffee for them tonight.” Sunny said.

“Agreed.”

That night when Marianne got home she made a phone call, taking a deep, calming breath before she hit the call button.

“You've reached the King residence,” A voice on the other end said when they picked up, “Yes, I am British, but I still know pennies from pence so if you're a telemarketer save your scam for someone else.”

“Hey, Roderick, it's Marianne Summers.”

Marianne pulled the phone away from her ear and winced when there was a crash on the other side of the line. When she risked putting the phone back to her ear she could distantly hear Roderick calling to Adeline, “It's okay, I think it's just my past catching up with me—hello? Marianne? Is this a call warning me to get my affairs in order before you perform the happy dispatch?”

“Not today. Look, I kind of wanted to give you guys a heads up. Um, is Adeline there?”

“In the other room, you want me to--?”

“No! No, please. It's . . . about Roland.”

“I'm listening.” Roderick said, his voice going low.

“I don't think it's anything, really, so I didn't want to make Adeline worry. It's just that Roland seems really interested in finding her.”

“Did he find out we were in town for Thanksgiving?”

“No, nothing like that. But I think he's suspicious that I do know where Adeline is. I haven't said anything, none of us will. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks. Really, thanks, Marianne.” His voice was low so Adeline wouldn't overhear, “This has kind of been an ongoing problem. We've moved house twice because he started getting too close.”

“Why--?”

“Lot of reasons. Nasty business all around. You're a gem for calling. I'll keep my eyes peeled for trouble.”

“No problem. Just thought you ought to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, good--”

“Sorry I was such an incredible twit at Thanksgiving. Remember to send me an invite when you and Bog finally get hitched. Bye!”

Roderick hung up before Marianne could say anything else.

“How does Adeline stand him?” She wondered out loud to Dawn.

“Maybe he has hidden depths.”

“Then they must be pretty thoroughly hidden. You'd need a mining crew to even start looking for them.”

“No human being was ever meant to witness the world this early in the morning.”

“Oh, Marianne,” Dawn shook her head, golden curls bouncing along the edge of her pink newsboy cap, “It's not like you're exactly a stranger to six AM.”

“I'm not supposed to be awake,” Marianne dug her chin further underneath the multi-colored scarf wrapped around her throat, “I don't have class until nine today. I should still be blissfully unconscious.”

“Yes, but I have class at eight and a breakfast date with Sunny before that. So, if you want to get these posters hung today then it's now or never. Stop grumbling and hand me some push pins.”

Marianne dug the box of tacks out of her pocket and handed them one-by-one to Dawn as the poster advertising the upcoming art show was affixed to the public bulletin board. Dawn had designed the posters and provided generous stacks of them for everyone to spread around. A stack had been forced upon Bog so he could distribute them at work and Griselda had gleefully snatched her own share so she could better brag to her friends about her son's artistic accomplishments. Sunny had pitched in and done his bit as well, mainly by climbing to unexpected places and hanging posters there so people would wonder how the heck anybody had gotten them up there.

While Dawn fussed over the positioning of the poster Marianne scuffed her boots over the thin layer of frost that covered the pavement. It was a chilly, gloomy morning that made it feel that it was even earlier than it really ways. Marianne had stuck a knit cap over her hair without bothering to run a comb through it and she could feel it bunched up in odd ways under the cap. Her eyes felt sticky even after scrubbing her face vigorously with scalding hot water and if she stayed still too long they tended to go out of focus and start to drift close. Waiting for Dawn to finish hanging the poster straight Marianne dozed off enough that she briefly saw vined flowers crawling over the bulletin board. She blinked, waking up again, and the flowers vanished.

“Need . . . coffee . . .” Marianne whined, bumping her forehead against Dawn's shoulder, “Everything going . . . black . . . like my coffee. Which I need.”

“As soon as we're done,” Dawn shifted the remaining posters to one arm so she could pat the bobble on top of her sister's hat, “You went to bed super early last night, why're you so zonked?”

“Nnnh. Bad dreams.”

Falling asleep wasn't easy when surges of panic struck at the slightest provocation. Her muscles refused to relax and her shoulders ached from it. She was pretty sure she had woken from vaguely distressing dreams at least once every hour so she could check the time and make sure she hadn't overslept. The last hour or two before her alarm clock went off she ended up curled up, hugging her pillow tight, and staring into the dark, trying not to think.

Trying not to think of calling her dad on Saturday, navigating the minefield of his bias and her impatience. Trying not to think about how she wanted to go find Bog and have him hold her so tight she couldn't breathe. Arms wrapped around herself, she felt if she relaxed she'd fly into a million pieces. Yes, having Bog's arms around her, her nose pressed into the comforting softness of his ragged gray hoodie . . . it sounded very nice.

It would also be warm, Marianne thought wistfully, stamping her feet and rubbing the sleeve of her jacket across her tingling nose. She was too tired and cold to get embarrassed about her thoughts, or worry that Dawn would somehow pick up on them. Dawn had an discomforting tendency to guess when Marianne was thinking of Bog. “Pining over him,” Dawn called it.

“Why haven't you kissed that poor tree?” Dawn had demanded the other evening, neatly dodging the text book Marianne had thrown in response to the question, “I'm not teasing, I'm serious!”

“I'm . . . waiting for a good time.” Marianne mumbled, searching in her hair for one of the pencils she had stuck behind her ear.

“Well, you shouldn't wait on Bog,” Dawn mused, picking up the text book and straightening its bent pages, “He's shy. As for picking a good time, well, you do remember I asked Sunny out right after I got out of my illustration class? We'd had a printmaking demo. I was covered in ink and wearing a t-shirt with Jabba the Hut on it.”

“Yes, I remember. That was my t-shirt.”

“Anyway, we had five minutes before our next class and I asked him to the dance. Which really worked out well, I think,” Dawn said, tilting her head thoughtfully, “It gave Sunny time to get over the shock, so when we met up later he was hardly stuttering anymore.”

“I am not going to hit-and-run Bog with a confession of love.” Marianne glowered, trying not to think how she and Bog had sort of done that to each other already.

“All I'm saying is that anytime is a good time to give your tree a smooch. Or do you wanna do the high school thing? I'll go over to Bog and tell him that my sister totally likes him, does he wanna go to the prom with her?”

“That is not and never will be an option, so help me, Dawn.”

After countless attempts to mentally prepare some sort of speech that would make her feelings clear to Bog--while not absolutely humiliating herself in the process—had left Marianne only frustrated and red-faced and seriously considering the idea of just grabbing him by the collar and dragging him down for a kiss. Actions speak louder than words, right? It would send a . . . a very clear message.

“Marianne?” Dawn asked, “What are you doing?”

“Mmf.” Marianne said, having grabbed the back of Dawn's jacket and used it to smother her face and wayward thoughts.

“Okaaay,” Dawn said carefully, “If you're not too terribly busy, Marianne, could you pass me the tape? Thank you. I do have a breakfast date to get to, you know.”

Marianne dropped Dawn's jacket and stood back up straight, “I'm tagging along. You owe me coffee.”

“These are your posters,” Dawn pointed out, tapping Marianne on the nose, “For your show. You owe me for this display of sisterly devotion on my part.”

“True,” Marianne nodded, “I must return some of this love.” She grabbed Dawn in a hug and picked her sister right up off the ground.

“Marianne!”

“I am displaying affection.”

“Put me down, you goof!” Dawn giggled, wiggling her feet, trying to reach the pavement again.

“Mmmm. No!” Marianne swung her sister up into a bridal carry, “I am repaying my sisterly debt by allowing you to rest your feet. And maybe make you seasick.”

“Marianne—no!”

But Marianne was spinning around and Dawn had to hold on tight, shrieking uselessly at this uncalled for dizziness.

“Okay, okay, I get it, Marianne! You're really, really strong!”

“Pfft, nah. You weigh like ninety-five pounds when you're feeling fat. Now, where to?”

“Onward, my noble steed!” Dawn unwound one arm from Marianne's neck so she could point dramatically, “To the bulletin board behind the studio! For after many trials and mighty deeds I have procured the key to the glass case shielding it from unauthorized postings!”

“Well met, valiant knight! Our cause is just and our postings authorized!”

“Huzzah!”

Energized by their silliness, Marianne let Dawn down and both of them raced toward the studio, Dawn clutching the remaining posters to herself and Marianne grabbing at her scarf when it started unwinding. They cut through the building, going in the front door, to catch a bit of warmth before finishing their task. Pounding through the halls, they pushed the back door open together and clattered down the back stairs in their heavy winter boots.

“Key, key, where are you, key?” Dawn shifted the posters to one arm, digging in the pocket of her coat for the key to the display board.

“Hey,” Marianne said, taking the posters, “Somebody left it open . . .”

The sight of the case's broken lock floated in Marianne's brain like an image of a dream. It was so entirely unexpected, the cracked glass door swinging open, the smashed lock crumpled in its metal setting. It took her a few seconds to process the reality of it. A few more to drag her eyes and look properly at the contents of the vandalized case.

Squinting her eyes, Marianne pushed the case fully opening, trying to bring the mess of messily pinned papers into better focus. Flimsy printed pages plastered ever inch of the board, corners hanging over the edges of the frame, a few pieces having fallen from where thumbtacks had not quite fastened them down. She blinked, trying to pick out some text that might clue her in to what sort of bizarre art piece she was looking at.

Brown eyes, grainy from a cheap print job, leaped out and caught Marianne's gaze. Brown eyes surrounded by dark, smudgy shadows, in a face almost white in the low resolution rendering of colors. Beneath those dark, dead eyes curved a nasty cut, closed up with thick, black stitches.

Marianne's hand touched her own cheek.

Medical photographs. There were medical photographs mixed in this chaos of tattered paper and bent thumb tacks. They documented painful bruises and dark stitches on the pale skin of a face, shoulders, and back.

Marianne remembered setting the posters down carefully on a box. Her arms were wrapped around her, fingers digging into her shoulders, feeling the itch and pull of stitches, the chafing tape of bandages. She remembered the dull ache of her shoulders, always there, just out of reach behind the haze of medication that lay over her like thick wads of cotton, keeping her still, silent, smothering all the pain and tears, pushing it deep, deep down where no one could see it. Not gone, but satisfactorily hidden.

The pictures were of her.

It was Marianne.

A teenager in a hospital gown with nasty lacerations cutting cruelly across her shoulders and back. Marianne with hollow, empty eyes. Pictures of Marianne surrounded by pictures of a smashed van, of glass glittering on the asphalt. Pictures of a woman with long brown hair, pictures of the woman laughing, pictures of the woman limp on the pavement next to the smashed car—

“Is that . . . mom?”

Dawn's whisper was a small ghost of a sound, the fog of her breath hanging in the air around it, but it served to pull Marianne out of her cloud of confusion and slam her back down into reality.

Marianne's breathing was coming out in desperate, choking gasps, but she took Dawn by the shoulders and whirled her away from the bulletin board. She knew her grip was too tight, that her fingers must be squeezing Dawn painfully, but she couldn't risk relaxing her grip. The muscles of her neck and shoulders were so tight that she was beginning to shake and if she let go of Dawn the shaking would reach her hands.

“We're done. Go find Sunny.” It took a huge effort to speak those few words without obviously gasping for breath. She pushed Dawn up the steps to the back door

“That's mom! That's you! The accident--”

“I'll take care of it.”

“Marianne--!” Dawn broke loose.

“I'll take care of it!”

Dawn flinched. Marianne had practically screamed in her face. Bright blue eyes filled with tears.

Bright blue eyes turning to look at Marianne as the world tilted, an arm instinctively thrown out in front of Marianne as metal and glass crunched together . . .

Marianne's chest was tight and her heart was pounding so hard she felt like it was shaking her entire body apart. She was gasping for air but she couldn't seem to get enough of it. She just needed Dawn to go away, to get away from the horrible things tacked up for the world to see. Dawn had never seen pictures of the accident—Marianne hadn't seen them. Their father had made sure of that and for that Marianne was actually grateful. Grateful that her sister didn't have to see what Marianne had seen. Didn't have those images to poison her thoughts and dreams.

If Marianne could just get Dawn away quickly enough then maybe it wouldn't stick, maybe it wouldn't hurt Dawn like it did Marianne. Every second Dawn stood out there was another second that the poison was allowed to seep in and cloud those happy blue eyes. Don't look, please don't look, just please don't look.

That's not mom, that's not her, that broken, empty shell on a stretcher.

That's not me, that broken ghost with empty eyes, held together by stitches and sedatives.

You were never supposed to see this.

I was supposed to keep you safe from all of this.

“Just go!”

Now Marianne had screamed. It seemed to be the only way to let the words out. She screamed it again and again until Dawn retreated through the door with tears falling down her frost-reddened cheeks. The steps pitched and tilted under Marianne's feet and she staggered down them and back to the board, ripping the gloves off her numb, shaking hands. Fumbling fingers tore at the papers, snagging on thumbtacks, fingernails grazing the cork board and leaving pale lines.

She had to get rid of it.

Rip it all apart until there was nothing left by fragments of paper and bad memories.

Bad memories that Dawn was never supposed to have any part of.

A large hand touched Marianne's arm, trying to pull her back from the board.

Hands, unnaturally huge in Marianne's confused state, pulled her carefully from the car. She kicked and screamed and writhed in their grip, trying to make them let go. Trying to get free so she could go and save her mom. Mom was right there, she just needed help, why wouldn't they let Marianne help her ? But the hands were inexorable and she was dragged from the wreckage . . .

The reaction was instinctive.

The moment she registered the presence of the hand on her arm she spun around, swinging her fists, prepared to fight with everything she had.

Large hands grabbed at her arms, only managing to get a grip on them after Marianne had made sharp contact with someone's face and chest. Red-hot pain burst over her knuckles after they crashed into someone's sternum, cutting through the numbness for a moment and bringing her back to the present.

Bog was holding her by the wrists, blood smeared across one side of his face.

There was blood on Marianne's hands, seeping from torn knuckles, beading up from scratches and punctures on her palms and fingers.

Bog's eyes were squinted from pain, but he was looking at her, focusing entirely on her, with open concern.

“Mari?”

Forced to stand still, the shaking started to overcome Marianne and the harder she tried to breathe the less she could.

“Mari?” Bog slowly released her hands, making a tentative movement to touch her face. Fingers brushed across her cheek, wiping away tracks of tears. “Mari, can we go inside now?” His hand slid up and cupped the side of her face, tilting her head up to look him in the eye, “We're going inside now, okay?"

Chapter Text

I gotta, gotta believe
I can more then survive
Still one trick up my sleeve
We're gonna make this one shine

I... I'm at the edge of my life
I got no time to think twice
When I'm standing with the weight
Of the world on my shoulders
I... I'm gonna fight the good fight
Cause i, I know I'll get by
When I battle every day through the pain
Like a soldier


Just don't look down
And you'll never fall

“Don't look—don't look at the—”

Don't look at the board. Don't look at the pictures. Don't look at me, don't see how broken I really am. Because if you do you'll be like everyone else. Pitying the broken doll with the cracks in her china face. Cracks in her heart.

No one would ever know anything happened, darlin', Roland had said when Marianne confided in him about the accident, her injuries, the surgeries. He had tapped the underside of her chin, tilting her face up so he could better search her face for flaws. Marianne had been tight with fear, watching Roland's face in turn for disgust or pity, praying that her makeup smoothed out any possibly traces of the accident.

Roland had rewarded her with a relieved smile, “No one would ever know what happened, darlin'.”

No one would ever know anything happened.

That day was just erased, never spoken of. Best forgotten. Marianne had woken up one day into a world where her mother, Maeve Woods Summers, had never existed at all. Every picture, every memento, packed away, her daughters snatched away across the country, away from all reminders of her. Marianne's scars were tidied away and sometimes she doubted she had ever been hurt, that it all wasn't part of a monstrous dream.

But nothing had been able to remove the scars inside her, even if they were ignored. Sometimes she wished her skin was still marked so that her pain and anger would be visible and everyone would see how much she hurt. Only the faintest shadows remained on her body, traces that you could only see if you knew, if you were looking.

“It's my fault,” Marianne said to Bog, a detestable quaver in her voice, “Dawn saw—my fault—Dawn--”

Dawn was never supposed to know. To see the consequences of that car wreck. Marianne couldn't save her mom, couldn't save herself, but she thought she could save her sister. But, as it always was when it came to the most important things, Marianne failed.

“She's okay. She's inside. She told me to find you.”

Bog was standing over Marianne, cupping her face in his hands, blocking out everything but his face and his voice. Marianne tried to turn her head, see the board. Bog wouldn't let her.

“I have to—to take it down—this is my fault!” Marianne grabbed his hands, some fleeting thought of shoving him away occurring to her. Instead she clung to his hands, afraid that somehow he was going to disappear. All the good things in her life seemed to do that.

“No, no it's not, tough girl, it's not your fault.”

Bog's thumb wiped across her cheek, brushing away the tears. Again and again until Marianne realized he was tracing one spot over and over again.

Her scar.

The facial wound that the doctors had paid especial care to. Sewed up with delicate stitches, applied ointments, injected things, until there was only the faintest ghost of a memory of the ragged cut. It didn't even show at all when she was tanned, and was marked only barely when she wasn't.

But Bog was gently following the path of it with his thumb.

“It's cold out here,” he said, his voice steady in a spinning world, “Let's go inside. Okay?”

Marianne nodded.

Walking inside took forever, an agony of eternity when Marianne just wanted to run. To scream. Throw herself into a wall and pound on the concrete with her hands and feet until broken skin and cracked bones drowned out the memories and feelings that were overwhelming her.

This was Roland.

It had to be Roland.

This was her fault.

She'd been so confident, felt so untouchable. Daring him to lay a finger on her. If he did she would lay him out flat on the pavement. She'd been so sure he could never hurt her again, not like he had, not the kind of hurt that ripped out the foundations of your world and left you sitting in the ruins. Her heart, her soul, they were safe from him.

She had been so wrong.

And she wasn't the only one paying the price of her recklessness.

“Dawn . . .?”

“Dawn's okay,” Bog said, his arm around her, taking so much of her weight she wasn't sure if her feet even touched he stairs.

A door opened and warmth replaced cold.

“Dawn's fine,” Bog said again, guiding Marianne to sit down in one of the benches that lined the hall outside the classrooms, “Are you okay, Mari? What do you need?”

What did she need? She needed to pull herself together. Wipe away the tears that streamed down her face, stand up and deal with the situation. Stop sitting there, helpless. Pathetic. Trapped.

Trapped in her seat, calling for her mom.

She must have said something, or started crying harder, because Bog hugged her.

He hugged her carefully, kneeling on the floor in front of her seat, giving her the space to push him away, to show what she wanted or needed.

Seconds later she was half on the floor and half wrapped around Bog's neck, her hands grabbing up fistfuls of his gray hoodie, still touched with cold. She was crying into the crumpled folds on his shoulder. It was gross, messy sobbing. It was ugly and full of pain. There was no control. Control was so important to her. Over herself. The world was beyond her but she had power over herself and she chose to be strong. To be seen as weak was something she hated. By enemies, terrible, but it was far worse to have your weakness seen by someone who mattered. Someone important. But, inside the protection of Bog's arms she felt safe. Safe enough to let the messy tangle of emotions run their course instead of trying to smother them. Bog was rubbing her back, rocking her gently back and forth, being there until the storm passed.

“I'm getting you all gross,” Marianne whispered when the tears started to run out. She spoke to test if she could keep herself together enough to fall back into rhythm with the turning of the world. To test if the world was indeed still turning.

“Luckily,” Bog said, his voice right by her ear, “I am naturally gross so any additional grossness won't show.”

He was being funny. A little bit of normality that was helping to bring everything back into balance. Their personal world that spun to the rhythm of bantering and bickering. It was still there. All the years between that one and this were lining themselves up and reminding Marianne that the world she lived in now would not be shattered so easily as the old one had been.

“Do you want to go home?” Bog asked.

“I've got classes--”

“Do you want to go home?”

“. . . yeah.”

“Okay. I'll call security about the bulletin board and Plum about missing classes.”

“I should--”

“Get your hands cleaned up.”

“You aren't the boss of me,” Marianne sniffled into his hoodie.

“No, but Dawn is. She went to get your car and told me not to let you go anywhere. I think she would like you to be home with her today.”

“Okay.”

A few electronic notes notified Marianne that Bog had received a text.

“Dawn's outside with the car,” Bog said after glancing at his phone, one arm still around Marianne, “Ready to go?”

“In a . . . in a second.”

She didn't want to move. Her pain and tears had been exhausted for the moment and she was floating in an uncertain absence of feelings. She was warm and Bog was right there, bony and uncomfortable to hug, but just where she wanted to be right now. She felt if she moved from this safe spot all the memories would rise up and crash down on her again.

“Take your time, tough girl.”

A few snuffling breaths later a thought occurred to Marianne, “I thought you lost your phone.”

“Somebody found it. Girl from your painting class found it this morning and shot my mom a text. I got here early to pick it up before I headed to work.”

“Oh. Good. I'm glad that . . . you found it.”

That you were here.

Marianne declined to be carried, but decided that a piggyback ride was acceptable.

“I'm sorry I hit you,” she said, arms around Bog's neck, the world gently rocking as he walked the length of the hallway.

“Oh, that? Thought that was a strong breeze.”

“I can kill you from here, you know.”

“What, is that a wrestling move? The deadly baby koala bear hold?”

“I can snap your spine in one move. Or, better yet, tickle you.”

“If you even try I will throw us both down the stairs.”

Dawn was waiting for them in the car. She gave a little wave, but Marianne could see Dawn's face was splotched red from crying. Guilt rose up and choked Marianne again. It mixed with panic at the sight of the car, Dawn buckled into the driver's seat and looking out like their mother had, waiting for Marianne to pound down the front steps and jump in.

Marianne slithered down and grabbed the railing of the steps up to the building, bending over and trying to breathe while she gagged, sick with panic.

“Driving isn't happening right now,” she said in the small space between wheezes.

“It's a long walk back to your apartment,” Bog put his hand on her back, waiting for her to catch her breath, “Do you want to try?”

“Gallery,” Marianne thought of the safe haven of the gallery. A world she had built with paint on a foundation of wood and canvas. There were Bog's pieces too, a small, comfortable forest of sheltering metal leaves, “Still need to finish setting up.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Bog's tone indicated his skepticism that they would get any work done, but he exchanged a few words with Dawn and Marianne heard the car drive off.

Marianne folded her arms tight around her ribs and began to march in the direction of the gallery, willing her shaking legs to keep up a decisive stride. Nothing mattered except walking. Put one foot in front of the other, listen to the rhythm of her boots on the pavement. Shallow breaths, swallow hard against the bile in her throat, shrink the world down until all it held was the stretches of pavemented and asphalt between her and the gallery. There was just enough space in that narrow world to accommodate Bog, who pulled her to a stop before she blindly charged across the street and into early morning traffic, whose hand she somehow ended up holding in a death grip.

Bog wished there was something he could do. Marianne was hurting and he could barely offer her a few vague words of comfort and some inane wisecracks. The awfulness of the bulletin board and its effect on Marianne were just too big for Bog to face directly. He slipped sideways, barely looking at it out of the corner of his eye, and made jokes to cover the sound of Marianne's shaky breathing.

Talking made his face hurt. Marianne's wild punch had caught him square on the jaw and the metal taste of blood was still in his mouth. She hadn't even seen him. Her eyes had been huge with panic, but still too full of those pictures to let her see him.

Bog's stomach twisted at the thought of those pictures. He ground his teeth together, making his face throb and his anger burn so hot that his eyes watered.

He was going to kill Roland for this.

Because of course this was Roland's work. There was no one else so petty and cruel, no one who would feel driven to terrorize Marianne like this. Why, though? Roland couldn't possibly think Marianne wouldn't see through this, that it would in any way bring her running back to him. Maybe it was the final twist of the knife, a parting gift of a graceless loser.

That didn't fit. Roland would be far more likely to attack Bog again.

Bog shelved that thought for later, the gallery was in sight and Marianne's stride was faltering now that their goal was in reach. Bog fumbled in his pocket for the key, but Marianne gave the door a push and it swung open. Plum must have been there to check up on things.

With a gentle shove Bog guided Marianne into the gallery entryway, a cool, white space decorated with a handful of pieces made by prominent local artists. Even now Bog had to suppress an urge to hang their jackets on a spiky plastic sculpture that occupied the middle of the room. Instead, Bog and Marianne sat on the floor underneath it, the sculpture spreading its spikes out above them like an alien tree.

They did not talk. The hum of the heater canceled out the soft sounds of the early morning. Marianne's breathing was easing and it sounded like she was falling asleep. Bog held her. It was shocking how effortless it was to have her so close. He could feel it when she started out of her doze and gripped him tighter.

“Talk. Please. About something.”

“Uh, mom's excited about the show,” Bog said, picking a topic close to hand, “She's trying to make me wear a tie.”

“Did you tell her ties don't go with your beard?”

“She's also throwing around the idea that I should shave. It isn't a beard, either. Just stubble.”

“Why are you in such denial over your beard?"

“You're right. I should accept it. Own it. Grow it out and let Dawn braid flowers into it.”

Laughter made Marianne shake in his arms. It was dragged up from her lungs and gasped back down and it took a minute for her to get it under control.

“Look,” she said, “I'm shaving my legs and wearing a fancy dress, you have to shave your face.”

“Fair enough.”

Bog remembered that this morning—which felt like it had taken place several years ago—he had worked up the nerve to bring Marianne's early Christmas gift. He pulled it out of his hoodie pocket. The wrapping paper was crushed, putting creases through the pattern of red poinsettias.

“I . . .”

As he should have expected, the comfortable intimacy vanished. Bog was all awkwardness and had forgotten what to do with his hands. In spite of this, he persevered.

“I . . . I got you something that . . . for the art show. To wear. It was going to be for Christmas but I thought maybe . . . but I don't even know if it would match . . . your dress. Match your dress.”

It would be lovely, Bog thought, if the sculpture overhead toppled down and impaled him with one of its spikes.

“Well . . . now might not be the best time . . .”

Marianne snatched the small package from his hand. She wiggled around so she could use Bog's chest as a back rest. She arranged his arm so it was around her waist. Bog took this as a sign that he was allowed to stay where he was for the moment.

The wrapping paper was shredded and discarded. The pieces were dark stains on the white floor. Inside the gift was still wrapped in its bag from the store.

“Isn't this from the fateful shopping trip with Dawn?” Marianne's lips trembled as she smiled, “Wait, is this the receipt--?”

Bog snatched it away and crumpled it into his pocket.

“That wasn't supposed to be there.”

In truth, Bog had planned to package it in a nice little box and even put a ribbon or bow on the outside. Somehow that had never happened and he had just wrapped it in some paper at the last moment before heading to campus.

The gift was dumped from the plastic bag and into Marianne's hand. It had maintained its proper shape even after the bumpy morning.

“It's just a little thing. I . . . I just thought of you . . . You don't have to like it or wear it or anything.”

Bog silenced himself by putting his hand over his mouth.

Marianne turned the small gift around in her hand. A purple flower with plastic petals glued to a hair clip. It was so shabby. Bog couldn't even imagine why he hadn't noticed before how shabby it was. Like the saddest attempt at a prom corsage in the entire history of cheesy romantic gestures. Maybe he could laugh it off as a joke. A gag gift. A cheap little nothing.

“This is perfect.”

“What?”

“I love it.”

“What?”

“This will go perfectly with my dress and . . . I love it, Bog.”

“Seriously?”

Marianne was trying to clip it over her ear. Bog took it from her. He smoothed her hair back to began to fasten the clip.

A scrape, a bump, feet slipping on the slick floor, and the creak of the gallery's back door.

The flower clip dangled over Marianne's ear, clinging to a few threads of hair, snatched from Bog's fingers when Marianne whipped her head around at the strange noises. She had jumped with such violence that it startled Bog too.

“Plum must be rearranging--” Bog began.

“She'd better not be! Not again.”

Marianne got to her feet. She was gasping for breath again. She walked into the open space of the room and started to reel. Bog's legs, tired from so much early morning walking, seized up underneath him and it took a few tries to get up and follow her. By that time she had made it to the door of the room that housed their show and was shoving open the door.

“Why can't you leave it alone, you deranged old weirdo!”

Bog entirely agreed with the question. He was equally irritated by Plum's insistence on rearranging the gallery every time they were there to make it 'better'. If she didn't take a hint and make herself scarce Bog was in half a mind to pick the woman up by the glittering scruff of her neck and toss her out of the gallery.

“Listen, Plum!” Bog banged the door all the way open, “this is our show and we'll put our stuff wherever we please! Did you get that--”

Something crunched under Bog's feet.

Whatever it was, it wasn't going down without a fight. Something stabbed through the bottom of his sneaker where it was worn out just below his toes. He slammed his hand over the light switch. For whatever reason, Plum had been working in the dark.

Light flooded the room, filling it up to the brim, making it impossible that the dark patches on the wall were shadows or any sort of trick of the eye. Bog saw the holes smashed in the wall, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. His mind was blank. His body was numb except for the pain throbbing in his foot.

Marianne's paintings had been ripped off the walls, frames smashed, canvas sliced to ribbons. Pieces of painted color were scattered like the dead leaves of a tree in autumn. Glints of metal peeked out from among them. Slabs of splintered wood lay over everything.

The centerpiece of the room, the massive sculpture that Dawn never stopped insisting was a fairy castle, was toppled onto its side, two other sculptures smashed beneath its heavy wooden structure. It was the only thing that still had a recognizable shape. The rest just looked like wreckage from a violent storm.

A twisted piece of metal was what was stabbing Bog's foot.

He reached down a yanked it out. Blood soaked the sole of his shoe.

It was gone.

All their work. Gone.

Bog had put everything he had into that show. He couldn't count the number of mornings he had forced himself out of bed and wallowing in order to go work on the show. It had helped so much to have a goal and someone to keep him working on it. His reward for trudging through the gray days was to find Marianne waiting for him. Glad to see him. Wanting to work with him. He had worked hard to try not to disappoint her.

He had worked hard to not disappoint himself.

The show was going to be something he finished and finished well. It would redeem him from all those abandoned projects scattered through his life after his dad died. The lights would go on in the gallery, the guests would walk in, and Bog's life would start again. Fresh and new. He would be okay and this time it would stick.

Next to him Marianne had dropped to the floor. The clip had lost its tenuous hold and dropped onto the wreckage of a twisted piece of wire mesh. It tumbled off the mesh, caught for a moment on a splinter of wood before it fell to the floor with the barest whisper of sound.

Bog slammed his fist into the wall.

That made a much more satisfying sound. If the world was going to fall down around him he should at least be allowed to hear it crumbling. There should be roaring, thundering, and there should be pain. Like the pain of his knuckles punching the white walls, again and again until the white turned red and started to cave in and his hands were slick.

It was only when a hand touched his arm that the full measure of the pain fell on him. He gasped. A gentle touch was the last thing he expected. The last thing he deserved.

“Bog,” Dawn held his bloody hand, “Please, Bog, stop. You're hurting yourself.”

“Good.” Bog's reply was supposed to come out defiant. It sounded resigned instead.

Dawn took his other hand and he gasped again. The kindness flicked him on the raw. He had failed. He didn't get to have friends. He didn't get to have any sort of love.

“I'm sorry, Bog.” She reached up and brushed the damp hair out of his eyes, “This isn't fair. Please, come sit down.”

“I can't . . . I can't. This is my fault, Dawn. If I just left Marianne alone—”

“Boggy, please don't be stupid. Come sit down and I'll give you some coffee.”

Bog freed a hand to wipe the tears off his face. He stopped when he saw the blood all over his knuckles. He hitched the sleeve of his hoodie over the palm of his hand and used that instead, bending over to obscure his face from Dawn's sight. “W-when did you get here, anyway?”

“Just now. A little too late, I guess.”

“Where did Marianne go?” Bog found himself distressed to the point of fear when he couldn't find her in the destroyed room. He knew he should have stepped out of her life long ago, but an abrupt departure of Marianne from his was . . . It was terrifying.

“In the entryway, getting some hot coffee into her. I'm not strong enough to drag both of you at the same time so I had to do it in two trips. C'mon.”

Bog allowed himself to be led away from the scene of destruction. There was a half-formed thought in his mind that he should walk right past Marianne, out the door, and out of her life forever. Even if the damage already done could not be repaired at least he would do her no more harm.

No. He had to apologize. One last time and really mean it. Then leave.

That's what went through his head. There was some sort of faulty connection between his brain and his body because immediately upon reentering the entryway of the gallery he walked straight over to Marianne and pulled her into a hug.

She was shaking harder than ever.

“Everything . . . it's falling apart,” She choked, holding him tighter than he dared hold her, “because of me.”

“No!” Bog was shocked by the idea of it having anything to do with Marianne, “This is all--”

“Roland. Roland's fault.” Dawn said. She gave Bog a watery glare that told him he'd better not even think of placing the blame on himself. Then she gave a loud sniff and her face started to crumple. “Take care of her, Boggy. I'll be outside.” Bog caught a glimpse of Sunny when Dawn rushed out the door. It was a relief to know that Dawn was being taken care of too.

“This is not you,” Bog began again, cupping Marianne's face in his hands and guiding her eyes to his face, “This was never, ever you.”

“How can you even say that? Your sculptures! All your work!”

“Our work.” Bog pressed his forehead to hers. He wished there was some way to hold her even closer. He just wanted to keep her safe from Roland and all the poison that the man had stirred up.

“It's all gone, Bog. Everything is gone.”

“No, no, no,” Bog was desperate to comfort her, “Mari, we can fix it. We can fix this. Oh, love, please, don't think that. These—these are just ideas. The paintings. The sculptures. They're just one part, the last part. You still have everything that it took to make them.”

“No, no, Dawn saw. She saw mom. She was never supposed to see. She was never supposed to see!'

Marianne's words rose into a shriek and sobs rocked her body. Bog pressed her against himself, hoping that he could somehow hold her together with his arms alone. She was babbling out apologies and self-reproach. Bog felt like he was holding a storm-tossed ocean that happened to be contained in the shape of one small woman.

“Oh, love,” Bog murmured into her hair, “Don't think about it. Don't think about it, love. This means we get out of the art show entirely, doesn't it? Means I don't have to shave after all. Mom'll be so disappointed she won't get to chase me around the house with a razor.”

He talked nonsense until both of them could sit down and help themselves to the thermos of coffee Dawn had brought them. It was next to a bulging pink duffel bag that was bedazzled with the label: 'Unzip In Case of Sudden Feelings'. Feeling that the current occasion fit that requirement, Bog unzipped the bag. On top was a first aid kit. It made Bog wonder what kind of feelings Dawn was anticipating. Then again, considering who her sister was . . .

Marianne let her gaze rest on the sparkly pink bandaids that striped her fingers. The disinfectant Bog had used on her scratches still stung. She watched her fingers shaking, her eyes attracted to the movement. Her vision was blurring and each time she blinked her eyes stayed shut a little longer.

Of course Dawn would have Marianne's sedative prescription tucked in that pink bag. Unable to deny Dawn anything at the moment, or even look her in the eye, Marianne swallowed the pills and the peanut butter chocolate chip cookie that accompanied them. Now Marianne was fighting the induced drowsiness, dropping off for a second before jerking awake again. In those seconds of unconsciousness she caught glimpses of blood-streaked posters. Broken glass from a car window underneath the ruins of a toppled sculpture of wood. Sometimes, when she managed not to close her eyes, she saw the ragged pieces of her canvases brightening up the plain white floor of the entryway.

Every time she jolted awake she felt Bog's hand smoothing down her hair, rubbing the knot in her neck, brushing away the nightmares. Sometime between blinks Bog's hands had been bandaged too. His skin looked gray next to the bright white bandages. She did see Dawn affix a tulip sticker onto one of the bandages, and hear Bog grumble in vain against the idea.

Marianne was curled up into the smallest, tightest ball she could achieve. Her coat, or somebody's coat, was folded up on Bog's lap for her to use as a pillow. She felt very cared for. She felt guilty about that. It was Marianne who ought to be taking care of Bog and Dawn. Because of her Dawn had seen those awful things and Bog had lost all his hard work. Really, Marianne should have been able to pull herself together and power through. She should have been standing up and giving a scathing review of Roland's personal defects to the security guard and police officers she was vaguely aware of having come into existence when she wasn't paying attention.

Instead she was nearly really asleep. She'd wake up in bed, having been spared the ordeal of being conscious for a car ride. All she had to do now was let herself drift off. Which was easier said than done. Her muscles were relaxing. She could breathe again. But she didn't want to let go. She was ashamed she needed a pill to get herself under control again. And this wasn't really control, not when she couldn't even stay awake. She should have refused the medication, should have . . .

She gave a gasp when she startled herself awake again. Between one blink and the next she had forgotten where she was. Panic struggled to make itself felt through a heavy blanket of sleepiness. There was glass. Glass in her hands. In her face. She felt it under her skin when she tried to move--

A large hand pressed itself flat on her back. The pressure of let her feel there was no glass. Bog smoothed a circle over her shoulder blade, easing her from the nightmare.

“Sh, Mari. It's alright. Go to sleep.”

“Fight . . . fight me.”

“Maybe later.”

“It's a date.”

At last, Marianne stopped fighting her losing battle. She closed her eyes, voluntarily this time, and waited for sleep to take her. Before it did she heard one of the police officers trying to ask a question and Bog sternly shushing them.

“On a plane? Why is your dad on a plane?”

“This is just the worst possible thing that could happen now! He was already on a plane when he called and he's talking about lawyers!”

“Lawyers? Wait, Dawn, take it back a few steps, you've lost me, sweetheart.”

“I don't blame you! I don't even know where I am. He talked like he knew about everything that happened, but how could he know what happened? I was there and I don't know what happened!”

“Okay, glitter-angel, I need you to take a breath.”

“Only if you take one too, Sunny bunny! You look like you're about to faint.”

“Your dad scares me. When he looks at me I feel like I've just spontaneously gained a rap sheet. But that isn't important. What's important is that you're freaking out so I'm freaking out and we've really had enough freaking out today so why don't we just . . . breathe?”

“Why is dad getting on a plane?”

Sunny and Dawn froze when Marianne staggered into the kitchen. They had been talking in hushed voices but ever so often strong emotion made their volume jump up a few notches. Both of them looked so guilty that Marianne would have not been surprised if it turned out she had caught them in the middle of disposing of a body.

Marianne rubbed her cheek. “Did someone draw on my face?”

“Marianne! You shouldn't be up!” Dawn jumped forward and gave Marianne a push back toward the bedroom. “I can get you whatever you need! Are you thirsty? Hungry? I got ginger ale--”

“Stop . . .” Marianne was too fuzzy and she was almost back in bed before she could form a complete sentence, “Stop fussing! Why are you fussing? Are you okay?”

“Terrific! Great! Fine!”

“. . . are you having a brain aneurysm right now?”

“I've got the heater set up by your bed,” Sunny said, straightening out the blankets on Marianne's bed, “Tell me if it's too warm. Or not warm enough.”

Dawn fluffed the pillows and chattered on. “I cleared it with Aura that you can skip classes today—and tomorrow if you need to. Not that you are ever at class anyway. She was super understanding about everything. She's a lot sweeter than you give her credit for, you know--”

“Dawn!” Marianne gripped her sister by the shoulders and gave her a shake to silence her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! Of course!”

Marianne leveled a skeptical look at her. If Marianne looked anything like she felt then her face would stop a clock. It did stop Dawn.

“No,” Dawn drooped, “today has been . . . difficult.”

Marianne hugged her hard. Arms around her neck, fists pressed on her shoulders. A hug hard enough to hurt and that was fine. They were still standing. Whatever had happened and whatever would happen, right now at least they were still standing.

“So . . .” Marianne's voice cracked, ruining her attempt to sound casual, “did you draw on my face?”

Dawn shook her head, tickling Marianne with her short curls, “Not even a little.”

“Did you make Sunny do it?”

“Hey, c'mon!” Sunny flapped a blanket into place with a snap, “I'm not suicidal. Also, I couldn't find a sharpie.”

This caused some watery laughter that soon subsided.

Marianne held on tighter. “I'm sorry, Dawn.”

“Oh, Marianne!” Dawn matched Marianne in rib-crushing pressure, “I'm sorry. All this time you've had to carry all that, all by yourself, and to have it brought up again in this horrible, horrible way, and I never even knew--”

“You were never supposed to know!” Marianne increased the strength of her hold.

Dawn tickled Marianne's ribs, surprising her into letting go. Dawn took a step back, fists on her hips, eyes red but her mouth set in a determined line.

“Don't be stupid. I'm not a kid anymore. You did your job. You kept me safe. You took all of this and carried it alone so that I wouldn't have to . . . so it wouldn't be such a—such a big piece of me. It's never going to hurt me as much as it hurts you. But . . . Marianne, why didn't you ever tell me? It's such a big part of you and you've never let me see it! Not if you could help it.”

“It's just . . . it's just so ugly.”

The confused press of emotions made Marianne sit down on the bed. Dawn and Sunny sat on either side, each taking one of her hands.

“But you aren't.”

“I messed up.”

“Nah,” Sunny shook his head, “the one who messed up is the guy who you're gonna kneecap when you find him.”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Hey,” Sunny said, “do you know what we need here? To prove to Marianne that she's gorgeous and awesome?”

“I think I might!” Dawn said, brightening up.

“Who ordered--?” Sunny began.

“No,” Marianne sniffed, recognizing what was coming, “No! You are not five years old anymore!”

“--the Marianne and sunshine sandwich!”

Dawn and Sunny wrapped her in a hug.

“We're gonna hug all the hurt out of you!”

“I hate you all. Why haven't I killed you both by now.”

“It's because we're adorable.” Sunny suggested.

“I guess you two are kind of cute in a sickening sort of way.”

“Also stubborn. Get back in bed. We'll get you whatever you need.”

“Um . . . it's okay . . . if we stay like this for a little bit?”

It was the grogginess caused by the medication, Marianne thought, that kept her from being able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. Dawn had been in front of her and so Marianne's thoughts had focused on her. Now that a few things had been said that she needed to say, Marianne felt a thought tickling at the back of her head.

Something was wrong. Even taking into consideration the kind of day it had been Dawn and Sunny had still be acting weird. It might have been the comforting warmth of the hug that prodded her slow brain into realizing what was missing. Someone else had held her. Kept her steady through the storm of emotions the day had rained down on her. She caught sight of their bags piled up in the hall. Bog's bag was there too.

“Where's Bog?”

It was an innocent question. There was no reason Marianne's stomach should twist up like it did. Under the fuzz of the medication she was anxious about how Bog had seen her, but that wasn't it.

Love, please.

He had . . . he had said that. He had called her . . .

“Did he forget his bag? Did he have to go to work?” Marianne asked.

“Um.” Dawn's eyes slid away from Marianne's.

“Or is he still talking with the police?”

“Yes!” Dawn answered like a drowning man suddenly thrown a lifeline. “He's still talking with the police! He should be back tonight to see you!”

“Dawn?” Marianne tried to catch her eye. Dawn suddenly found it necessary to reposition the heater. “Sunny?” Sunny's eyes darted toward the door. “What's going on? Roland didn't, like, skip town and Bog hopped on a motorcycle to hunt him down, vigilante style?”

“No, nothing like that! He's just sorting things out with the police so they can get to work hunting down Roland in a nice legal way.”

“Is Bog in the hospital or something? His hands--”

“His hands are fine. I fixed them all up for him, remember? Everything is absolutely, positively--”

“You guys are the worst liars! Where is Bog?”

“He . . .”

“They arrested him,” Sunny took up the reins, “for wrecking the gallery and planning to set it on fire.”

Chin propped on his folded arms, Bog was slumped over the table, casting sour glances at the paper cup of water that had been left for him after the cops realized Bog wasn't going to 'cooperate' until his lawyer got there.

It was a pet peeve of Bog's that in tv shows and movies no one used a lawyer when they were arrested unless they were guilty. After a few brushes with the law Bog had learned that a lawyer was a necessary part of the process, whether you were innocent or guilty. A buffer. Someone who knew how the game was played and would guide you through the rules. He even had the numbers for a few decent lawyers that he could call up when anyone from the crew got into trouble.

That was why Bog sat in an interrogation room with only a paper cup of water for company. The cops had, of course, assured him that a lawyer wasn't necessary and they were sure things could be cleared up after a little chat. Bog had told them to take a flying leap. Preferably face first into a brick wall.

He was hungry, tired, and very upset. Also starting to get a little wild with frustration because he wasn't at liberty to do anything. Track down Roland and rearrange his face in the style of Picasso, for example. Or make sure that bulletin board got cleaned up before anyone but the police saw it. Or even just making a cup of tea or something for Marianne.

He hoped she was feeling better. And wasn't worried about him. He had told Sunny not to let Marianne know, if it could be helped. There was no point making a big deal out of an arrest. An arrest was nothing. It was only if charges were pressed that things got serious.

The door opened and the cop guarding the door admitted a woman who would have been described as elderly if she didn't stand with her spine straight and shoulders back like a soldier at attention. Her manner of dress was professional, except for the red and black sneakers she was wearing.

“Hi, Janice.” Bog pushed himself up, giving his shoulders a roll and his neck a crack.

“Hello, Alan. Been awhile since I've seen you on this side of the law,” Janice Rogers, attorney at law, said, sitting across from Bog while she set her briefcase on the table, “You know I'm not doing pro bono work right now.”

She held out a hand mottled with age spots and Bog shook it. Even in the circumstances a smile twitched at his lips.

“Put it on my tab.”

Janice snorted. “How about you just put in the new cabinets in my kitchen and find out why the bathroom sink is making a funny noise.”

“It's cat hair. Pour some drain cleaner down it and stop washing your cat in the sink.”

“What's the other guy look like?” She pointed at his hands.

“Like a hole in the wall. Literally. The other guy was a wall.”

“Then we aren't here for assault charges?”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Well, we've got enough material to work with as it is. Destruction of private property. Attempted arson. Harassment. Stalking.”

“I'm not sure how they think I fit that into my schedule.”

“Yes, your mother told me you'd gone back to school. But everyone needs their extra-curricular activities. Maybe it relaxes you. Couldn't you have bothered to shave this morning? It would helped you look more like an upstanding citizen.”

“If I had known I was going to see you I would have spruced up. How long is it going to take to get me out of here?”

“Don't rush an artist. You should know that. I'm still getting the lay of the land. Unless we can explain away the fact that your lighter was found at the scene--”

“That had gone missing days ago!”

He hadn't even seen it in the mess. By the back door there had been cans of gasoline. And the lighter. On the ground like someone had been in a hurry and dropped it.

“I thought the infernal ferret took it.”

“Still yours, Alan. Unless there's documentation of the transfer of the item's ownership from you to the ferret.”

“Why would I have brought Marianne there or called security--?”

“I'm not the jury. You know how this works. I need to know how they see things. And from their point of view the footage they have is condemning. They're going to want to hold you on bail, based on that and the lighter.”

“Footage?”

“Footage?”

Marianne's grip on reality felt a little shaky. It was hard to concentrate and she wanted to lay down and doze thoughtlessly through the rest of the day. Instead she rubbed her knuckles into her eyes, grinding the sleep away from the edges of her eye sockets, and readjusted her grip on her phone before continuing the conversation with her dad.

“I had my suspicions, I can't deny that,” he said, “That things had become this bad? I didn't know and I'm sorry I didn't notice. I got the earliest flight and I should be there before too late in the evening, sweetheart.”

“Dad. What footage? And I've told you a hundred times about Roland! How could you not notice until now?”

“Roland? What are you talking about? I'm talking about what happened today. That man grabbing you. Dear, I've never approved of your tendency to try and solve your problems with violence but when I saw you punch that man I felt like cheering. He deserves that and ten times more after what he's put you through. That disgusting display of pictures.”

“Someone filmed--? That wasn't Bog! I didn't punch him! I mean, I did, but it's not like you think. I was freaking out, I didn't know who he was--”

“Marianne, please don't get yourself worked up. Have you got your medication?”

“Roland did this! Roland did all of this! Bog hasn't done anything but be there for me--”

“But, sweetheart, that's exactly it! He engineered this situation to take advantage of you when you were vulnerable. Please, don't think about it anymore. I'll be there soon and take care of everything. I'll make sure they don't release that man until we've got a restraining order.”

“Restraining--? Nobody is taking out a restraining order against Bog! He's my friend! My best friend! Who hasn't done anything wrong!”

“Can I talk to your sister?”

“No! You're talking to me! If you're coming here just to shove paper-thin accusations at Bog you might as well have stayed home. Who showed you this footage? Was it Roland? The Roland who has been stalking and harassing me for years? Roland who is, without a doubt, the one who plastered pictures of mom's dead body where I would see them?

“He only wants what's best--”

“He wants your money and a trophy wife to parade at parties!”

“Marianne, please, calm down, you're--”

“I'm what? Hysterical? I'm not hysterical! I'm not irrational, I'm mad ! I know that isn't pretty , but it's true . I'm not having a meltdown, but if I was I have certainly earned the privilege of having one !”

Marianne grabbed the nearest pillow-like object as she paced. The object happened to be Bog's abandoned bag. She held it against her chest with one arm to soften the pounding of her heart. The bag was unzipped and sideways so a few loose tools fell out.

“ I never said you were--” her dad sighed and she could picture him running his hand down his face while he gathered up his patience. “Marianne, I can't just ignore what happened and let you go on like this. Please, we'll talk about it when I get there.”

Papers were spilling out of the bag. Marianne grabbed at them, trying to shove them back inside. “You won't listen to me then anymore than you're listening to me now.” Marianne sat down on the floor so she could handle the papers one-handed without crumpling them. She glanced at them, making her sore eyes check if there was any discernible order she could put them back in.

Her own face, grainy black and white, popped out at her from the papers.

“What?” She breathed out. Her dad was talking but it was just more of the same so she took the phone away from her ear and let him run himself down. She spread the papers out around her on the floor. They were duplicates of the pictures that were on the bulletin board.

They had been in Bog's bag. What were they doing in Bog's bag?

She heard her father's tiny, distant voice saying something about cutting her tuition if that's what he had to do to get her to come home and get away from this mess. Marianne kicked the phone under the coffee table and crumpled up the pictures in her hands.

Everything she had felt that morning was swirling up around her again and this time Bog wasn't there to help. Marianne ripped the papers up, destroying the evidence, destroying the pain. The floor was covered in a red and white snowfall of shredded paper.

She scrabbled to retrieve the phone and almost shouted into it, “He's being framed! Roland is trying to frame Bog!” She forgot that her dad couldn't see the mess on the floor and that her declaration was a sudden non sequitur. It was all too real and painful for her to imagine that someone couldn't see it.

“Why do you defend this man--?”

“Because I love him!”

Marianne thought she might have shouted. Or maybe the words were just loud in her head. It was another very real thing.

“Because I love him,” this time she did whisper, “We're not dating . . . we haven't even told each other how we feel because we are two really screwed up people . . . and we're scared. And . . .”

The tears were starting again. Tears that would tear her apart and bring no relief. She was sitting in the shreds of the nightmare but it had lost none of its power. It was growing and pressing in around her. She was going to drown in it.

“I love him and I really need him right now.”

Chapter Text

The day was still, the air hardly moved, as if the chill had frozen that too. Bog pulled his dark ski cap a little further over his ears and absently watched his breath steam in a hazy cloud. His sculpture graveyard was a bit further on and it had been his intention to visit it, but his energy had run out and he had wearily settled down on a low tree stump at the edge of the bog.

There wasn’t much traffic in such a remote place so Bog immediately noticed the sound of a car approaching and was surprised to hear the engine suddenly cut out when the vehicle parked. A distant car door opened and then slammed shut with a violent bang that made him jump. He twisted around to look over his shoulder in the direction of the road. Footsteps sloshed through the bog and Marianne appeared, shoving her way through a tangle of nettles when she caught sight of him sitting on a low, flat tree stump at the edge of the shallower part of the bog.

“You would—you would—hide yourself somewhere—ouch!–completely inconvenient! At least my cupboard is accessible!” She finally pushed her way through, her puffy red winter jacket snagged all over and her knitted gloves—one black and one brown—were stuck full of broken nettles. One last moment was spared to free the bobble of her black and purple knit hat from the grabbing branches before she was completely at liberty.

“Marianne? What are you–?”

“You look very lumberjack today with all that plaid,” Marianne said, indicating his heavy green coat as she splashed over and set down beside him on his tree stump, bumping her shoulder against his until he scooted over to make room.

“It’s not plaid, it’s tartan.” Bog looked down and fingered the edge of his coat’s sleeve. His hands were encased in waterproof winter gloves. He had forgotten to bring his work gloves, which was another reason why he had given up before reaching his sculptures.

“You going full on Scot?” She teased.

“It was my dad’s.”

“Oh.” Marianne crossed her arms and leaned against him. He closed his eyes for a moment when the slight weight of her pressed on his arm. “So. Griselda says you got a phone call, told her you were coming here, and ran off without another word. I also see you have a sledgehammer there. Have I caught you before or after burying the body? If you haven’t stuck it in a shallow grave yet I’ll be glad to assist.”

“No bodies today, but I’ll keep your offer in mind. Don’t you have things to do?” A weak smile cracked Bog’s face and he breathed out a laugh. He had his arms folded around himself, bent over against the chill. The laugh made the tightness in his chest and stomach worse and he curled further over, hands clawing up handfuls of tartan over his ribs.

“Yeah.” Marianne’s gloved hand rubbed briskly over his tense back to warm him up. “Most of them involve you. We’re putting on an art show, remember? Not to mention that stack of DVDs we were going to work through. Or we could just re-watch some Jeeves and Wooster.”

She was trying to be patient, not let her worry make her snap. Something was wrong and she didn’t know what. The unknown thing crouched behind her like a shadow that could contain a potentially infinite number of horrors. It would be a relief to narrow it down to just one.

“It’s freezing out here, Bog. How long have you been out in it?” Bog shook his head. He wasn’t sure. “Did you come out for a particular reason? Or did you just want to hang out until the sun went down and everything iced over?”

“It’s a performance art piece. Man versus Nature.”

“Nature: 1. Man: 0.”

Why couldn’t the world stop? He’d come out here hoping to get it to slow down a bit at least, but now Marianne was here. Warm, beautiful Marianne. And the world picked up speed and the tick of the clock sounded in Bog’s ears. Sitting next to him was a person with a long story ahead of her, full of life and color and movement. How he wanted to run after her, catch up and join her in that life. But his life was stopping short. Small, gray, and empty. The two of them, they didn’t match. More than ever, they were too different. 

Bog had sat here for hours, trying to think of how you broke up with a friend. Especially a friend who was quite capable of breaking into your house in the dead of night to demand explanations. Probably at knife point. Another chuckle escaped him. Who would have thought he would have trouble losing a friend? It was keeping friends that had always been tricky. He was so utterly bad at connecting with people and then the one time he somehow managed to get it right … But it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to drag her into this. Dawn and Sunny wouldn’t pursue the issue, but Marianne wouldn’t be put off. How he loved her tenaciousness. How afraid he was of it right now.

“Booog.” Marianne complained, kicking her boots against the tree stump. “Can we at least sit in the car? I’ve got water in my boot and it’s turning into ice.”

“I was just … thinking about my dad.” Marianne stopped kicking. She turned to look at his face but didn’t say anything, just let him talk. “It nearly killed mom when he died. Not just that he died, but the dying. By inches. Wasting away into nothing. He was a skeleton by the end and he was every bit as tall as me and broader besides. It was so slow.”

Bog’s teeth ground together and he tried to fight back his urge to talk. When he opened his mouth to speak he had intended to tell her to go away. He was resolving himself to argue, fight, shout at her until she punched him in the face and stormed off. The arm laid across his shoulders, gloved hand gripping his shoulder half in comfort half in nervousness, it ate away at the resolve he had been mustering, right through his defenses until the truth started to leak out.

“It took away his job, his company, our savings, his dignity … and when there was nothing left it took him too. What it did to mom. What it did to me. It was the worst thing in the world. By the end I was just so tired. I felt this horrible relief that he was gone, and not just because he was out of pain. I could breathe again and I hated myself for being glad to see him go. Because we knew for a long time that he wasn’t going to win, that he was going to die and there was nothing we could do. All that work, fighting so hard, but knowing it wouldn’t do a bit of good.”

“Bog,” Marianne’s hand rubbed circles over his tight shoulders, “Let’s get somewhere warm and talk, okay?”

“I shouldn’t be talking. I shouldn’t be saying any of this!”

“Why not?” Marianne allowed herself two patient words and no more than that. One single word more and she might start shouting.

His hands were twisted together and he rubbed the knuckle of his thumb over his lips. Words were going to come pouring out no matter what he did, all he could do was direct the flow a bit. “I was going to smash my sculptures.”

Marianne looked at the sledgehammer. “Did you?”

“No.” The anger that had propelled him this far had faltered and died when he finally arrived. The futility of the intended act of destruction was obvious to him then. And he had sunk down onto the tree stump, mind running in circles. “Just imagined it. Sometimes … sometimes I just look at things and I can imagine them breaking, smashing. On . . on bad days I can look at a piece I’ve been working on and just picture how it would look falling, how the wood would crack, the glass craze, the metal dent. How the sharp broken edges would look on the floor.”

“And this is a bad day.”

The little laugh he gave was closer to a gasp of pain. He closed his eyes against it. “The worst day, Mari, the worst.”

“That’s what’s wrong?” A small bit of hope lit up in Marianne’s heart. Bad days with his depression were something she understood, she could deal with those. The hope was extinguished when Bog hunched a little more tightly into himself and did not reply to her question. “Bog?”

“I was trying to figure out how to make you leave.”

“The temperature might do that for you.” Flippancy was Marianne’s defense of choice against worry, if anger wasn’t an option. It had the added benefit of making Bog laugh, too. Right now, though, it didn’t really seem to be working.

“I don’t even know why you bother with me in the first place—”

“Don’t start on that again, you ridiculous pine tree.”

“–and I don’t want to … to … drag you into this.” He trailed off into heavily accented mumbling.

“Drag me into what? Are there actual bodies in the bog? Because if I’m going to be complicit in your crimes I at least want to have the fun of committing them.” Marianne covered her mouth to force herself to stop cracking jokes. Teasing Bog wasn’t going to make the problem go away—whatever it was—and she knew she was trying to avoid the issue. For all her prodding for Bog to tell her she was really hoping whatever was wrong would just … stop.

“You should go get warm.” Bog said without looking at her.

“So should you. We thaw together or not at all.” Marianne said, then clamped her hand back over her mouth.

Bog wrenched his thoughts back to his original intent, “It’s only a semester and a bit until we finish the program, then we’ll probably never see each other again, right? What does it matter if we just stop? Now. Just stop being friends.”

Time had seemed to slow down again while they sat on the tree stump together. It was a complete shock when it accelerated and he found himself shoved off his seat with vicious energy. Taken unaware, he could only fall, splashing into the ankle deep water of the bog in a tangle of long, awkward limbs. Murky ice water soaked through this his clothes and the shock made him gasp and choke.

“Never see each other again? Stop being friends?” Marianne threw out her hands in wild gestures. She was shouting and she couldn’t stop herself, “Why would you think it’s okay to say that?! I’m here in this stupid place to drag your stupid long face back home and you tell me you want to … break up? Can friends break up? What else would you call it? You’re awesome, you’re wonderful—when you’re not being a complete idiot! You are the best friend I’ve ever had and ever could have and I love you! And you tell me to take a hike?”

Perhaps the shock of cold water short-circuited his brain, but still sitting in the murk, teeth starting to chatter, the words just slipped out.

“I love you, too, Mari.”

Someone with excellent hearing, had they been present to witness the scene, might have heard the quiet sound of two brains stalling and then kicking almost immediately into overdrive. Bog was sitting miserably where he had fallen, wet up to his eyebrows, blue eyes fearfully watching Marianne for a reaction to his involuntary declaration. She stood, brown eyes so huge they were overtaking the rest of her face, hands pulling in from their wide movements to curl together in front of her chest.

It was surprising, Marianne thought, that her next words came out in a quavery question rather than a scream. “As a—do you mean that like–? Or–?”

Bog’s face had already been red, stung by the cold, but a little bit of feeling came back into it when he felt a hot blush rise up his neck and wash over his face. That had been the exact opposite of what he wanted to tell her. “Best friend and … yes? Um, I mean …” Mud was smeared over his back when his hand automatically reached up to rub his neck in his usual nervous fidget. “Yes?”

“Yes, what? Because I said it like friends, but I meant it like … I swear, Bog, if you cop out now they will never find the body.” She splashed over and grabbed his arm, tugging him up. Numb and stiff he struggling to his feet, slipping more than once and getting water and muck all over Marianne in the process. At the end of it Bog was finally upright and somehow their arms were around each other.

Marianne was pressed to his chest, arms around him and her clenched fists digging into his shoulder blades. He had one hand across her shoulders, the other on the back of her head, pressing her even more closely to him. It was so cold, he could barely feel his hands anymore, he was probably holding her too tightly, but the ache in his back told him that Marianne’s hold on him was equally strong. She didn’t know yet what was wrong, but she was determined to keep Bog from hiding himself away again. She wasn’t letting go.

“I didn’t mean to say that.” He whispered. Sadly whispered.

Anger and nervousness mixed up inside Marianne. This was supposed to be a happy moment! The two of them had managed to say the words—more or less—and there should have been nervous smiles and cautious laughter. She squeezed him a little harder. There shouldn’t be so much pain in Bog’s voice.

“You take it back I will rip out your spine, because I love you, too.” She said into the front of his jacket, which her nose was currently smashed against.

“I shouldn’t have said it.”

“You could at least kiss me before you start going back over your self-doubt.” Marianne’s tone was cool and confident but her heart was pounding. When those words slipped out she fought back an urge to smack herself in the forehead.

This was everything he wanted. But he couldn’t have it. Bog pulled away, finding it painfully hard to extract himself from Marianne’s embrace. This isn’t what he meant to do, this was the wrong thing to do. “I can’t … I can’t …”

“Why not?” Marianne was on the point of tears, her wet gloves crumpling the front of Bog’s tartan jacket to prevent him from retreating completely. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“Nothing! You didn’t do anything. You’re … you’re amazing. And I can’t do this to you!” He hunched over, drawing in on himself, trying to make his tall frame disappear. His muddy forehead knocked into Marianne’s.

“Do what? Love me?” She looked up at his haggard, unshaven face and into his eyes, refusing to let him escape her grasp or her gaze. Fear was making her brave and she was saying things she would have usually rather have not admitted even thinking about.

“Yes! No! I don’t know!” He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands hung limp at his sides, his tall frame bent over the tiny Marianne, his forehead resting on hers while she kept a firm hold on the lapels of his jacket.

“I wasn’t going to tell you, I was never going to tell you!”

“Why not?!” Marianne shouted in her bewilderment, her frustration with Bog’s confused zig-zagging.

“I was never going to–” He bit down on the words, trying to breathe but his chest was too tight for him to get enough air. “It wasn’t an option. I planned to keep quiet about it for the rest of—of my life.” His unintentionally ironic phrasing sent a shuddering laugh through him.

“Just tell me!” Marianne freed one hand and pounded it on his shoulder, “Stop being so dramatic! Are you trying to drive me crazy? Do you want me to die of suspense or something? What’swrong?”

Marianne’s wording was the last straw. He starting laughing. Everything hurt so much and he couldn’t stop laughing. His knees gave up and he started to crumple into the water, Marianne still hanging onto the front of his jacket until the weight of him pulled the fabric out of her hands and he sat down in the mud. The laughter sounded more like sobbing and words tumbled out of his mouth, desperate to share the joke. Between painful, wracking laughter the words squeezed out, in nearly a whisper:

“I’m the one who’s going to die.”

A small handful of twenty dollar bills was set down on the counter of the coffee shop. “Two extremely large, extraordinarily hot black coffees, with space in one for sugar.” Marianne said, “The rest is an advance apology for the mess.”

The barista looked at the damp and muddy pair standing in front of her. The towering scarecrow of a man with flakes of dried mud peeling off his neck, speckled in his hair, and mottling his clothing. The muddy giant looked exhausted and was visibly shivering. The woman, tiny in comparison to the man, was likewise coated in mud and shivering, but her expression was fiercely determined. Whatever was going on with these two it wouldn’t be right to turn them back out into the cold. “Hang on, I’ve got some plastic sheeting you can put over the chairs before you sit down. Is that okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” Marianne’s rigid posture relaxed a little when she saw she wouldn’t have to argue with the barista.

In two minute’s time Marianne and Bog were cautiously sipping their coffee, feeling returning to their hands with painful stiffness. The barista had covered the chairs of the table furthest from the counter and the door, a display of holiday gift cards and bags of coffee partially screening them from view.

“Good thing my dad insists on emergency cash.” Marianne remarked. Bog ripped open packets of sugar and dumped them into his coffee with trembling fingers and did not reply. “You know,” Marianne went on, “For art students we spend scandalously little time in hipster coffee shops.”

Marianne took a large swallow of coffee so she could feel the heat of it burn her tongue and throat, trying to erase her inane comments. The car ride back from the bog was already a hazy jumble in her mind. She knew she had asked a lot of questions—shouted them, mostly—and Bog had answered some of them, but at the same time it felt like they hadn’t said a word since he’d told her about the cancer. His hysterical declaration had almost made her laugh. It was absurd. It was a joke. But she hadn’t laughed and she was glad of that. It would have been too horrible if she had laughed.

“I’m sorry for shoving you.” Had she said that already? Couldn’t hurt to say it again. Bog was still shivering even after turning the heater in the car up as high as it would go and the sharp angles of his face were fiery red. At least his gloves and boots had been sturdy enough to stand up to the dunking and they hadn’t spent but a few minutes more outside afterwards.

“I probably deserved it for something,” Bog muttered, stirring his coffee.

“No you didn’t, you idiot. Even though I am mad at you. Well, not really mad, but … disappointed? Sad? You didn’t tell me about any of this.”

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You’ve been having tests and—and biopsies? You were having medical procedures done and didn’t tell me?”

“It was outpatient.” He said, a little defensively.

“And not a word? Not even to your mom? Never mind, I am mad. Tell me again, did the doctor say you were dying? What did he actually say?”

“Of course he didn’t say it.” Bog’s lost expression hardened into a more familiar scowl, eyebrows sharpening as they slanted down over his eyes. “Doctors talk a lot of nonsense, throw out things like “advanced stages” and “aggressive” and lots of vague things. But I remember from my dad … the doctor told me exactly the same things they told dad.”

“You weren’t going to tell me? What, you were planning to run me off without a word and I wouldn’t hear anything about it except maybe Griselda telling me you died? Was that your plan?”

Marianne’s voice cracked and her hand was shaking so hard her coffee was in peril. Bog made a movement to take the cup but she slammed it down on the table, a few drops of coffee escaping from underneath the lid and dotting the table. Sniffing, she began to pick at the edges of her damp and muddy gloves, trying to tug them off her tingling hands.

“I would have dug up your grave and murdered you, I swear.” Her fingers couldn’t seem to get a grip on her gloves so she gave up and tilted her head back, blinking back tears while staring at the ceiling.

“Can you feel your hands, tough girl?” Bog’s momentary defiance vanished and his face softened into concern as he reached over to take her hand. She snatched it away and held it up by her shoulder, shaking her head. “You may have frostbite,” He pleaded. “Mucking around in a bog without waterproof gloves. Fine painter you’ll be, with no fingers.”

She gave him her hand, still staring at the ceiling. His attempts at taking off the glove made Marianne hiss in pain. He pulled out his pocket knife and flipped out the scissor attachment to cut the ruined glove off, gently peeling off sections until her hand was free.

“Not blue. Can you feel your fingers?”

“Yeah.” She sniffed, “Tingling.”

“You’ll be okay, stick it under your arm to warm up and give me the other hand.” He repeated the procedure on the second glove, turning her hand over and spreading her fingers to check for any sign of blue discoloration or blistering. He let himself get lost in the process of disassembling the glove and gave a start when Marianne’s fingers wrapped around his and held on tight.

“The test results just came back, right? You’ve still got to see the doctors and—and plan treatments, yeah? There’s so much that can happen and nobody said you were dying, that was just you being you. Dramatic. You do know you’re really dramatic, right?”

Bog was shaking his head.

“But even if you were dying, why wouldn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you let me be there?”

“I don’t want to do to you … what my dad did to me. To mom. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know. For the longest time we hoped … but I know. I don’t want you to watch me die. It destroys you to watch that. You can’t do anything, just watch. Helpless.”

“You don’t know you’re going to die. You don’t know that, Bog.” She wouldn’t let go of his hand. When he made a move to pull away she held on so hard his knuckles ground together painfully. “Even if it’s exactly the same thing your dad had it doesn’t mean anything. It’s been years, there might be some new treatment, or you’ll just respond better or … something.”

Bog gave up trying to escape her grip and bent his head over their hands. “You sound just like mom did, tough girl.”

“Good.” Marianne said firmly, grabbing a napkin and swiping it under her nose as she sniffled. “She’s a lady with sense.”

“My mother has pestered the living daylights out of you since you met her.”

“Only about dating you. And she was right, wasn’t she?”

Silence.

“Bog?”

“We’re not dating, Marianne.”

“Well, what do you call it, then, partners in crime? In cahoots? I’m up for suggestions here.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it—we’re not. I’m not going to drag–”

“Nobody drags me anywhere! I want to be there Bog, right through to the end, however it turns out. Why do you think that I’d just throw you away and go on my merry way to lead a happy life without you? That isn’t what I want. Besides, if you break up with me—before we’ve even actual dated, would that be a preemptive breakup?–Griselda will have your head.”

“She’ll never let it go, that she was right about us. None of them will.” Bog gasped out a laugh, finally looking up. “That is, if you really … um.”

“Idiot.” She said warmly.

Bog was already slumped halfway across the small square table so Marianne barely had to lean over to kiss him. Maybe it was the worst possible time to do it. Marianne didn’t know. Right now all she knew was that she was really scared that if she didn’t do it now she might never have another chance. Bog seemed to feel the same way, because after a moment of rigid surprise he wrapped his free arm around her—the other still on the table, fingers wound in hers—and pulled her closer, nearly knocking the coffee cups over. The edge of the table cut an uncomfortable line across her stomach, but she didn’t care. She wanted that kiss to last forever, because as long as it lasted she could pretend everything was okay.

Chapter Text

If I seem

a little strange

well that's because

I am

Bog considered the sign for a few moments. It was assembled out of foil letters of various colors suspended on strings held onto the wall with thumbtacks, the weight of the letters making the four lines of text dip in the middle. He recognized the letters as being from one of Dawn's projects. However, it was not the younger of the Summers sisters who was responsible for this interesting statement. No, it had to be Marianne, who was currently laying on the couch with her face buried in a pillow.

“Did your dad call?” Bog ventured, dropping his bag on the table as he shut the apartment door behind him. The plan had been to meet up and do something for dinner that wasn't fast food or a frozen meal, but he doubted the prospect of cooking was what was bothering Marianne at the moment. She usually got a little defensive about herself after talking to her father and the statement hanging on the wall seemed evidence of a recent conversation with him.

The response was an indignant noise, muffled by the pillow Marianne had planted her face in.

“Was it the 'art is a nice hobby but it's not a career lecture'?” He tapped her feet so she'd make space for him to sit down. She kicked her legs in the air, leaving a seat free, but did not lift her head up off the pillow. “Or was it the 'you're a unique girl but could you not be so unique in front of people' spiel?” Bog sat down, resting his arms along the back of the couch while he waited for further vocalizations from the faceless couch dweller.

The level of bitterness in the answering snarl answered the question. Bog nearly got kicked in the face when Marianne swung her legs violently to and fro in an expression of her current emotional state.

“If it helps, I like the sign. Very passive aggressive. Which is an improvement over your usual straight up aggressiveness.”

Marianne finally lifted her face from the pillow, her features bearing creases from where the pillow had pressed, and her skin flushed from lack of air. “I may have voided the security deposit from slamming the door too hard. Multiple times.”

Bog looked over at the door and saw the vicious dent in the wall behind it where the door handle had slammed into it. “So this is just the dying ember of a forest fire?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Sorry I missed the show. Your dad trying to get you back into business school?”

“Among other things.” Marianne flopped over on her side, hugging her pillow and drawing up her legs so she didn't risk kicking Bog. “His new favorite topic is my preference for the 'wrong crowd.'”

“Wrong--? Oh. Me.” Bog scratched the back of his head and tried to think of what to say. It was hard to contradict people's negative opinions of him because, well, he didn't always disagree. Usually he just got mad and sarcastic, but that wasn't really going to work here.

Marianne smashed the pillow over her face again and as far as Bog could make out from her following snarls she was saying something about, “Bigoted . . . [muffled snarl] . . . old man!”

“He worries about you.” Bog tried, attempting to be fair.

“He worries about his image,” Marianne said, resurfacing, “I'm already toeing the line by . . . well, by being me, but apparently this 'phase' I'm going through, what with dating you and everything, has crossed it.”

“He thinks it's a phase?” Bog didn't like the implications that Marianne was so fickle as that. He had been trying not to get angry at Marianne's father, but he could feel a frown settling over his face as he thought about the implied insults to Marianne's character disguised as criticism toward Bog. The frown softened and disappeared when he looked back at Marianne and saw the tense lines of her neck and shoulders. She had the anger and sarcasm covered, he didn't need to contribute to that.

“C'mere, you.”

“Nooooo.” Marianne complained as Bog grabbed her overall straps and dragged her upright and over to sit by him. She was heavy and uncooperative, but she did not struggle when he propped her upright on his lap and wrapped his arms around her so that she was leaning back against his chest. “Noooo,” She said again when he kissed the top of her head, “I am bitter and full of hate and you can't snuggle it out of me.”

“I'm willing to risk failure in the attempt.” He replied, resting his chin on her head.

“I'm in the middle of brooding over the unfairness of life, Bog. I'm in no mood to be cheered up.”

“Mmhm. Mind if I interrupt for just a second?” He moved his hands up to her shoulders, feeling the tense knots of muscles and rubbing gentle circles into them with his thumbs. She sighed, her shoulders relaxing a little under his touch, head dropping forward, “Okay. But I retain the right to punch you if you try anymore half-hearted attempts to defend my dad.”

“Well, I was going to say that by all appearances I'm very . . . questionable.”

“What did I just say, Bog?” Marianne tried to turn around and look at him, but he pinched her chin and turned her to face front again, dropping a kiss on her cheek before returning to massaging away the knots along the base of her neck.

“Keep 'em holstered, tough girl, and let me finish. This isn't about me, anyway. What I was saying is that I seem like a really questionable sort of guy, but if you hang out with me there must be something redeemable about me and your dad should trust your judgment.”

An elbow jabbed hard into Bog's ribs. “Redeemable? You idiot, you're--”

“Not talking about me. Ow.” He winced at the pain in his side, “Talking about you. Hey!” He shifted to avoid another elbow and had to give up rubbing her shoulders so he could wrap his arms around her again and pin her deadly elbows in place. “That you're tough and smart and aren't going to let anyone make you do anything you don't want to. Not Roland, not your dad, not me. You make your own choices and . . . and if you chose me you must . . . well . . . you must know what you're doing. A-and your dad should see that. Maybe you're different, but that's not bad. That's what I like. Um.” He finished uncertainly

The growing warmth in Bog's face shot up a few more degrees when Marianne remarked, “You smooth talking dork.” She stopped struggling and relaxed against him, the tension leaving her as she rested her head on his collarbone and drew her legs up to curl up more comfortably in his lap. “You're dangerous. Talk like that might make a girl fall in love with you or something.”

“Shut up.” He moved to rest his red forehead on her shoulder, “I meant it.”

“That's what makes it so dangerous.” She wiggled an arm free and reached up to pat his cheek. “Sweet talker.”

“Stop it!”

“No. You're adorable when you're flustered.”

Marianne patted his cheek again and he caught her hand. He shifted her so she leaned back and he could see her face, one large hand pressed against her back to support her. She quirked an eyebrow at his red face, but her confidence faltered a little when she saw the determined look in his eye. He raised her hand to his lips, very slowly and very deliberately, looking her straight in the eye the whole time.

“You're the absolute worst.” Marianne whispered, her own face reddening to match Bog's, his lips pressing gently to the back of her hand, his long fingers trapping hers. His blue eyes were locked with hers and he smiled, still kissing her hand. “Stop it!” She demanded.

“No.” He turned her hand over and kissed her wrist. “You're adorable when you're flustered.”

A pillow smacked the side of his head.

“Hey!”

“You're such a sap!” Marianne hit him with the pillow again and he had to release her so he could shield his face with his arms. She jumped to her feet to get a better angle to pummel him.

“You like it!” He teased, flashing a wicked grin from behind his crossed arms. This only served to infuriate Marianne further and her attack became fierce enough that Bog slid sideways until he was laying on the couch, laughing helplessly, face beet-red.

“I might be a sap, tough girl, but I'm your sap.” He managed to snag her by the wrist and pulled hard so that Marianne staggered and fell forward, ending up sprawled on top of him. She was laughing too, face flushed and hair flying in a dozen different directions. The pillow was abandoned and she didn't try to escape, giggling too hard to try. Bog brushed her bangs back into place, out of her eyes, letting his fingers linger in her hair as he enjoyed the way her face lit up when she laughed. “You're dad's a moron. You make your own choices.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“What for?” Marianne asked, half closing her eyes as he ran his fingers through her hair to absently smooth out the tangles.

“For choosing me.”

“There you go again!” Marianne dropped her head into his shoulder and he withdrew his hand, uncertain about her response, “I did not sign up for all this smooth talk!”

“I'm not trying--” Bog protested, trying to sit up.

Marianne put two fingers over his lips to silence him. “I know.” She shifted into a more comfortable position and slid her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his, “That's why it works so well.”

Bog smiled up at her. “So I should keep on with it?”

“Only if you're prepared for the consequences.”

“Which are . . .?”

“Something like this.”

She bridged the inches between them and kissed him. And even though they had been dating for months she still managed to take his breath away.

Chapter Text

“. . . ninja would win every time, I tell you.”

“The only reason you say that is because you're secretly a ninja. A tiny cupboard ninja.”

“The only reason you think the pirate would win is because you're obviously a pirate yourself.”

“What gave it away? The stubble? The parrot?”

“Frankly, it was the eye patch.”

Bog shifted his bags to one hand while he unlocked the front door, saying, “Anyway, ninjas are assassins, they depend on stealth. In a head-on confrontation the element of surprise is lost and they'd be at a disadvantage.”

“Not true! Ninjas know kung-fu and karate and stuff. You'd be out of a sword and hook before you could say “avast!”.”

“Hold that thought.” Bog said as they entered the dark house. He dumped his bags on a table and flipped on the lights, “Where's my mother got to?”

“Poker night with her friends?” Marianne suggested, wandering into the kitchen and finding it deserted as well.

“That's next week.”

“Then she's wandered off, alone and unsupervised. I hope no one gets hurt.”

Bog, who had drifted over to the dining room did not reply in words but only with a strangled cry of horror that brought Marianne running. She stopped short when she saw what had made him cry out. Both of them stood in the door of the dining room, stiff with horror and revulsion, their mouths agape. Bog's fingers were still on the light switch and the keys he had been carrying clattered to the floor.

“My artistic sensibilities have never been so offended!” Bog choked out, eyes riveted on the scene laid out in the dining room.

“Dawn's glitter sculpture.” Marianne reminded him, her voice weak and distant, eyes glued to the same scene.

“That wasn't in my house.”

Unable to look away they stared at the cute decorations adorning the room, red and pink streamers and paper chains, lacy paper hearts twinkling with glitter underneath the glow of the lamps. Red balloons bobbed gently on the ceiling. On the table was spread a pink paper cloth stamped all over with red hearts. A dinner was laid out, candles set on either side of an arrangement of roses, and in the center of it all was a red, heart-shaped cake written over with white icing.

“Lofe?” Marianne said, reading the icing. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I think the frosting in smeared,” Bog said, edging into the room, trying to avoid the decorations hanging from the ceiling, glaring at a heart that fluttered too near his nose. “What is my mother up to? Why would she--?”

“Oh!” Marianne said in realization, “What day is it, Bog?”

Bog was pulled away from his horror by the random question. “Um? Saturday?”

“No, no, the date!”

“Fourteen of Febru—oh no.”

Marianne turned to look at him with a dramatic grimace distorting her face, eyes pulled wide so the whites showed wildly. Together they both said, teeth gritted against the very words:

“Valentine's Day.”

“I should have marked my calender.” Bog said, squeezing the bridge of his nose to press back the headache he felt coming on. “Planned to have been out of town.”

“Out of the country. We dropped the ball on this one, Bog.”

“All we can do now is burn the whole place down. With my mother inside.”

“Not just your mom,” Marianne jumped up and snagged a paper heart, tugging it free from its string. She examined it for a moment before nodding grimly. “Hand made. This is Dawn's handy work. We've been utterly betrayed.”

“Face of an angel, cunning of a serpent. Toss them all into the pyre.”

Bog's cellphone rang.

It was Griselda.

“Mother, where are you and why--”

“Single ladies night with the girls!” Griselda crowed. In the background there was the sound of cheering and the clinking of glasses. “Just checking in. Are you home yet?”

“Yes, I'm home! What were you--”

“Oh, then I won't interrupt you kids. You two behave!”

“You're not interrupting anything and we're not—!” The call ended and Bog said into the void, “We're not dating.”

“Even if we were,” Marianne said, shredding the paper heart into confetti-sized bits, “Dawn knows perfectly well I hate Valentines Day. It's a commercial holiday, guilting you into spending money on things you somehow survive without for the rest of the year. Why would it be any more romantic than any other day? How do chocolate hearts prove your devotion? And who likes this stuff?”

“Not me!” Bog said fervently, reaching up to carefully untape the end of paper chain and check the finish on the molding. At least they hadn't used thumb tacks.

“Well, no, of course not. You're a halfway sane person. It's why we hang out.”

“Why, thank you. You're halfway sane yourself.”

“So together we equal one sane person and one crazy person. We should trade off who gets to be crazy. It'll be like good cop, bad cop.”

“Calm cop, rabid cop.” Bog crumpled the paper chain and tossed it into a corner.

The heart finally reduced to ragged bits, Marianne stretched up to grab another, jumping when the decoration proved to be out of reach. Bog swept a hand across the ceiling and grinned as a small shower of paper hearts and streamers rained down on Marianne. “Hey!” She said, tearing free from the decorations, “Watch it! I hate this stuff!”

“I hate it more!” Bog replied, unsticking the balloons from the ceiling. He threw one at Marianne and it bounced off her head. She batted it back at him, “No, don't let it touch me! I might be infected by the seasonal romance and want to watch The Notebook or something!”

“Heaven preserve us!”

“I'll cry and everything.” Marianne clasped her hands together, a red streamer still draped across one shoulder, “Their's is the truest love! The deepest love! The love for the ages!”

“I want a divorce.” Bog batted a couple more balloons at her.

“Oh, Bog, how cruel! And on Valentines Day! Okay, actually, I'm not even sure what the plot of The Notebook is. I saw the poster and ran in the opposite direction.” She pulled out her phone and did a quick image search. She held up the result for Bog to see.

Bog made indistinct noises. “Why are they . . . Are they kissing in the rain?”

“Yup.”

“And that's terribly romantic, is it?”

“Apparently.”

“Is pneumonia also romantic?'

“Jury is still out on that one.”

“Well, my tolerance for romance just reached its limits.” Bog plucked the streamer off Marianne's shoulder and laid it across her head. She threw a glittery heart at his face. “Shall we purge this bilge and start planning revenge on the responsible parties? Or we could gaze into each other's eyes for awhile.”

He ducked, laughing, when she threw a rose at him. He grabbed the fallen flower, ripped all its petals off, and flung them back at her. In a matter of minutes the roses were reduced to their individual components and the petals scattered across the room, trampled in among the crumpled paper chains and wrinkled glitter hearts.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Marianne finally called a truce, wheezing with laughter, “I still haven't had dinner, I'm going to fall over!” They looked at the food laid out, considering it with heavy suspicion. “Do you think it's poisoned? Or that if we eat it they'll view it as a wedding announcement?”

“If we eat it in front of the TV that probably nullifies it. If we eat it while watching a bloody action film then we're in the clear.”

“Okay, but,” Marianne picked up a steak knife and scraped the “lofe” off the cake. After a moment's consideration she used the knife to pop all the nearby balloons. “Dibs on the cake.”

“You can't dibs a while cake, tough girl!”

“Watch me.” She picked up the platter and grabbed a fork. She took a bite, “Mm. Chocolate.”

“You can't eat a whole cake, you tiny cupboard ninja.”

“Wanna bet?”

“You would, wouldn't you? Just to show me.”

“I've done it before, actually.”

“I don't doubt it, but . . . why?”

“Awhile after I dumped Roland he saw me getting a second slice of cake at a party and said a pretty little thing like me should watch my figure.” Marianne took another bite of cake, “So I went back to the buffet, grabbed a whole cake and ate it in front of him. I was sick for two days and it was totally worth it for the look on his face.”

“Well, I don't care about your weight, I just want cake.” He grabbed for the platter. Marianne held it above her head and retreated across the room.

“Go pick out a movie and maybe I'll save you a slice.”

“Your highness is too kind.”

A few minutes later Marianne was sitting on the couch with her cake and Bog handed her a DVD case. “Have you ever seen Danger Man?”

“No. What's it—hey!”

The moment her hands were occupied with the DVD Bog had snatched the cake and was gleefully holding it out of reach. He produced his own fork and began eating from the other end of the cake. “Black and white 60s spy show.” Bog moved the cake further away from Marianne's reach, “Patrick McGoohan as John Drake, secret agent.”

“Sounds like James Bond. Yuck. Now gimme!” Marianne stood on the arm of the couch and was reaching over Bog's shoulder at the cake. “And wasn't McGoohan the guy in that super weird show, The Prisoner? Where he always got caught by those giant bubble gum bubbles at the end of the episode?”

“Yeah, but this is much better. Spying, gadgets, betrayal, and—best of all—McGoohan had a No Kissing clause in his contract.”

“Whaaaat? A super-spy who isn't making out with the mysterious foreign femme fatales all the time? No Bond Girls? No romance?”

“Nope!” Marianne had given up trying to reach the cake and was resting her chin on Bog's shoulder, looking grimly at the unreachable prize. “Look at you,” Bog teased, “With your wee arms.”

“Long enough to strangle you.” Marianne wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.

“Adorable.” Bog cooed.

“That's it, you're going down!” Marianne threw her weight to one side and Bog tumbled over sideways, narrowly missing crashing into the coffee table. There was a confused period of time where they struggled to figure out whose limbs were whose and whether or not that was a fork embedded in their leg.

“Okay,” Marianne said, coughing because Bog's shoulder had stabbed her in the stomach, “I might have overdone that.”

“You think?”

“But is the cake okay?”

Bog held up the platter, the cake miraculously intact. “The cake is okay.”

“Truce?”

“Yes, please.”

Chapter Text

(fanart by shadowsinthefade http://shadowsinthefade.tumblr.com/post/122576242847/abutterflyobsession-heres-the-art-school-au-i)

“Bog.” Marianne tried to make her voice stern, but a smile contradicted her efforts.

“Hm?” Bog replied vaguely. One large hand was wound through her hair and his prickly face scratched against hers as he dropped a kiss on her cheek.

“You don’t have to kiss me every time I’m on a ladder.”

“I disagree.”

“I still have to finish hanging these paintings. You’re supposed to be helping me.”

 Marianne had been standing halfway up the ladder with picture hooks in hand when Bog had walked by. She had turned to see what he wanted and been caught in a kiss, which was surprising and pleasant even though he was supposed to be finding the level so they could check that the paintings were hanging straight. It was nice not to have to crane her head back to kiss him, which was probably what motivated Bog to be so uncharacteristically bold whenever she was standing on a ladder or box.

“I am helping.” He insisted, lovingly brushing her hair back behind her ear with his thumb.

“This is not helping, this is distracting.” But Marianne didn’t really insist. Bog was not someone who let himself be completely happy often and right now she could feel his contented smile and see his eyes, nearly closed, as he enjoyed being close to her. Fingers in her hair, soft warm skin next to his scratchy, unshaven face.

“This is revenge.” He said, in a soft, low voice that didn’t sound particularly vengeful, “For stealing my hoodie.”

“I was cold.” The hoodie hung huge and loose on her, the sleeves constantly slipping down and covering her hands. The hand she had on Bog’s shoulder was completely enveloped in gray fabric.

“I was wearing it.” He said, not at all angry, kissing the corner of her unrepentant smile.

“Okay, I also wanted to admire your tattoos.”

“You would have me freeze for the sake of appreciating art?”

“We must suffer for our art.”

“You have paint on your face again.”

“Most likely.”

Their lips finally met and there was a lengthy silence.

“But how do you get paint on your face every time?” Bog asked when they broke away. “How do you not notice it? You put on makeup, you use a mirror.”

“People who need a shave and a haircut shouldn’t criticize.” Marianne transferred the picture hooks to one hand so she could reach up and ruffle Bog’s overgrown hair. “You’re supposed to be the tidy one.”

“Organized, not tidy.”

“In that case, go organize your tool box and find the level.”

“In a minute …”

But it was, in fact, several more minutes before they managed to get back to work.

Chapter Text

It had been a very long day for Bog. There had been an eight hour work day, starting at five AM to beat the rising temperatures, then a later afternoon class and critique with Aura Plum. That had been excruciating, considering how many self portraits there were to discuss. All the painters babbled on about “accepting flaws” and “opening up to vulnerability” but the minute you implied their work was less than perfect their delicate feelings got hurt and Plum was glaring daggers at him.

Now, very tired, Bog was sitting on the studio's ratty couch, supposedly working on sketches of his next project. In fact, he had only just doodled some cross-hatching in one corner of his sketchbook and abandoned a half-hearted attempt at a scribble of the back of Marianne's head in the other corner.

Marianne was sitting on the floor with her own sketchbook, scribbling away with great industry, reference photographs of plant cells, the undersides of mushroom caps, and microscope slides of butterfly wings spread out around her. Her flowing studies spread across the pages with an easy rapidity. A box of colored pencils had been spilled across the floor and once in awhile Marianne picked one out of the pile and added some lines of color to emphasize a particular area of her sketched-out patterns.

Bog closed his sketchbook and laid down on the couch, his legs bent so his feet didn't hang over. For awhile he watched over Marianne's shoulder, wondering if she would be done soon. He was too tired to think of anything to talk about. Or argue about. But h would have liked her to come and just sit with him on the couch for awhile.

“Are you busy?” Bog ventured.

“Yup.” Marianne said without looking around.

“Really busy?”

“Yup. I'm inspired. Don't bother me.”

“Could you be inspired while sitting on the couch?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. You're a distraction.” She did turn around now and poked him in the arm with the eraser end of her pencil. “You're such a chronic snuggler. You can put on a spiked leather jacket and look like rock and roll personified and yet you turned out to be a cuddler. Really, Bog, you disappoint me.”

“And you wound me, Mari.”

“As I intended to. Now leave me alone.”

“So nothing will induce you to come up here?”

“Not a thing.” Marianne flipped a page in her sketchbook and began to scribble butterfly wings.

“Threats? Entreaties? Prayers?”

“All useless.”

Quiet fell and Marianne filled up half a page during the conversational gap.

Then, very quietly and deliberately, Bog said:

“The floor is lava.”

Marianne's pencil paused. “What was that?”

“You heard me, tough girl. The floor is lava.”

“And you think that will get me to come sit with you? Think again--”

“You've got half a minute grace period. Then you lose. Burned to a crisp in the lava floor.”

“I would not lose. I'm not even playing!”

“Fifteen seconds.” Bog sang.

Marianne wasted ten more seconds in deliberation before she clambered up onto the couch, sketchbook and pencil in hand. She “accidentally” set her knee on Bog's stomach, interrupting his triumphant chuckling with a breathless “Ooof!” before she wiggled around to try and fit herself into the narrow space he left on the couch when he was laying down. In the end she sat on his lap, his long legs crossed underneath her, arms around her, and his head resting on her shoulder. As she had known it would be, it was completely inconvenient to sketch with her dozing boyfriend hanging off of her.

“I hate you.” She told him, jabbing her elbow at his ribs, trying to push him back enough so that her arm had the proper range of motion for drawing.

“I know.” He said happily, chuckling into her hair, “I can't believe that worked.”

“Shut up.”

“But I guess you can't stand to lose anything.”

“Shut up or I'll dump you into the lava.”

Chapter Text

Oh don’t you dare look back
Just keep your eyes on me.
I said you’re holding back,
She said shut up and dance with me!
This woman is my destiny
She said oh oh oh
Shut up and dance with me!

Bog opened the front door and a small swirl of dry snow scattered into the entryway. Slipping on his jacket in preparation to run the trash cans down to the driveway, he was tugging the collar straight when he looked up and found Marianne standing on the steps, the unexpected sight of her making his heart leap up into his throat.

Her cheeks and nose were bright red with the cold, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, and shoulders bunched up in an effort to compact herself and contain some warmth. Bog had only the tiniest space in his frazzled mind to question what Marianne was doing lurking outside his door in the cold, or why she looked panic-stricken for a split-second when she looked around at him.

The expression vanished even as he noticed it, replaced with a huge grin that was somehow even more unnerving.

“Hey, what’s up?” Bog asked, his voice only slightly strained.

“Could you step down here?”

“Okaaaay?”

His agreement was more of a question, rendered uncertain by the over-bright smile on Marianne’s face. It was a look he knew. Usually she wore it right before punching someone. Or, at least, right before doing something outrageous. Stepping slowly down off the porch he wracked his brain, trying to think of what they had been up to in their latest prank war, but as far as he could recall Marianne was in the lead after dyeing all his handkerchiefs pink and she had no scores to settle with him.

Boots planted on the walkway he looked at Marianne as she stood on the porch. He was still taller than her, but at least at a more comfortable level for conversation as far as his neck was concerned. “Like this?” He asked, watching her warily.

“Great. Perfect.” She nodded, standing with the toes of her boots over the edge of the first step.

“Good. Now what–?”

She grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him forward, her mouth smashing over his. Bog tried to gasp, instinctively leaning away from her, but she just pulled him closer and kissed him again, silencing his attempt at a protest.

For a moment Bog thought he’d turned into one of those saps who fantasize. While he had oftenthought about kissing Marianne he hadn’t dared actually visualize it. But the smell of perfume coming off Marianne was entirely real, as was the small but insistent hand putting pressure on the nape of his neck, and the chilled skin of her face on his. The logical part of his brain turned off and the rest of him relaxed and leaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to cradle her face as his eyes closed.

It did not seem real. Mere seconds before he had been thinking, beneath the surface layer of day-to-day thoughts, of Marianne and how he was going to have to say goodbye to her in only a few months. Thinking, hopelessly, that maybe there was some way she might stay after graduation, but never really believing it.

Now they were standing on the steps, front door hanging open behind her, both focused on kissing each other as thoroughly as possible. As soon as she was sure he was cooperating, Marianne released his crumpled lapel, sliding her arm under his jacket and around his waist, pulling close against him, only the tips of her boots remaining on the edge of the porch as she tried to gain a little more height. Her hand pressed flat over his back, thumb moving idly back and forth.

The kissing abruptly ended when Bog jerked upright and gave a startled bark of laughter. “You’re tickling me!”

Marianne’s face went from startled, to offended, to disbelief all within the span of two seconds. “I’m barely touching you!” She protested, not letting go, but leaning so far forward the only thing keeping her from tumbling over was that she had her arms wrapped around Bog. Experimentally, she wiggled her fingers over the back of Bog’s shirt.

He nearly bent double, gasping with laughter, grabbing Marianne to keep her from overbalancing, clouds of their breath fogging the air around them.

“Are you kidding me!”

“Stop it!”

“You’re weak!” She began tickling him in earnest

“Do not, do not!” Bog protested, but in vain, quickly cut off in an abrupt burst of laughter. He shoved her back, but she was holding on too tight and the moment he pulled his arms back she shoved forward, still tickling him. Their push and shove finally knocked Marianne off her precarious perch and suddenly all her weight was hanging off Bog and he stumbled under it, foot catching the edge of the walkway and slipping on the snow.

They went down in an explosion of white powder.

Half-buried in the powdery snow, Bog wheezed, trying to regain some of the air that had been knocked out of him. The attempt was hampered by the fact that Marianne was laying on top of him, constricting his breathing. She was also giggling like mad.

“You dork!” She said.

“You assassin! Tiny pocket ninja!”

“Gangling Highlander! Did you have to knock us into the snow?”

“You knocked me into the snow, tough girl! I was just minding my business, going about my day and you—you—ah …”

He had slipped easily into the banter, but then remembered what had happened not a minute before and found his tongue had gone heavy and uncooperative, words catching in his throat. Marianne wiggled off him, sitting in the snow next to him while he lay sprawled, staring at the clear gray sky and trying to sort out his whirling thoughts.

“Well,” She coughed, brushing snow off her front and tucking her hair back under her knit cap. “It has always been on my bucket list to find out exactly how ticklish you are.”

“Oh, aye, you can check that one off, then.” Bog swept his hand through the snow, throwing up a sheet of white powder over Marianne. She laughed and scrambled away to get enough space to start kicking up snow at him. An all out fight began in earnest once Bog scrambled to his feet and he was glad of it. He knew what to do with a fight. He didn’t know what to do with the kiss still burning on his lips.

When Griselda’s voice cut through their laughter they were both plastered head-to-toe in white and Bog couldn’t feel his hands.

“First I thought when it got quiet you two might be up to something romantic.” Griselda said, shivering in the door they had left hanging open, wrapping a lumpy green sweater around herself, “Then I thought someone might be getting murdered on my front lawn, with all the commotion.”

Bog’s face was red and smarting from the cold, but nevertheless he could feel a blush creeping up the back of his neck and making its way to deepen the color in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Actually,” Marianne clapped snow off her gloves, “I came to see if Bog wants to go on a date with me.”

There was a ringing silence while both members of the King family openly gapped at Marianne, waiting for the punchline that never came.

“Do you mean a date date or–?” Griselda asked.

“What exactly–?” Bog said at the same time.

Marianne put her hands on Bog’s shoulders and looked him square in the eyes. “I am asking you, Alan Boggart King, if you will go on a date with me, Marianne Rachel Summers. A date being defined as beyond friendship, as in engaging in some mutually agreed upon social activity in public. Together. A a couple.”

Bog stared at her, mouth still hanging open. He realized it was open and shut it with a snap, swallowing hard before asking in a small, weak voice, “Why?”

“Because I love you, you ridiculous tree.” Marianne maintained eye contact, her face frozen, eyes huge, while she waited for him to respond. The declaration seemed to have put her beyond embarrassment and into straight up terror. If it had felt at all like it was really happening Bog would have likely shared this feeling. As it was he could only stare back and wonder if the screaming he heard was all inside his own head.

“Tell her you love her, too!” Griselda prompted from the porch.

“Mother!” Bog snapped, but he didn’t look away from Marianne.

“Tell her!”

“Would you get back in the ruddy house!”

“Okay, okay!” Griselda threw up her hands in defeat and withdrew, “If that’ll get you to kiss her, I’ll do it.” The door shut and Bog didn’t look, but the curtain’s probably parted a crack so his mother could continue her surveillance. But this was the best it was likely to get, he suspected.

“Why?” He asked Marianne, hands hanging at his sides and tall frame bent, curving forward, irresistibly pulled toward Marianne. She fiddled with the collar of his jacket, breaking eye contact so she could inspect the top button, which was coming loose. “Why?” He asked again, something breaking inside him and letting words flow, “I’m a mess, I’m ugly, I’m unpleasant, all I do is mope and snarl—I can’t even think right sometimes because my brain is so cloudy and you're—oh, you’re like like colors, like sunlight through stained-glass and … why would you ever put up with me?”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Marianne had looked back up to stare at him in that unblinking way, her fingers wrapped around the button of his jacket, threatening to snap the final thread that held it on. She realized this, glancing at her hand and abruptly letting go of the button and reaching to tuck her hair back again before answering.

“Because you say things like that without even trying. Oh, quit asking why and let’s just go do something wild, crazy, and fun and kiss until we can’t remember our own names and leave everything else until tomorrow. Please, just say yes.” She tugged on his collar, a pleading note in her voice. She took a breath and smirked, “As for ugly: how dare you say that to me with those stupid cheekbones and those idiotically gorgeous blue eyes. You need a shave, but I’m resigned to that as a natural state of being for you–”

Bog, for once, allowed himself to give into the impulse, and before Marianne’s last word was dead in the air he had leaned down and captured her mouth with his. This time he got to properly enjoy the kiss, no hesitation, no interruption—save the distant crow of triumph of Griselda from behind the curtains. Marianne’s lips tasted like berries and she smelled of some tropical fruit that was at odds with the winter setting, and when he cautiously traced his fingers across her cheek and down her neck his numb hands could dimly feel her warmth and the rapid thrum of her pulse.

His hands were hesitant, but Marianne’s weren’t. She let them travel to his neck and pull him to lean a little further over, an unexpected insistence in her movements, something a little too quick, a little too urgent. They parted to take a breath and on his first exhale Bog said, “I love you, too.” And he let himself smile.

“Heh,” Marianne laughed, a little dazed, “Good. It’d have been awkward if you didn’t. Now we’re going out and doing something wildly stupid.”

Bog glanced back at the house and saw his mother giving up a thumbs up through the window. He sighed heavily.

“Look at it this way,” Marianne said, pulling him toward the car, “You don’t have to get her anything for Christmas now. Come on. The sooner we leave the sooner we’re out of sight of your mother and the sooner I can elaborate on how pretty you are.”

“Marianne!”

“I can’t feel my hands, just get in the car, you bashful pine tree.”

They got to the end of the drive when Bog asked Marianne to park for a minute. From here they couldn’t be seen from the house.

“What?” She asked. Bog was looking for it this time so he spotted the brief unease in her face before she raised an eyebrow and gave an exaggerated flirtatious look, batting her dark lashes. “Need another kiss?” She teased.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” She unbuckled her seatbelt so she could more easily reach over and grab the collar of his jacket and position him for another kiss.

“That.” Bog said, putting his hands on her shoulders to keep her at arm’s length. “Distracting me by … by changing the subject.”

“You’re the one that keeps changing the subject. You’re so red, I could probably fry an egg on your face.”

“Stop.” Bog insisted, “Something’s wrong. What brought this all on? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.” Marianne fidgeted with the sleeve of Bog’s coat, eyes focused on the frayed edge. She had taken off her wet gloves and Bog could see her fingers were red and swollen from the cold. A strong impulse to take her hands in his came over him, but he refused to give into it.

“You just woke up this morning and decided to … to …” Now Bog looked away, though he left his hands on Marianne’s shoulders.

“To ambush you on your own porch?” Marianne supplied brightly. Bog ducked his head further in a futile effort to hide his face, his hands falling back into his lap. Marianne took his chin and tipped his head back up, letting her chilled fingers continue on to rest against his rough cheek. The touch took away his breath and the ability to speak or even turn his eyes away from hers. “Is it really so hard for you to believe that I just … kind of … love you beyond all reason? Because it really went right past just liking at some point when I wasn’t looking.”

Bog tore his eyes away, letting his gaze fall on the butterfly ornament dangling from Marianne’s rear-view mirror. The little glass decoration swung gently from the vibrations of the engine and caught the light in flashing twinkles. He addressed his next remarks to the butterfly rather than look back at Marianne. “I never expected . . . why would you ever … who would ever … love me?”

Marianne smashed his face between her hands, the abruptness of the movement reassuringly in-character, and made Bog look at her again. “You’re stupid. You’re so stupid. I say I love you and you go all sadly Scottish at me. Are you calling me a liar, Bog King? Because if you are calling me a liar I will fight you!” For emphasis she shook his face a little. “You’ve always liked me for me and been there when I needed you—no strings attached—and you’ve got eyes that drive me wild. Is that enough or should I go on?”

“Please don’t.” Bog said, feeling sure he’d combust out of pure embarrassment of she said another word to praise him. He badly wanted to contradict her but he had a feeling she didn’t plan to let the subject drop until she’d secured his agreement.

“Then kiss me, turn off your phone, and buckle up, we’re going to paint the town red. No interruptions. For one day just be happy, okay? Everything else can wait until tomorrow, so just promise me to turn off your phone and not worry about work, school, the show, Roland, your ridiculous self-doubt, or how many people Griselda is calling right now to spread the word of our impending marriage. Just one day, okay?”

Taking her by the wrists, Bog freed his face from Marianne’s squashing and nodded. He retained one of her hands, taking it between both of his to try and put some warmth back into it. He was far too ready to fall into a plan that involved not thinking about all the fears and doubts that preyed on his mind, and he knew he should insist that Marianne tell him what was wrong—because something was wrong, he was sure—but he could not resist the idea of just letting everything float away. Just spend one day with Marianne, immersed in her energy and color, far away from the gray clouds that dominated his life. It didn’t even matter what they did or where they went. Just that they were together, now freed from the constraints of unspoken feelings.

“Okay,” He let the word roll out with a great release of breath, letting his questions and anxiety roll away with it. He tightened his hands around hers. “Okay. I—I’d like that.”

Marianne did not follow through on her demand that he kiss her, instead simply freeing her hand and pulling him into a hug. She was still shaking a little. Probably from the cold.  The cup holder and armrests got in the way, but it was still the best hug Bog could remember ever getting. The tension and restraint was gone and he wasn’t afraid to put his arms around her. In spite of the chill that still clung to him he felt a warmth spread through his chest and the deep unease that had rested on his heart uncoil and slip away.

She was there, in his arms, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

It was midnight when Bog checked his phone again, remembering he was supposed to confirm his work schedule for the next week and ought to shoot his supervisor a text. So when Marianne ducked into the bathroom he sat down on a bench and pulled out his phone, glad of a moment to catch his breath. The day had been long and short at the same time and he’d been hard-pressed to keep up with Marianne’s breakneck pace.

“Bucket list,” Marianne had said, dragging him to a fancy restaurant, answering his objection of being under-dressed with, “I know! I want to see how many judgmental stares we get. I want to use the wrong fork, outrage the waiter, and then leave an fantastically huge tip at the end.”

“The finishing touch is a date who looks like he got shredded by a garbage disposal unit.”

“That is an incidental bonus, you gorgeously scruffy man.” She patted his unshaven cheek, “Usually they don’t let anyone in who shows signs of having done actual physical work in their lifetime. The maitre d’ checks for callouses as you come in. But my dad’s name unlocks a lot of doors and they know me here so they won’t dare turn us away, even if it just about kills them to allow denim and plaid into their hallowed dinning area.”

“You’re doing this just to torment your sister, aren’t you? Tell her we went on a fancy date and then completely smash her dreams of candlelight and violins.”

“Consider it a multi-layered performance art piece designed to get reactions from multiple audiences. Also, I really love the steak here.”

She paused at the door, noticing his reluctance “Are you okay with that?”

“Oh, well, if it’s performance art …”

“Exactly! And don’t you dare look at the prices, my dad’s credit card is paying. You are my trophy boyfriend, all you have to do is sit around and look decorative.”

“Like a houseplant.”

“Bog, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He looked down at the hand holding his and a smile spread across his face. It didn’t matter to him where they were, so long as Marianne was there with him. “Which one of us is in charge of taking sneaky pictures of their scandalized faces?”

He was rewarded with an answering smile from Marianne. “Joint effort, I think.”

Marianne had dragged him and he had willingly been dragged. First lunch, then to the art galleries in town where they spent hours wandering among the artwork, hand in hand. Bog suspected that this was so Marianne could more easily pull him along when she saw something interesting. And they talked about everything and nothing until Marianne saw the ice-skating rink next to the mall and pulled him in there. They spent their time there accumulating bruises from falling on the ice.

“No, I’ll just stay down here.” Bog said after falling yet again, “Saves the trouble of getting me an ice-pack.” But he got up again just in time to save Marianne from skating right into the rink wall. He grabbed her in time to prevent impact, but they both ended up sitting down hard on the ice.

“My parents would never let me skate when I was a kid.” Marianne remarked breathlessly, sitting on the ice next to Bog.

“Really? I wonder why.” Bog said with all the sarcasm his aching body could muster, “Probably afraid you’d end up cutting somebody’s throat with the blades. If not your own, somehow.”

“Shut up!” She smacked his chest but he just laughed and kissed her.

He kept doing that. Kissing her. Reaching over and brushing her hair back. Running a finger along the side of her face. Because he could. And he knew he had the stupidest look on his face when he did it—Marianne kept pointing it out—but he couldn’t help it. What else could he do when he’d been given everything he’d ever wanted and never thought to have?

Marianne was not guiltless as far as affection went, either. She kept ambushing him with sudden kisses, the lightning quick press of her lips on his before she took his hand and was dragging him off again. She hadn’t slowed down the whole night and was showing no signs of flagging when they finally tried to track down where they’d left the car in the mall parking lot. Despite his promise he slipped up more than once during the day and asked her, “What’s wrong?” She only seemed to be picking up speed as the day went along, drowning out the quiet moments with laughter, conversation, or another kiss. Marianne never answered with anything more than a flash of anger and a few sharp words about keeping his promise.

They wandered the mall after hours, trying to remember which door they had come in by so they could more easily locate the car, passing the closed and barred stores, avoiding security by hiding behind benches and potted plants, trying not to giggle and give themselves away. Now Bog was standing guard outside the restroom, checking his messages.

There was a startling number of missed calls and voicemails. A quick look at the log told him they were from Dawn and his mother. He dialed his voicemail and began to listen, thinking he was about to be subjected to teasing messages about the date.

“Now that I think about it,” Marianne said, coming out of the restroom, “I think we came in through the hardware place so we could look at the power tools. I remember because you were drooling over those table saws–”

Marianne looked at the phone in Bog’s hand, saw that it’s screen was lit up.

Saw the look on his face.

“You promised.” She said, but there was more pain than anger in her voice.

“Dawn’s been trying to call you. Us. Left a lot of messages.” Bog said, hearing his own voice as if it were a long way away, faint and unreal, “She says you’re supposed to be on a plane right now. She says …”

He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say it out loud.

Let him have misheard, he must have misheard.

“You promised.” She repeated, “You promised no more questions until tomorrow!”

A strange calm had settled over him. Like the moment a wave curves up, cresting overhead, shadow falling and blocking the light, but had yet to fall. He could feel something building, but for the moment he just said, “It’s midnight, tough girl. It’s tomorrow.”

“That’s splitting hairs!” Anger flashed over her face, hot and bright, “You know what I mean by tomorrow! Sunrise, daybreak, whenever I wake up after going to sleep! You promised!” She threw her hands into the air, a tense and contained movement, unlike her usual loose gesturing. Bog raised his hands in a hushing motion, reminding her of the security guard making his rounds somewhere nearby, and because he hated to see her so upset. Marianne glanced in the direction he indicated, hitching her shoulders up and pulling in on herself. “It’s not fair.” Her voice was thick with the effort of keeping it low, “I just wanted … I just wanted one day … one day before it all goes to hell.”

She glanced at Bog but he said nothing and she was forced to fill the silence herself. She put her mask of lightheartedness back on and Bog realized she had been wearing it all day.

“Can’t you stop being gloomy for five minutes? C'mon!” She grabbed his hand, like she had been doing all day, and tried to haul him toward the nearest exit, “I’ll bet there’s a late movie going on somewhere and if it’s a romantic comedy we can throw popcorn at the screen until they kick us out! Or find a diner and make ourselves sick on cheap pancakes, or freeze ourselves by eating ice-cream in this weather, or–”

Bog allowed himself to be dragged as far as the deserted parking lot. Street lamps made chilly islands of light in the churned up snow and a handful of white-frosted cars were scattered around. Otherwise, the area was eerily empty of life. He wrenched his hand free and Marianne continued on a few steps before her momentum died and she stood still, facing away from him.

“What’s wrong?”

He forced the question out in a puff of white frosted breath, trying to ignore how cold his hand felt without hers in it, but refusing to let her dictate the pace any longer. He looked at her back, wishing she would turn around and tell him he was worrying over nothing. Please, just turn around …

“It was just a checkup.” Marianne tipped her head back and stared up at the lights. “The doctor found something weird in my blood and they had me in for some other tests and today … I—I didn’t think it would be anything. The doctor knows who my dad is and he always goes overboard to make sure Dawn and I get star treatment and I thought … I thought it wouldn’t be anything but today–”

Marianne stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, trying to hold herself together, keep herself from flying into a million pieces. Bog couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, just waiting for her to explain, to tell him what was going on. Waiting for her to tell him that whatever was wrong, that it was fixable, that he could do something.

Instead, she started to crack.

She stamped her boot on the icy pavement and let out a rough, frustrated noise that was edged with tears, digging her fingers into her hair, movements savagely intense and frightening because of it. Everything she had been keeping bottled up all day was bursting free, all the more painful for being repressed for so long.

And she still wouldn’t look at Bog.

“I’m supposed to be brave! I’m supposed to be tough! I’m the brave one, the tough one, the one who isn’t afraid of anything! All I know how to do is fight and I thought I was fighting this, I thought I was giving it one in the eye by being happy in spite of it—me and my idiotic bucket list! Bucket list! If I say that one more time please slug me in the jaw!”

“Mari …”

She sank into a crouch, covering her head with her arms, like she was trying to make herself a smaller target, or simply disappear. “Why did I run away? Because all day long I’ve been trying to choke it all down, but that wasn’t fighting, that wasn’t winning, that was just lying to myself. Why did I run away?”

“Mari …” He said again, still frozen in place, wanting to comfort her but unable to move. The only thing that he could manage was to ask the same tired question that had been hovering on the tip of his tongue all day, “Mari, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“There’s a tumor.” She whispered, a shiver running through her while she crouched there on the ground, “They want me to have surgery as soon as possible to remove it, see if it’s … if it’s spread or not. They wanted to put me on a plane this afternoon. And of course they called my dad. I don’t get doctor/patient confidentiality because they know who my dad is and want to keep him happy. Make sure he knows they’re taking care of his assets.”

Anger colored her words now. Bog understood that. Anger was easier than fear.

“Of course they didn’t tell me the specifics, but I took pictures of my charts when they weren’t looking and sent them to Adeline. She didn’t know it was for me, I told her it was for someone at school making a film, asked her to just tell me what she thought it said, if it was accurate … she told me … it looks really bad.”

How bad? Bog wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Yeah.” Marianne inhaled a shaky breath, “I was supposed to fly out today to the specialist.”

“But you didn’t. Why?”

Bog was still calm. No, not calm. Numb. But he could feel everything building up, ready to explode, to crash down, to destroy him inside and out. The moment he dared let himself think at all deeply it would all end. He wanted to follow Marianne’s example and get mad too. Get mad at her for hiding this, shout at her for tricking him. He clasped his hands together and waited for her response.

“Bucket list.” The laugh that accompanied her words was painful to hear. It was the last shred of her happiness put on to mask her fear. “Number one item on the list was to tell you how I felt. Now please punch me, because I said it again. Idiot! I’m such an idiot!”

She jerked herself up so quickly she stumbled, numb feet slipping on the ice. Finally, finally, Bog found himself able to move, to cross the small distance between them and grab her by the arms before she could fall over. And finally she looked at him, face blotched from the cold and eyes red from tears she wouldn’t let fall. She was breathing too fast and she was starting to shake from it.

I’m scared, Bog.” Her words dropped to a shamed whisper, but she met his eyes, “You make me feel safe. I don’t know how bad it is but I thought … I thought if I had just one more day to spend, I’d want to spend it with you. Now please just yell at me for being such a pathetic coward. Please.”

For years Bog had built up a hard shell of armor against life and all the pain of living, he pulled himself out of its flow and remained in a hazy gray state that wasn’t happiness but it wasn’t exactly sadness either. And things hurt, but they only ached dully and lacked the sharp pain of the past. Then Marianne had come along, like sunlight cutting through the clouds and guiding him back into the flow of time. The pain was worth it, he had thought, if it meant being near her. In the end he would let her go, because she belonged in the sunlight and he had not thought he could follow her there.

Tonight she had pulled him along into her world and he realized that the gray of his world was not simply being suppressed, but transformed. Her world and his, they were mingling, and he had hoped that maybe he wouldn’t have to let her go. But he still didn’t hold on too tight.

Now, when his defenses were at their lowest, a blow was struck and he could not shield himself against it. The foundations of his armor were cracked, the blow striking the exact angle to devastate him completely. For a moment he was wrenched back in time to his father sitting across the table from him, his laughing face gone chillingly somber as he broke the news and the bottom of Bog’s world fell out from under him. It was happening again. He couldn’t do that again, he couldn’t lose somebody like that again.

Bog remembered all too vividly the progression of his father’s disease. He remembered how determined they all were at the start. They would spare no effort, hoard no energy, give their all to the battle. But the war went on and on and victory became dimmer in their minds. And Bog realized that it didn’t matter, sometimes, how hard you fought, how strong you were, how brave you were—some battles could not be won. And he turned coward and wished for the end, wished for his father’s suffering to end the only way it could, wished for the endless waiting to end. He couldn’t do it again, he just couldn’t face watching someone he loved wither and die, fighting in vain against an invincible foe.

Something of this must have showed on his face because Marianne’s tight expression crumpled into guilt and pain, the panic breaking through in full force. “Oh, God,” Marianne covered her face with her hands, “I shouldn’t have done this to you. I’m so sorry, Bog, I shouldn’t have—I was only thinking of myself. I never meant …”

He had been prepared to let her go.

Been careful not to hold on too tight.

He grabbed her, pressing her face into his jacket before she could see the tears falling down his face, before she could blame herself for the pain that cut into him.

“You’re not a coward. Never a coward, tough girl.”

The words, meant to comfort, only seemed to break something in both of them, and Marianne began to cry, harsh and gasping sobs that shook her body.

Marianne was so small. How did he always forget how small she was. She was nearly lost in his arms when he hugged her, pulling her close, holding her tight. She was like sunlight, filling up the room and weighing nothing at all. The light off a blade’s edge. He could not capture her, could not hold her tight enough to keep her from slipping away. He was crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, which was just as well, otherwise he might have voiced his selfish thoughts.

Because he was the coward, desperately afraid to lose what he just found.

Please, d on’t leave me alone.

Chapter Text

Discovery

It was just another day in the household of Bog and Marianne King.

Bog was brushing his teeth at the sink, hazily thinking about the long day before him. Marianne was rummaging in a cabinet for a new box of dental floss, wondering if she had time to work on her paintings before running over to visit Sunny and Dawn. Marianne’s nephew and nieces—an adorable batch of triplets—were nearly a year old now and were getting into everything. Dawn welcomed Marianne and Bog’s help, her sister and brother-in-law cheerfully herding the small children and giving their exhausted parents a break.

Marianne was just making a mental note to bring the finger paints—and tarps—on the visit today when her rummaging dislodged a small pile of toiletries, knocking them onto the floor. Grumbling under her breath she shoved the items back inside, but paused when she picked up a white and pink box, a nagging thought surfacing in the back of her mind.

“Hey, Bog?” Marianne said, still crouched on the floor by her husband’s feet.

“Mmhm?” He said through toothpaste foam and the fatigue of staying up late finalizing some blueprints.

“Okay, don’t jump to conclusions or anything, but I haven’t had a period in maybe three months now.”

Bog responded to this information by choking on his toothbrush. He bent over the sink, coughing, while Marianne stood up, saying, “You jumped! I said don’t jump to conclusions!”

“I didn’t jump!” More coughing, “I sort of slipped.”

“Well reverse that train of thought right now!”

“I can’t! The train of thought crashed! It derailed, it can’t go anywhere else! Are you–”

“I DON’T KNOW MAYBE”

“But if you are–”

“I SAID I DON’T KNOW”

“But–”

“What if I AM?” She started pacing up and down in the bathroom, “But maybe it’s just stress. I’ve been really busy lately. But what if it ISN’T?” She was gesturing wildly and end up smacking Bog right in the chest, knocking all the breath out of him.

“Marianne!” He wheezed, grabbing her by the shoulders and looking her dead in the eye, “Just use one of the pregnancy testing kits my mother keeps slipping into our bathroom when she visits.”

“Yes. Right. Good idea.”

It was positive.

Telling Mom

They stared at the phone.

“You call.”

“You call. She’s your mother.”

“She’s your mother-in-law. And you’re the one who’s pregnant. You tell her.”

“We are in this together, you ridiculous pinecone. This is a collaborative effort, got it?”

“Yes. I’ll dial the number and you talk.”

“I’m pretty sure the judge won’t convict a pregnant woman of homicide. I’m willing to risk that. Are you?”

“Fine, but you have to tell your sister.”

“Deal. Seeing as how she’s occupied with triplets I think she’s the safer option right now.”

“Still, remember to cover your ears. Her squeals could break glass, even over the phone.”

And they finally called Griselda and she just said:

“FINALLY!”

Within the hour she showed up at their house, lugging all the baby stuff she had been saving against this day. And the grandma nightmare began.

Morning Sickness

Bog came home to find Marianne curled up in bed. She gave a feeble groan when he turned on the lights and came over to sit with her on the bed.

“I hate you.” She hissed.

“You hate me?”

“Yes, it’s required of me now that I’m pregnant. I’m irrational with hormones and not responsible for my actions. I’m going to despise the very sight of you because it’s your fault I’m in this condition.”

“Only my fault, huh?”

“I don’t make the rules or write this script. And apparently I’m supposed to shout obscenities at you when I go into labor. So prep for that.”

“Mmhm. How’s the nausea?

“I’ve been vomiting up things I ate in high school, I’ve been so thorough.”

“Do you hate me too much to accept the vanilla ice-cream I bought you? Mom swears it stops the nausea.”

“Produce the carton and a spoon and I’ll reconsider my stance.”

“What stance? You can’t even stand up.”

“I don’t have to take this laying down.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I’ll break your face as soon as my stomach stops flip-flopping.”

“I look forward to it.” He drops a kiss on her forehead and goes to get the ice-cream.

“Take me seriously, darn it!”

“Yes, dear.”

“I’m fire! I’m death! I’m–I’m going to need that basin to throw up in.”

Collaborative Work No. 1

Waking from a vague dream about insects scuttling over his face and shoulders with damp little feet Bog cracked an eye open to find Marianne carefully brushing watercolors onto his face. He was laying on his side, arms crossed tightly over his chest and shoulders humped up so she currently only had access to the left side of his face and his neck. He could feel the cold dampness of the paint decorating his neck and where the collar of his shirt had soaked up drops of excess moisture. At least the pillow would be spared. He hadn’t gotten far after coming home and collapsing side-ways on the bed, managing to take off his shoes before swiftly falling into a restless doze. He was curled tightly against the chill of the room, having been aware of it but not awake enough to do anything about it but shiver. The chill had been reduced, he noticed, because it seemed Marianne had tucked the comforter around him before beginning her latest artistic enterprise.

“Why?” Bog asked, straining his eyes to see Marianne where she was sitting behind his back, trying not to move and disturb her work. No doubt she had the cup of paint water sitting precariously on the bed and if he shifted it would spill a new muddy purple-brown stain onto the comforter. Marianne really needed to stop using their bedsheets for paint tarps.

“Hormones.” Marianne said promptly, leaning over to kiss the side of his head.

“Hormones is not a get out of jail free card and it loses its potency when you overuse it. It doesn’t excuse you from stealing my power tools or washing the whites with the colors. Now stop vandalizing my face, woman.” He shifted his head, trying to escape the next brush stroke. Marianne merely pulled on his ear until he was at a more convenient angle for her to work with.

“Stop questioning my hormones. The kid has been punching my internal organs all day and someone has to pay. That’s the deal, right? The pact sworn since the beginning of mankind and women agreed to do all the hard work. I put up with being a beached whale for months straight and you cater to my every whim, rational or irrational.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Denied. Now tilt your head so I can finish up under your eye. Anyway, you’re right, this isn’t hormones. This is revenge.” Marianne explained.

“For what in particular?” Bog asked, squinting an eye when the paintbrush came too near his line of sight. He didn’t really want to move. The longer he stayed as he was the longer he could pretend that the haze around his thoughts was just from fatigue.

“For being asleep when I needed some serious loving. When I signed up for this enterprise I do not remember seeing a clause about having to put up with a nocturnal partner-in-crime.”

“Oh, so sorry, did you have an appointment? Unless you have an appointment, booked at least two days in advance, you can only get cuddles and a sympathetic ear between the hours of 9 to 4, Monday through Friday. Seeing as it is currently past six that means I am clocked out for the day.”

The wet paint brush was stuck into his ear.

Bog clapped his hand to his ear and sat up with a yelp and, as he had feared, a cup of paint water toppled off the bed when his movements dislodged the comforter, an arch of grayish water splattering the carpet. “Marianne!”

“You wouldn’t kill a pregnant woman!” Marianne said, scooting toward the foot of the bed, waving her paint brush in defense of herself.

“You keep pushing and we’ll find out!” Bog extracted himself from the comforter and lunged at her, grabbed her wrist and liberating the paint brush from her grasp, tossing it onto the floor near the emptying cup.

“Think of the kid! No!” Marianne protested when he put an arm around her and pulled her back toward him. Bog grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and scrubbed is over his face, pigment rubbing off onto the pale purple fabric. “My shirt! My painting!”

“My face!”

“I was just enhancing your natural beauty!”

“I’m returning the favor.” Bog wrapped his arms around her and rubbed the painted side of his face against her cheek. Marianne squirmed, but Bog was too strong and she was currently too big to be very maneuverable.

“You need a shave!” She complained, “This is going past exfoliating straight on to removing the top two layers of skin!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, are you uncomfortable?” He slid his hand under her arm, tickling her ribs. Marianne shrieked with startled laughter, trying to gather herself enough to hit him, but he redoubled his attack and all she could do was flail, giggling for him to stop. “I’d hate to make youuncomfortable. It’s not like you’d ever do something like that to me.”

“I’m going to end you!” She was laying on her back now, kicking her legs and trying to swat Bog’s hands away. He knelt beside her on the bed, laughing almost as hard as she was as he mercilessly tickled her sides.

“What are you going to do, love? Sit on me?” He taunted.

“You had better watch your back, you miserable—oh!”

“Marianne?” Bog stopped his tickling when she grabbed her stomach and gave a pained gasp. She was just into her seventh month now and the baby had been very active, much to Marianne’s discomfort. It was also getting close enough that every time Marianne gave a gasp like that Bog’s heart jumped, fearing that the baby might be coming too early. He moved to sit on the side of the bed, feet carefully placed to avoid the paint on the floor. He eased an arm between Marianne and the bed and helped her sit up again.

She waved away his fluttering hands, “Don’t get yourself into knots. She’s just kicking. Really, really hard. Parasitic freeloader,” Marianne said fondly to her stomach, wincing again at another kick, “Apparently she has her mother’s natural grace and her daddy’s big feet. Ow. Baby, don’t hurt me no more.”

Breathing out a heartfelt sigh of relief, Bog shoved the rest of the painting paraphernalia aside before picking Marianne up and sitting her sideways on his lap, his arm supporting her back. He kissed her forehead. “Don’t do that to me.” He murmured to Marianne’s stomach, running a gentle hand over it. A kick answered him, making him start and Marianne laugh even as she shifted uncomfortably.

“She’s determined not to give me a moment’s peace today.” Marianne said, fitting her head between Bog’s chin and shoulder. He shifted his head a little so his chin held her in place.

The burst of energy, the moment of near-hysterical hilarity, had burst and faded when Marianne gasped in pain, chilly gray reality reasserting itself. The paint on his face and neck itched, reminding him how the conversation had begun and giving him a reason to keep talking. He was afraid if he sat still and quiet all the things he didn’t want to think about would rush in to fill the empty spaces caused by silence. “So why am I in trouble for sleeping on the job?”

“I’ve had the worst day. Ever. All I wanted was someone to gripe at and you were passed out cold.” She grumbled into his neck, “My back aches. My feet ache. Everything aches, I walk like a penguin, and your mother has been telling me horror stories about her pregnancy with you. Were you really a month late being born?”

Bog groaned and rolled his eyes, “Two weeks. She increases the length every time she tells that story. Someday she’ll be talking about how she carried me for an entire year, just wait.”

“I don’t doubt it. Anyway, it seems you weighed fifteen pounds and she was in labor for a week. Or something like that.”

“Something like that.” Bog snorted.

“And the implication being that I’ll suffer a similarly gruesome fate and give birth to some sort of mutant Scottish pinecone for all my troubles.”

“Oh, nobody told you about the mutant pinecone in our family tree? Pops up every other generation. Skipped me, so …”

“I may be as big as a tugboat and prone to capsizing but so help me I will kill you, Bog. Ow!” Marianne curled around her stomach, drawing up her legs, her back going tense. “She definitely has your feet. And she’s wearing steel-toed boots, I’m positive.”

“Leave your mother be,” Bog said sternly.

“All day I’ve been telling her, ‘wait until your father comes home, young lady’. She thought I was bluffing.”

“She should learn early that her mother’s threats are never idle.” Bog squeezed Marianne’s shoulders, “Not even two months left, tough girl.”

“She’s going to gnaw her way out before then.”

Bog squeezed tighter, trying to comfort Marianne and himself, because while sometimes all of this felt too real, other times it felt like it was a dream that would vanish when he woke up. He was holding his beautiful wife and she was carrying their child. Good things didn’t happen to him. This couldn’t be real.

He began to sing, because when words failed him he found music to be a good substitute. And he knew Marianne liked him to sing.

“Hush my love now don’t you cry
Everything will be all right
Close your eyes and drift in dream
Rest in peaceful sleep

“I think she likes that.” Marianne sighed, “She’s stopped squirming.”

Oh my love… in my arms tight
Every day you give me life
As I drift off to your world
Rest in peaceful sleep

Marianne relaxed, leaning against Bog and closing her eyes, letting his voice wash over her and carry away the worries of the day. Doctor’s appointments, Griselda’s horror stories, all her fears about being a mother, all drifted away as Bog’s voice rose and fell, his fingers resting on the top of her round stomach, thumb rubbing gently back and forth over the spot the baby had kicked last.

If there’s one thing I hope I showed you,
Hope I showed you

If there’s one thing I hope I showed you,
Hope I showed you

Bog trailed off.

“I think she’s gone to sleep. Such a daddy’s girl.” Marianne’s contented sigh brushed over his neck, her head on his shoulder. He looked down at her and his heart squeezed because she looked so happy. Eyes softly closed, purple lips curved up in a sleepy smile, hair falling over her eyes, one hand covering his as it rested on her stomach, the fingers of the other curling into the collar of his shirt.

Such poses made Bog’s breath catch and his heart stutter. She looked so completely happy in these moments. Her aching back, bruised stomach, tired feet, all forgotten for a few seconds as she turned inward, smiling at her daughter. She was happy. Unconditionally happy. And she was beautiful in that happiness. So beautiful he couldn’t believe he had anything to do with her, with the child growing inside her. There was no way someone so … so perfect would have anything to do with him.

His fingers tangled in her hair and he rested his forehead on hers, a brief smile crossing his face at the feeling of dried paint on his skin. Smudges of paint adorned her skin from their tussling, a smear of purple over her nose and a hint of green beneath her eye. He could only imagine what a mess he looked.

“Mm.” Marianne said when he began to sing again, “I love it when you go all Scottish.”

“My ancestors are probably rolling in their graves over my pronunciation.” He replied when he finished the verse.

“It sounds sad. What’re the lyrics in English?”

Bog obliged her and sang it again, the last verse sung softer than the rest,

Good night, my love,
in your warm fragrant bed,
may you have a peaceful sleep, and then
awaken in health and happiness.
I’m here in the cold trench,
in my ears the racket of death,
with no expectation of getting out victorious,
the sea takes so long to swim.

His voice trailed away into silence.

“That is a seriously down thing to sing to our baby.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re a real stick in the mud, you know that?”

“Yeah …”

When her attempts at playful argument failed to elicit a significant response Marianne cracked her eyes up and found her husband’s blue eyes averted, for all he held her so closely. The long fingers threaded in her hair moved anxiously and Marianne could see lines of worry creasing his face. Marianne tilted her head, careful to avoid getting poked in the eye by Bog’s nose—again—and kissed him, hoping to banish at least some of his troubles, reminding him she was here and she loved him.

For a man who had been married nearly three years and had a baby on the way, Marianne mused, he still reacted in the most adorably awkward way sometimes. Right now he suddenly forgot what to do with his hands and Marianne had to grab the front of his shirt to keep from falling back when he automatically released her to hold up his hands, making a muffled noise of surprise against her mouth. But she refused to break off the kiss, persisting until he let himself relax against her, melting into her touch and giving a contented noise from the back of his throat. He put his arms back around her, pulling her as close as her round stomach would permit, lines of worry easing away and eyes slipping closed.

“Oh!” They both said, breaking abruptly apart when the baby gave a vicious kick. With Marianne pressed up against him Bog felt the kick quite clearly. “Demanding wee thing.” Bog laughed, a little breathless, bending over to drop a kiss on Marianne’s stomach, “Wants to be the center of attention.”

Marianne noticed how quickly his smile faded and the lines of worry reappeared on his face when he stopped talking, his eyes drifting off to start at empty air in a worried way.

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you, Bog?”

“No. Because your snoring rivals chainsaws revving and aluminum cans being compressed in a trash compactor.”

“Hey! I thought we were tactfully ignoring the whole snoring thing.”

“Trust me, ignoring it isn’t even a remote possibility.”

“It’s all the fault of this mutant pinecone spawn that’s feeding on my life essence. And we got you earplugs.”

“The seismic activity cannot be blocked out with earplugs.”

“It’s so tragic that our daughter is going to grow up fatherless.” Marianne glowered.

“That’s assuming she doesn’t grow up completely orphaned.” Bog readjusted his feet on the carpet, making sure not to step in the soggy patches of carpet. “Don’t think I’m not going to yell at you about those stains later.

“You’re the only one who cares. I think they add character.”

“Then stop painting my face. I have too much character as it is.”

“I love you stupid face. I love all its character. I love you.” Bog ducked his head and smiled, but the smile was not quite what Marianne would have wished for. It was one of his shy smiles, that still happened now and again when he was overwhelmed and uncertain. Usually it was endearing. Now it was a little worrying.

“Bad day?” She asked, her voice a little softer.

He bent his head further. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? For having a bad day? Didn’t I just unload on you like five minutes ago?” Marianne scrambled off his lap and awkwardly sat herself on the bed so she could put her hands on his shoulders and look at his face straight on.

“Sorry for … being me, I suppose.” He wove his fingers together and stared at the scars that were etched throughout his skin and at the edges of his tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. The tattoos covered up some of the bigger scars on his arms, but he couldn’t conceal every gray line and puckered seam. “For bothering you with my bad days.”

Two small hands, tipped with chipped red nails, smacked on either side of Bog’s face, squishing his features together, making his eyes pop open, “You are cheesing off the pregnant lady, buddy, and she does not appreciate it. I’m pretty sure I agreed to love all of you, put up with you for better and worse. Good days and bad days. This is your weekly reminder of that. Now tell me what’s on your mind.” She squished his face one more time and then let him go. She sat back, taking one of his hands and clasping it between her own, rubbing warmth into his cold fingers.

He considered the tiny hands, their delicate bones, marveling all over again to see them wrapped around his rough, ugly hand. “It doesn’t feel real. Sometimes. Or that it can’t last. You,” He trailed a finger along the curve of her face, feeling almost as if he shouldn’t be doing it at all. He laid his fingertips on her stomach, “Your baby.”

“She’s not mine.” Marianne exploded, shaking off his hands, “She’s ours. This whole … project … is a collaboration, okay? This is our daughter. We made her—stop blushing, you ridiculous stick insect—and we have been taking care of her. You’ve been a one-man army when it comes to organizing. You’ve arranged practically all my appointments, organized my vitamins, made sure I don’t eat hamburgers for lunch every day, handmade every piece of furniture in the baby’s room, and put up with all my stupid mood swings like some sort of saint! This is so very, very real, Bog. And I’m scared nearly out of my mind! The only thing that keeps me sane is you, tough guy, so don’t you ever think you’re not part of this.”

Bog was holding his hands out in in an attempt at a calming gesture, frozen as she ranted, her golden-brown eyes glittering with tears and her voice starting to crack on the last few words. When she finally stopped talking he asked, “Are you done?”

“Think so.” She sniffed, rubbing the back of her hand under her nose. “Stupid hormones.”

Bog scooped her up into a hug, burying his face in her neck, taking in the soft warmth of her, the faint smell of flowers still left on her skin from her perfume. He just held her, as tight and close as he could. “Thank you.” His hands were splayed over her back, nearly encompassing its entire width. And suddenly the strangeness, the invisible barrier that had been settled around him in a haze, it was gone, and he was part of everything, of this. This family. He knew the gray haze wasn’t gone, but it had lifted for now and he could breathe again.

Marianne felt a warm tear drip onto her neck.

“Don’t you dare.” She was hugging him back, her hands gathering up handfuls of his shirt and clenching into fists, trying to hold him just a little closer. “Don’t you dare cry, Bog, because I am on a hair-trigger as it is.”

“Sorry,” Bog said, more tears streaming to follow the first, “Hormones, you know.”

Marianne gave a sharp hiccup of laughter and burst into tears.

“Collaboration?” Bog asked, voice teasing through his tears, rubbing her back comfortingly.

“Yes.” Marianne sniffled, “Collaborative Effort No. 1.”

“. . . that’s unbearably cute.”

“But entirely accurate.”

“I’m going to have it put on a tiny t-shirt.”

Collaborative Effort No. 1 took that moment to renew her apparent efforts to punch her way free. Marianne groaned, sagging tiredly in Bog’s arms. “Do something about your child.”

“Why do I have a feeling I’ll be the one getting up in the middle of night to change diapers?”

Bog fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose before laying down on the bed face-to-face with Marianne, pulling the comforter over them and putting his arms around her. They were both grimy with tears and watercolors but neither of them cared. Closing her eyes Marianne pressed her ear to Bog’s chest so she could hear his heartbeat, letting the slowing pace of it calm her, reassure her that he was okay, that all was right with the world.

“Go to sleep, Callie,” Bog said to the baby, “Your mother needs her rest.”

“We’re not calling her Callie.”

“I am. You sleep, too.”

“Sing.” Marianne ordered.

Soft and low, his voice still cracking, he sang the first song that drifted into his mind, one, oddly enough, from Dawn’s music selection. But it reminded him of songs he heard at family gatherings so many years ago. Maybe after the baby was born they could all go and see the family in the Highlands together.

Little Baby Hear My Voice
I’m Beside You O Maiden Fair
Our Young Lady Grow And See
Your Land Your Own Faithful Land
Sun And Moon Guide Us
To The Hour Of Our Glory And Honour
Little Baby Our Young Lady
Noble Maiden Fair
Little Baby Hear My Voice
I’m Beside You O Maiden Fair
Our Young Lady Grow And See
Your Land Your Own Faithful Land
Sun And Moon Guide Us
To The Hour Of Our Glory And Honour
Little Baby Our Young Lady
Noble Maiden Fair

Chapter Text

Chilly winter light streamed in through the windows, providing dim illumination even if no warmth. There was no snow on the ground outside yet, just a scattering of white, like powdered sugar blown over the landscape to frost the overgrown yellow lawn. Inside the house was quiet, the hum of the heater predominant, and even the wild splashes of paint that decorated the walls were muted.

Bog peeked out from the kitchen to check on the girls. Ten minutes ago the house had been filled with the sound of feet thundering from room to room, giggling laughter punctuated with wild shrieks. Now toys lay discarded on the floor, a trail of them leading from one side of the house, terminating in the living room. Bog scooted a yellow truck up against the wall with his foot, making sure it wasn’t where anyone could step on it. Apparently the dump truck had been filled with dolls and had sown its contents over the floor at intervals as it barreled down the hallway.

Gathering up the dolls, Bog dumped them near the toy castle under the window, kicking a plastic cannon ball into the moat. He winced at the dull plastic rattle as it settled in the hollow, glancing at the couch. But the three sleepers were undisturbed by the noise, piled together on the couch in a tangle of blankets. Marianne lay on her side, arms wrapped around three-year-old Callie King, her face resting gently on her daughter’s fluffy head. Callie, dressed in a yellow and black striped onesie, was curled up, snug and content in her mother’s arms, mouth gaping open in her chubby face.

Cuddled under a blanket, the two of them would have been prime material for the sappiest Christmas card of all time. All that was necessary to complete the picture would have been a Christmas tree in the corner and a fire flickering in the background. But the composition lacked those ingredients and instead had a particular element that changed the whole dynamic of the picture. For the better, Bog thought.

Nine-year-old Rosalinda Hernandez was flopped on her back, sprawled over Marianne like she had been tossed on top of the pile at the last moment. Like a puppy that had romped until exhaustion had dropped them where they stood. Unruly black curls lay in a tangle over Marianne’s shoulders and mixed with her straight brown hair. Rosalinda—or Ladybug, they mostly called her—had her head thrown back and mouth hanging open, one arm thrown across her chest, the other dangling down over Marianne’s side. Bundled as she was in an oversized hoodie she probably wasn’t cold, but Bog carefully worked a blanket out from under Marianne’s legs and laid it over the pile of them.

“Hovering.” Marianne murmured, her eyes still closed and a smile tugging at her mouth. She had heard Bog fuss his way from the kitchen, amused by the way he muttered under his breath and didn’t realize it.

“Am not.” Bog whispered back, brushing the hair away from Marianne’s face so he could lean over and kiss her forehead.

“Worrying.” She insisted, shifting under the blankets and petting Callie’s spiky head. Callie was showing distinct signs of having hair as spiky as her father’s, even if the color was more like Marianne’s. Her nose, however, was decidedly inherited from Bog, there could be no doubt.

“Am not.” Bog insisted, pinching his wife’s nose.

“Mmf!” Marianne freed a hand to bat at him until he released his hold, finally opening her eyes. “I can smell the stress baking from here.” She inhaled, savoring the scent of cinnamon in the air. “It’s disgusting, like a Hallmark movie or something. You should try blacksmithing or something if you must have a stress activity.”

“I do not stress bake. We just needed to use up those eggs and we had the ingredients for cookies.” Bog sat down in the small gap between Marianne’s head and the arm of the couch, sliding his leg under her pillow and draping his arm over the back of the couch. The spot was cozy, a portable heater set up opposite and glowing a comforting orange, a relief from the winter gray that filled the room.

Marianne reached over and patted his knee. “I worry too, Bog.”

“You shouldn’t be worrying.” Bog threaded his fingers through her hair, stroking gentle lines across her scalp.

“You’re going to be like this with every baby, aren’t you?” Marianne complained even as she closed her eyes again, enjoying the fingers trailing through her hair. “Want to wrap me up in cotton and lock me up for nine months.”

“You’ve got five more months of this sentence to serve.” Bog agreed.

Marianne’s expanding waistline was hidden beneath blankets and little girls, but at four months she was distinctly showing. More than she thought fair, she had complained to Bog. “Stupid lanky pinecone genes.” Callie had been nearly nine pounds at birth and it was likely her younger brother would do his best to equal or beat that record.

Rosalinda, head still tipped back, began to snore softly, a trickle of drool trailing from the corner of her mouth. “She gets that from you.” Bog remarked with a soft snort of laughter.

“I only snore when I’m pregnant!” Marianne protested in a hushed voice, “Blame the brats!”

Bog reached over and carefully lifted the limp and heavy form of his eldest daughter up off of Marianne and into his lap. Not quite waking, she propped her chin on his shoulder and let her arms hang down his back, giving a comfortable sigh. Marianne watched the look of unabashed delight light up Bog’s sharp face. It hadn’t been so long since Rosalinda had been openly frightened of Bog, hiding behind furniture and glaring at at foster father, waiting for him to get mad and punish her.

“She’s ours now,” Marianne said, sitting up to cradle Callie in her arms and lean on Bog’s shoulder. “They’re not going to take her away.”

“What if they did.” Bog said, voice pitched low to keep from waking the girls, his accent all the stronger for it. His hold on Ladybug was gentle, but possessive, as if afraid someone might snatch her right out of his arms. “If we betrayed her like that she might never trust anyone again.”

They had had this conversation so many times that they didn’t even need to voice anything but the main points.

Rosalinda had not trusted either Bog or Marianne to start, almost a year ago when she suddenly found herself thrust into their household. She had stood there in the entryway, a worn teddy bear held up in front of herself like a shield, a bulging grocery bag of clothing clutched in a grip that turned her knuckles white. Beautiful brown eyes, dark in contrast to Marianne’s bright amber, peered at them suspiciously from beneath a ragged fringe of dark curls.

“It’s a bit of an emergency,” Roderick had said when he called, “They finally decided her current situation was dangerous—took them long enough, in my opinion—and removed her today. But we’re full up at the moment and have no place to put her. I would, but we’ve got three staying with us right now and no more space unless we get rid of Gwill.”

“Rod.” A faint background voice had protested.

“I’m just saying we should discuss all the options, Addy. He’s big enough to fend for himself, it’s time to release him into the wild. Okay, okay, joking aside, we need someone to look after Rosa for a few weeks, poor angry little thing. Naturally I thought of you, the two angriest people I know.”

Bog had just finished overseeing construction of a shopping mall and was taking some time off to spend at home and work on his sculptures, and Marianne had no art shows for the next month or two, so they had reluctantly agreed. Neither of them were sure about fostering, and Callie was just at an age to get into everything so they had their hands full already.

All doubts vanished when they saw Rosalinda for the first time, with her plastic bag of clothing and well-used stuffed bear. Anger wrapped around her small plump form, suppressing the fear that kept peeking out through her dark eyes. Old scars and new bruising were patterned around those eyes. Her left hand, the one around her bear, was wrapped in white bandaging. Roderick had told them that Rosa’s hand had been slammed in a door, badly enough that the pinky and ring finger had been removed, the other fingers barely salvaged. Her mother was in the hospital and her father arrested, charged with abuse, leaving Rosalinda alone in the world.

Marianne had wanted to enfolded the little girl in a hug and let her know she understood. That she understood what it was like to be so angry and so alone while people told you what to do, where to go, and what to be. That she was safe now and they would never let anyone hurt her like that again. However, Marianne did not hug her. Every stiff line of the little girl in her baggy red hoodie warned Bog and Marianne not to touch her, and they understood that too.

Rosalinda had warmed up to Marianne first.

Suspicious of how kindly she was being treated, Rosa had apparently decided to test her boundaries by painting the walls of the living room with supplies stolen from Marianne’s studio. The little girl had stood her ground when Marianne walked into the scene with Callie in tow, looking defiantly at her, waiting for the facade of kindness to crack at last. Marianne started at the sight of the paint, taking in the chaotic pattern of Rosalinda’s fear splattered across the walls. Black specks of paint dotted Rosalinda’s faded red hoodie and scowling face.

“Okay,” Marianne putting her hands on her hips and smiling, an idea forming in her mind, “But don’t stop there.”

Rosalinda’s eyes darted around, trying to puzzle out this unexpected attitude.

“You’ve missed a whole bunch of places.” Marianne continued, “And broke off your pattern.”

“I have?” Rosalinda asked uncertainly, twisting her hands around her paintbrush. The bandages and splints were off her hand now, showing how two of her fingers ended at the first joint. She’d been back and forth to the doctor’s to check the progress of her hand, and to the dentist to remove two broken baby teeth. Now when she smiled her rare smile she was as gap-toothed as Callie.

“Yup. And you’ve mixed secondary colors together. Don’t do that, it’ll get all muddy. We want bright colors, don’t we? Don’t we, Callie? Here, Rosa, help Callie find a paintbrush.”

Bog had come home to the sound of the three girls giggling over their mural and Rosalinda had not run away from him and hidden behind a sturdy piece of furniture, as was her custom, but took refuge behind Marianne. He had tried not to feel hurt, but remarked, “Is the ladybug the artist?” Kneeling down to scoop up a paint-covered Callie and also to make himself smaller and less intimidating in Rosalinda’s eyes. From behind Marianne Rosalinda glanced down at the black spots on her red hoodie. She gave an uncertain smile, covering it with her hand then hiding her face.

Bog had fretted and worried about Rosalinda never warming up to him. When they both realized that they were going to keep her for good his anxiety only increased. “He’s as bad as he was before Callie was born.” Marianne told Dawn when she came over with the triplets for a play date, “He’s wondering if he’s a bad father because Ladybug doesn’t like him. He’s such an idiot.” She said lovingly, watching Callie and the triplets playing on the lawn, tackling Bog by the long legs and bringing him crashing down.

After weeks of alternating between crying, yelling, and sullen silences, Rosalinda had begun to settle down in the King household, tentatively accepting that the situation appeared to be at least somewhat permanent and finally unpacking her plastic grocery bag that served as luggage. That nobody was going to hurt her or yell at her. She had become less wary around Bog, but not comfortable. She had her own painting shirt and bandanna that she cheerfully scrambled into when Marianne opened the door to the studio and ushered her girls in. She even had overalls to match Marianne and Callie’s, with a big orange flower sewn on the front of hers. But she still watched Bog like he was a time-bomb waiting to go off.

One day, when Marianne was out and the girls down for a nap, Bog heard a crash from his workshop. He dashed to the door connecting the house to the studio area, flinging it open, heart twisting when it proved to have been unlocked. He was sure he hadn’t left it unlocked. He always kept it locked so the girls couldn’t wander in and hurt themselves on the machinery or tools. Rosalinda was standing by a worktable, a pile of tools from the table fallen at her feet, a few smaller screws still rattling across the floor. She looked up at Bog’s entrance, eyes wide with undisguised fear, several red drops falling from her hand and dotting her shoes.

“I didn't—!” She said, but Bog had dropped to his knees in front of her and taken her hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

“No, no, shush,” Bog dropped a kiss on top of her curly head without thinking, doing what he did with Callie, “Let me see. I bet it hurts, let me see.” With no other options available, Rosalinda uncurled her fingers and let him see the nasty gashes across her palm and fingers. Bog carried her to the bathroom and sat her on the counter so he could clean and bandage her hand, muttering to himself under his breath, accent too thick for Rosalind to make out what he was saying.

“Are you mad?”

“At myself, ladybug, for not locking that door.” He wanted to kick himself. His initial burst of panic over, he was silently lecturing himself for his carelessness. It was fortunate that there were only a few gashes and not a more serious injury. “What were you looking for? We told you to stay out of there for a reason: it’s dangerous. Don’t go in there again, okay?”

Rosalinda nodded.

“Good.” He set her down on the floor, “Come downstairs and help me make cinnamon rolls.” He turned around, but stopped when a small hand tugged at the belt loop on the back of his jeans and pulled him up short. “What?” He looked back at Rosalinda, “Don’t you like cinnamon rolls?”

“I love them.” She said in such grave tones that Bog bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

“Then what seems to be the problem?” Bog replied with equal gravity.  He lowered himself to his knees so he didn’t loom over her. Callie enjoyed hanging off her hugely tall father, running up and hugging his legs and waving at his far away face. Rosalinda shied away from Bog, flinching when he stood too near, his size making her fearful. So he tried to get on her level as often as practically possible. He would have liked to dealt with the problem by picking her up, but she rarely tolerated that even from Marianne.

Rosalinda dug her hand into the front pocket of her overalls, eventually producing a paintbrush, a cookie, some legos, and finally a key. The key to the workshop. She held it out in front of herself like a sword, face dark with defensive anger. “I took it.” 

She had stolen the key, testing the boundaries of her world, trying to see what would force them to the end of their kindness. And Bog had not yelled at her for being in the workshop. So now she held out the key, one last test, to see if she could really trust him.

Bog lifted his hand.

Rosalinda cringed, shoulders hunched and face turned away.

Bog held out his hand, palm up. “May I have that back, please?”

Brown eyes, dark and liquid, framed by thick black lashes, darted back to Bog’s face. A quick inspection told her that the long, prickly face was not set in angry lines, the blue eyes unshadowed by any frown. The huge hand wiggled its long fingers at her.

“I do need to back.” He said.

The key was dropped, lightning quick, into his hand.

“Thank you.” He said, tapping her nose. “And you will not do it again?”

A storm of black curls danced through the air when Rosalinda shook her head emphatically.

“Good. Ladybug … ladybug, it’s up to you, but may I hug you?”

After some deliberation, her face screwed up in a thoughtful scowl, Rosalinda nodded regally.

Trying very hard not to snatch the wee thing and crush her in a hug, Bog held open his arms and let her come to him. She hugged him quickly, barely giving a squeeze before pulling back away and crossing her arms in front of herself as if to pretend she had not shown such weakness to the enemy. Bog had a feeling, though, that he was no longer really the enemy.

Some time later Rosalinda, her hair and face dusted with flour, sat down at the kitchen table in front of a cinnamon roll she was sure was bigger than her head and drizzled generously with lemon icing. Callie, up from her nap, was set in the high chair next to Rosalinda and given her own cinnamon roll to tear apart, most of it going on the floor.

“What have I said about feeding them sugar?” Marianne said, sweeping in the door and throwing bags on the counter. “Because I remember saying something about unspeakable horrors inflicted on your person if you fed the kids sugar right before I get home.”

“It keeps you on your toes, tough girl.” Bog said, filling her hands with a cinnamon roll on a plate before she could wrap them around his throat. “And my mother is watching them tonight, remember? She can relive her glory days as a super-parent, sugared up kids and all.”

“Acceptable.” Marianne condescended. She kissed Callie on the cheek and patted Rosalinda’s curls before turning her attention to the plate, forking a large piece of hot cinnamon roll into her mouth and continuing. “That’s right, we’re going to play paintball with the what’s-their-names—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Bog admonished.

“The ones with the installation pieces that look like giant pieces of knitting–”

Bog placed a light kiss on Marianne’s mouth, silencing her. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Callie and Rosalinda giggled.

Marianne swallowed her bite of cinnamon roll, glaring daggers at Bog and kissing him back to put him in his place. “No use asking if you’ve behaved today, I suppose. Did the girls manage to keep you in line? Did he behave girls?”

“No!” Callie said, because that had recently become her favorite word. She had found that people laughed when she said it so she used it at every opportunity, regardless of the questions put to her. Seeing that her parents had done their duty and laughed she resumed her attempts to un-spiral her cinnamon roll and lay its length out straight.

“So, ladybug,” Marianne said, nudging a chair out so she could sit down, “Did he behave himself?”

“He was okay.” Rosalinda said loftily, watching Bog to see when he would mention her transgressions to Marianne. She jabbed her fork into the cinnamon roll’s center, knowing the blow would fall soon. Marianne was nice, Marianne wouldn’t yell or be mad, but she would know that Rosalinda had been bad and she’d look sad and disappointed, which was bad enough.

“We all behaved.” Bog said, throwing a dishcloth at Marianne, “We cooked, you wash. Ladybug put on the icing.” He smiled at Rosalinda and handed her a paper towel to clean the icing off her face. She looked in disbelief at Bog.

Marianne bumped her elbow into Rosalinda’s, “Good job. Lot’s of icing, just like I like it. You’ve got good taste. Bog likes them with vanilla icing. Boring. He just likes the sugar.”

Rosalinda burst into tears.

“You’re too nice!” She sobbed accusingly at Bog, her face a sticky mess of icing and tears. Marianne picked her up and looked at Bog. He held up his hands in bewilderment.

Now hugs and goodnight kisses had become standard. Dawn had giggled at their happy announcements about this progress. “She’s totally your daughter. Took me forever to train you two up to hugs and kisses.” And to demonstrate her point she smacked a kiss on Bog’s cheek, making him grumble and push her away. “I still can’t believe the shirts, though, you two are such dorks.”

Callie was wearing a shirt that said: “Collaborative Work No. 1″ and Ladybug was wearing one that said, “Collaborative Work No. 2: Found Art”. On the back of both shirts was lettering that read, “By Marianne and Bog King”.

“Such dorks.” Dawn said again, “But that’s is the absolute sweetest thing.”

Now Bog got up early to help tame Rosalinda’s mass of uncooperative curls because Marianne pulled too hard with the brush. Drove Rosalinda to school, watching her run off to class with her backpack—patterned like the shell of a ladybug—bouncing up and down as she went. Marianne would pick her up and the two of them would burst through the door in a flash of color and noise, running here and there to get dinner ready, put away groceries, or pull Bog and Callie into a wrestling match.

Now Rosalinda Hernandez was intrinsic to their lives. She was their daughter. She was Callie’s big sister. The two of them would play together for hours, spiky brown tuft of hair and cloud of dark curls bobbing up and down as they conferred about laying siege to their castle or inviting the little plastic knights for tea. Both of them bundled up in boots and jackets to go with Bog to his bog—a namesake that never ceased to amuse them—and chase dragonflies.

Now Bog, who had once frighted Rosalinda, was roused from his bed on weekends by a small heavy shape crashing into his midsection. “Get up, get up!” She ordered while he was still coughing, Marianne laughing at them until Callie dropped on top of her, echoing her big sister, “G'up, g'up!”

“We’re going to paint!”

“Sometime after sunrise, maybe.” Bog would groan, “Wee monsters.” And the girls would laugh at how funny he sounded when he was sleepy.

“Daddy!” Callie bounced, “Mommy!”

“Yeah, c'mon, dad!” Rosalinda agreed, “You said we’d build a tree! A metal tree!”

“Get on, get, wait downstairs, hellions!” Bog growled, tickling Callie until she dropped off the bed and trotted out into the hall, Ladybug at her heels. Bog flopped back into bed and groaned when he saw the clock didn’t even say seven yet. Marianne laid her head on his chest and patted him comfortingly. “Which one of us thought it was a good idea to have kids?” He asked her.

“A shared lapse in judgment, I think. Did you notice what Ladybug called you?”

“What?”

“She called you dad.”

“What.”

Now Bog and Marianne were Mom and Dad in every sense that mattered. The only thing that lacked was the proper papers with the proper words printed on them that would make Rosalinda Hernandez officially Rosalinda King.

Now Bog and Marianne sat on the couch with their two daughters and a son yet to be.

Now they waited to hear if Mrs. Hernandez would finally sign away her rights to a child she had failed to protect, or if she would fight to tear her away from her new family. They had no word from her until they had begun adoption proceedings and suddenly the woman was there, demanding her rights even though she had been deemed unfit, suspected of participating in her husband’s abuse of their daughter. But it had never been proved and if the courts thought Rosalinda was better off with her birth mother …

Now Bog tried not to cling too tightly to the little girl who he didn’t want to live without, fearing that he might have to, trying not to believe that the happiness he had gained was as fragile and transient as it felt. Marianne whispering into his ear that she was their daughter, their ladybug, and no one would take her away. He knew Marianne wanted them to reassure her, so he put an arm around his wife and told her that Rosalinda was here to stay, forever and always. In the warm orange glow of the heater they told each other fairy tales with happy endings, bright sparks of hope to keep out the harsh chill of reality.

They fed the sparks, built them up into roaring fires of hope until the papers were signed, stamped, filed, and otherwise confirmed, and their daughter finally wore their name, a sign that no one could take her away. Just in time for Aidan Boggart King—soon to be called Danny and already weighing 8 and a half pounds—to be handed to his sister, Rosalinda King, to hold for the first time.

Chapter Text

“Morning, loser!”

Marianne called to Bog as she pounded up the stairs into the studio, slinging her backpack on the table and heading over to pull her paint box out of the cupboard. As she passed where Bog was sitting, a small plastic bag came flying at his head.

“Morning.” Bog replied, catching the bag out of the air. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast.”

He looked inside. “Is this a–?”

He slid a cookie out of the bag, confirming that it was indeed a cookie, heart shaped and pink, which he really wasn’t sure what to make of, considering their mutual stance on sappy declarations of love.

“Uh, it’s …” His confusion cleared up when he read the words that had been piped neatly in white icing on top of the pink frosted cookie.

“I Tolerate You.”

“Aw, Marianne.” Bog put a hand to his heart and pretended to look touched. “You’ve gone sentimental.”

“I have to admit,” Marianne said, coming over and sitting on the edge of Bog’s work table, “Sometimes I look at you and don’t want to throw up.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

“You say the sweetest things, Boggart King. Could turn a girl’s head with that kind of talk. So, what’d you get me?”

Bog looked thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment then carefully broke the cookie in half and solemnly handed it to her.

Marianne accepted it with a dramatic gasp, “It’s everything I ever wanted and more! This is a romantic gesture for the ages!”

Without further ceremony, Marianne crammed the whole thing in her mouth.

“Such elegance.” Bog sighed dreamily, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin in his hand.

“Shut up.” Marianne said indistinctly. “Now we’ve fulfilled the necessary ceremonies for this accursed holiday and my sister and your mom have to leave us alone.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Yeah. Which is why we have an escape plan. Disappear to go do something unromantic. Like boxing. Or watch horror films.”

“Please finish chewing before the conversation goes any further.”

Marianne glared, but obliged, swallowing the last of the Valentine cookie and scrubbing crumbs off her face with the back of her hand. “So squeamish.” She said when her mouth was clear, leaning over to press a light kiss to Bog’s lips.

Bog felt heat rise up from beneath his collar and over his face. He just still wasn’t used to this sort of thing yet. From the gleam in Marianne’s eyes he could tell she knew that and was enjoying teasing him.

“Hm.” He coughed, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, “I thought we agreed we were refraining from–um–that sort of thing. To boycott the day.”

“Only so Dawn and Griselda won’t accuse us of being in the spirit of the holiday. And I don’t see either of them here right now. Do you?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Besides, St. Valentine is also the saint of bees and pestilence. Who wants to get into the spirit of either of those?”

“I have unleashed a hive of bees into your home to express my love for you.”

“Here is a vial of the black plague in a cute heart-shaped bottle with a nozzle attachment so you can spray it on your enemies. Actually … I could get in on this concept.”

“It seems to have its points. Which should I get you? Disease or insects?”

“Surprise me.” Marianne laughed, leaning toward him as they talked.

Bog slid his hand across her cheek, trailing fingers to brush back her hair as he leaned in and carefully kissed her, his touch light, giving her every chance to move away. Marianne blinked, surprised by the kiss, but leaned into it with every sign of encouraging Bog to continue as she twined her arms around his neck.

“That surprising enough?” Bog asked a little time later, sounding more confident than he was feeling. It was hard not to be nervous with Marianne’s arms around him and her golden-brown eyes inches from his own.

“It’ll pass.” Marianne said, her tone lofty, but her cheeks red. “Anyway, I didn’t get you bees or disease–”

“Wait, I thought–”

“I know! No gifts! Don’t acknowledge the holiday! But I found the perfect thing and now I’m a fraud. A sham. Years of cynicism wasted.”

“Um. Actually, I–ah. I might have … that is … I got you something too.” He offered a smile that was more of a wince, ducking his head and hitching up his shoulders with a nervous chuckle.

“No.” Marianne looked the picture of horrified, “No! No, you did not, Bog!” She punched his shoulder, “We promised!”

“Yeah, and you seem to have broken it too!”

“I expected better of you! Dawn pressured me!”

“Have you met my mother?!”

“No, no, no!” Marianne pounded on Bog’s shoulder, sliding off the table and into his lap. She hid her face against the collar of his shirt and made pained noises. He patted her back.

“We’re a disgrace.” He said.

“I have shamed my family with this act of betrayal. No, worse, they’ll be pleased.”

There was a long pause.

Then at the same time they both asked, “What did you get me?”

They looked at each other and then reached awkwardly for their bags on the table, trying to grab them without actually separating from their comfortable position. Marianne finally gave up, scooting back up onto the table, grabbing her bag and sitting cross-legged in front of Bog.

“Here.” Marianne shoved a white Styrofoam box at him. It looked like something from the meat section at a supermarket. She drew up her legs and hugged them nervously.

“Here.” Bog handed her a small black box.

“Yours first.” Marianne said, chin on her knees.

Bog flicked open the lid of his gift and his face lit up with amusement. “This … this is perfect!” He broke off in a bark of laughter.

Nestled inside the box was an anatomically accurate chocolate heart, a bit of red syrup leaking out of the severed aorta.

“It’s got strawberry filling. You like it?”

“I love it! It’s horrible and gruesome and I’m going to look like some sort of crazed zombie when I eat it. Blood everywhere.”

“More like a ghoul. Tall, skeletal, feeding on the corpses of the dead.”

“You know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I try.” Marianne said with an ear-to-ear grin stretched across her face.

“Are you–?” Bog asked, glancing at the box in Marianne’s hand.

“Oh, yeah! Yes!” Marianne jerked the hinged lid open and let out a small, delighted noise when she saw the contents. She held up a tiny silver sword, “Is this–are these earrings? You got me sword earrings?”

“So you’ll always have one on hand in case of trouble.” Bog shrugged, tapping the tips of his fingers together, a tentative smile on his face as he looked up at her. “When I saw them I thought you might like them.”

“You saw bladed weapons and thought of me? This is all disgustingly romantic. I adore them.”

“You gave your heart to me. That’s pretty sappy.”

“Shut up.”

“Some might say the gift was heartfelt.”

“You handed me weapons and now pun at me? You play a dangerous game, my friend.”

Bog held up the chocolate heart, “Eat your heart out, everybody, I got the perfect Valentine’s day gift.”

“No more puns!” Marianne kicked at him and he leaned back in his chair to avoid her.

“Hey, careful, don’t go breaking my heart!”

“That is it.” Marianne stood up on the table and hooked the swords into her ears so they dangled down against her neck, “I am gearing up for battle. This means war!”

Bog stood up and retreated out of reach, holding up his hands in mock surrender, leaving the heart safely under the table, “Oh, no, I don’t know if my heart can take that kind of beating!”

“No more!” Marianne leaped off the table and charged. Bog caught her, hugging her tight and pinning her arms against his chest so she wouldn’t have the space to pull back for a punch.

“Truce, truce!” Bog laughed.

Marianne was laughing too and for a few minutes they could do little more than laugh helplessly until Marianne giggled out, “I love you, you absurd, punning pine tree.”

“I love you, you tiny assassin.” Bog felt a mixture of anxiety and pleasure at being able to say ‘I love you’ to Marianne. Every time he said it he was sure it was the wrong thing to say, that he shouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, that Marianne would be disgusted with him for being such a sentimental idiot.

But every time Marianne smiled back at him.

“Happy Bees and Pestilence Day,” She said.

Before he could form a suitable quip to respond with Marianne had shoved herself up on her tiptoes to catch him in a kiss.

Both of them became so absorbed in this activity that they didn’t hear Dawn arrive and had to endure her smug smirking all day.

Chapter Text

“Five minutes, give me five minutes!”

Marianne called this plea over her shoulder, scrambling through the cushions of the studio couch for her wallet. She was almost sure the couch was the last place she had had it in her possession, even though her search had been fruitless save for the discovery of fifty-two cents in change and a wooden pottery knife. So far all she had achieved was powdering her dress with dust and the gray lint that gathers in the crevasses of upholstery.

“Okay, five minutes.” Dawn began to head down the stairs, “But if you haven’t found it by then you’ll have to come back tomorrow to look for it. Dad’s probably already waiting for us since you made us detour back here.”

“It’s dinner with dad, Dawn. I love him, he’s trying hard, but it is an undeniable fact that I will need a drink or two to see me through tonight and if I can’t find my ID then it’s going to be nasty. Do you want sober-irritated-sarcastic Marianne? Or mellowed-into-sociability Marianne?”

“You have a point. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.” Marianne agreed, flipping all the cushions onto the floor and poking at the springs.

Dawn’s footsteps pattered away into the distance and the faint sound of a door shutting indicated she was headed for the parking lot. Marianne shoved back her hair and grumbled at the couch, giving it a kick. The couch was unmoved and continued to remain empty of Marianne’s wallet.

“I will kill a man!”

“Maybe I should go, then.”

Marianne turned her gaze to the shelves that divided the painting and drawing area from the work space with heavier equipment and power tools. Bog was standing in the gap between shelves, holding her wallet up for her to see.

“Bog King!” Marianne kicked the cushions aside and dashed over to him, snatching the wallet from his hand and pressing a kiss to his unshaven cheek, glad that her heels gave her to height to achieve that more easily than usual. “You gorgeous, scruffy angel! You’ve just saved my sanity and my dad’s life, probably. I’m still going to count my cash and see if it’s all there, though.”

“Of course. I found it in a box of metal scraps along with three of your paint brushes and half a peanut butter sandwich.”

“Oh, so that’s where my breakfast went. Thanks, Bog. Call me tomorrow morning and we’ll do something. Anything. Give me a reason to tell dad I have plans. Also, I have not seen you all day. See ya!”

Marianne gave him a quick peck on the lips, trying not to ruin her makeup while at the same time wishing she could stay and do just that. Ever since … everything, the thing with Roland, the art show, Marianne’s dad had been hovering like a weaponized drone, waiting for someone to make a wrong move toward his girls so he could unleash his fury.

He also hovered because he could see it discouraged Bog from being too bold. It was really hard to sort through all the feelings that came with a brand new relationship when you weren’t allowed to be alone with your significant other for more than minutes at a time. Right now all she wanted to do was change into comfy pajamas, watch a dumb movie, and begin the first stage of her grand plan to kiss every bit of sadness out of Bog’s life. Perhaps an impossible task, but she was willing to give it a shot.

“One more thing,” Bog said.

“Yes?”

Marianne spun back around.

She ended up spinning straight into Bog’s arms because he had come up behind her. She threw out her hands to brace herself and shove away, but Bog hugged her and pulled her close instead. Marianne, far from displeased at this development, enjoyed the moment, her nose pressed into his hoodie. It was old, the latest successor in a long line of gray hoodies, soft and pilled from a hundred trips through the laundry. It smelled of fabric softener and Bog’s pine-scented soap and everything about it made Marianne feel safe and happy.

Marianne did not have long to dwell on this, for only a moment later Bog pulled away so that he could tip up her head, rough fingers on her chin, just a whisper from touching her lips. Marianne forgot all about Dawn waiting downstairs in the car, their dad waiting on them, and that her makeup was smudged, because it was all she could do to focus on breathing when she looked up into those blue eyes that regarded her with such … wonder.

“I’m going to kiss you.” Bog said, thumb brushing along the corner of her mouth, “I-if that’s okay.”

He was stammering. For a second Marianne couldn’t speak because she was overcome with just how adorable that was. And sweet. They were dating, they were a couple. This had been established, both parties had agreed to the usual terms and conditions of such a venture. As such, most people would take permission to kiss for granted. But Bog seemed to still hold a whisper of suspicion that his affection would not be welcomed by anyone and especially not Marianne.

Usually Marianne would respond to such examples of insecurity by telling him not to be stupid and then kissing him herself. Right now, however, she still had her hands trapped against Bog’s chest and she could feel his heart hammering to match time with hers, could feel the hand on her back trembling. All of a sudden she just couldn’t take in how fantastically lucky she was, how much she loved him, that this was real, and all she could manage to do was let out a whispery, “Yeah …”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yes. Mmhm.”

His lips caught hers on the second half of  'mmhm’ and silenced her. His arm around her shoulder held her tight and pulled her up so that even in her heeled shoes she was on the tips of her toes. The kiss was surprisingly firm, the pressure of it tipping her head back until Bog shifted his hand to support her. She had barely begun to get used to Bog’s shy, hesitant kisses, how he let her take initiative. She was not at all prepared for this bold gesture but she had absolutely no objections.

Marianne had just about run out of breath when Bog pulled back, the smallest space, looking at her through half-closed eyes. “That was good morning.”

“It’s six in the evening–”

Bog kissed her again and the time of day became irrelevant.

“That one was when I saw you at lunch. When you came back from class.”

Bog began naming each time they had briefly met that day and with except citation he kissed Marianne again, making up for missed moments. By the time he finished his list Marianne was fairly sure she was suffering from oxygen deprivation, judging from the spangles of light dancing in front of her eyes. That would also explain how she was tingling from head to toe. It certainly had nothing to do with how thick Bog’s accent had gotten as he recited his list, how by the time he was finished she could barely distinguish any actual words in his low murmuring.

It was all a lot to take in and Marianne, aside from wholeheartedly responding to the kisses, was at a loss for what to do otherwise. Her head was filled with the pleasant hum of static and she couldn’t feel her toes at all. She could only just feel her hands, her fingers gathering up handfuls of the front of Bog’s hoodie to anchor herself. Even with Bog’s arms around her she felt like she might fall over at any moment.

Bog seemed to take her silence as a negative response and in an instant he had let go of her, his hands hovering in the air, wanting to lace together, but stopped by the fact that Marianne was still holding onto the front of his hoodie.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–” He said, his voice pitching higher with strain.

“Idiot.” Marianne said fondly, letting go of the hoodie so she could reach for his hands. 

Letting go was a mistake, because her entire, unsupported weight was back on her newly weakened ankles which, she quickly discovered, were connected to pair of completely compromised knees. Altogether her support system was entirely undermined and once Bog was no longer holding her up she began to wobble dangerously.

Bog had taken a step back, so Marianne took a step forward. Somehow, her foot missed the floor and the whole world began to tilt sideways.

Bog caught her before she could reel into anything potentially damaging and she threw her arms around him until everything seemed to stabilize. Marianne wheezed out a laugh against his neck.

“You almost went right into an easel!”

“Bet I would have taken out at least two before I went down for the count.”

“Please don’t try. Are you okay?”

Marianne considered this. She was still lightheaded. Still didn’t trust her knees. But neither of those things really mattered so long as Bog didn’t let go again.

“I think I’m good. Okay, first: you’re an idiot, Bog. You’re an idiot, I’m an idiot, we’re both idiots. Got that? Good. Don’t apologize because I was totally okay with that … everything. Wow. Yes. Very good. Well done.”

Bog gave a weak chuckle.

“Second—am I only on the second thing? Okay, anyway. I have missed you too.”

Bog relaxed and put his arms around her again, resting his chin on her head. Her hair was probably a disaster, but it was worth it. “Feels like I haven’t seen you for a month, tough girl.”

“Mmm.” Marianne enjoyed the way Bog’s voice vibrated through her. “Please feel free to ambush me like this again if you think it’s been too long since we had a moment alone. Fifth–”

“Three, sir.”

“Yeah, three. Third. You totally stole my wallet, didn’t you?”

“Noooo,” Bog said slowly, swaying them both side-to-side as if to lull her into accepting his forthcoming explanation,  “Of course not. But I might have … found it on the couch and held onto it for you.”

“Then waited until Dawn was gone to produce it.”

“… maybe.”

“That’s devious and underhanded and brilliant. Good work.”

“I try my best.”

Marianne’s cellphone began to ring. It was Dawn’s ringtone.

“You’ve got to go?” Bog asked regretfully.

“Hm.” Marianne hugged Bog a little tighter and breathed in the smell of pine and sawdust. “Not until I get my feet under me again. Give me five minutes.”

“You should be careful. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.” Marianne agreed.

Chapter Text

Now …

For most of Bog’s life waking up in the morning wasn’t something he had typically enjoyed.

Usually he was being jarred out of restless dreams by his alarm, or woke up on the weekend to the pale gray light of morning filtering in through his curtains, washing the room in muted shadows. No alarm to shock him to reality, no job to get to, no classes to be in time for. Those days he stared at the ceiling and listened to the clock tick endlessly, counting out the empty minutes that showed no promise of being filled, or pulled the comforter over his head to block out the light and sound, trying to pretend he could sleep a little longer and avoid facing the day ahead.

Today he floated back to the waking world, the sunlight coming through the window and laying over the room in a sharp-cornered square. It cut across the bed—well, mattress. The bed hadn’t been moved in yet—and warmed his back through his sweat shirt. There were no curtains to diffuse the light of late morning and vague thoughts of pulling the comforter over his head were abandoned because all the covers seemed to have migrated out of reach during the night and he knew that if he went looking for them he would wake up completely and be unable to recapture the pleasant, sleepy haze that hung over the room.

Eyes cracked open he could see Marianne next to him, laying on her stomach and hugging her pillow, one shoulder exposed by he drooping collar of her over-sized red shirt with lacy black butterfly wings decorating the fabric. Arms folded over his chest, Bog scooted closer, resting his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes tight and trying his best not to wake up.

It felt like if he fully woke up then everything would vanish like dream. Recent years would turn out to be wishful imaginings, that two years ago he and Marianne had not gotten married and began to construct a life together, that they had never worked together to build this house. Sometimes he was so happy it scared him. Scared that it wouldn’t last. That he would wake up and find himself trapped in the dark again.

“Scratchy,” Marianne complained, twitching the shoulder underneath Bog’s stubbly cheek. But she shifted closer, pulling a hand from underneath her pillow so she could lay it on his folded arms, smoothing her palm down his sleeve until she found his hand and tucked her fingers into his. “Where did all the blankets go?” She asked, glimmers of warm brown just visible behind her eyelashes as she floated between waking and sleeping.

“South for the winter.” Bog suggested, voice cracking with sleep, “You ended up wrapped in all of them like some sort of unconscious burrito and that was the last time I saw them.”

“Oh, blame me, why don’t you.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Then you destroy my skin with the barbed-wire you call facial hair.”

Bog obligingly rubbed his chin over the curve of her shoulder.

“How have I survived two years of this unholy pact?” Marianne complained, planting her face in her pillow, letting go of Bog’s hand so she could push his face away. Nose squashed, Bog kissed her hand and Marianne giggled into her pillow. She released his nose and moved her hand to cup his cheek, pulling her face out of her pillow. “How’re you, Mr. King?”

“Very well. And yourself, Mrs. King?”

“Excellent, if slightly scratched.”

“If we’re going to play this game than I have a variety of bruises caused by someone’s overactive sleep habits. It’s like sleeping next to the tumble dry cycle, only more flailing limbs and less loose change.”

Marianne kicked his shin.

“See, it happened again. You need to be restrained for the safety of yourself and others.” Bog wrapped his arms around her and rolled over, pinning her upper body to the mattress. Marianne kicked her legs into the air, her baggy pajama pant legs sliding up to her knees as she did.

“Noooo, heavy!”

“Who needs to breath, anyway?” Bog mumbled into the back of her neck.

“Me! I do!”

“Mmm.”

“Are you falling asleep? Don’t fall asleep!”

Bog pretended to let out a snore.

“When I get free you’re going to pay big time, tree man!”

“Worth it.”

“Even when I throat-punch you?”

“You have to escape first, tough girl.”

“No possibility of parole?”

“You agreed to the lifetime commitment.”

“I was tricked. My judgment was impaired. It was my alien clone from an alternate dimension that made that agreement. I’ve only been playing along because you’re an amazing husband and have the more beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Are you trying to embarrass me with compliments so that I get flustered and let you go?”

“. . . maybe?”

When Dawn knocked on the bedroom door some little while later, carrying a glass of orange juice, she found Marianne holding Bog in a fairly respectable headlock. Good form, considering it was so early in the morning.

“What are you doing, Marianne?” She asked with mild interest, sipping her juice.

“Winning!”

Bog just made strangled noises.

“Mm.” Dawn hummed.

“What are you doing here? Is that our juice?”

“Oh, Marianne!” Dawn shook her head, “You don’t have any juice. You haven’t even plugged your refrigerator in yet. I came to make you two breakfast!”

Marianne’s hold on Bog had shifted to a more comfortable hug and he was able to remark, “You’re the most thoughtful housebreaker we’ve ever entertained. Now get out, you wee trespasser. You’ve got your own house, why do you have to come putter around in ours?”

“Because you two are hopeless with anything domestic. Did you know that you haven’t unpacked the coffee pot yet?” Bog glanced back at Marianne so they could exchange a look of pure horror at this information. “Which is why I stopped and picked some coffee up on my way here. It’s in the kitchen!”

Marianne got up and carefully hugged her sister. “Hail, Dawn, bringer of coffee. May we never speak ill of her again.”

“I’ve also been tidying up after the party. Sunny’s watching the kids but Griselda promised to come over later. I’ve already called someone about the trash can that got run over. I’m so proud of you two for finally moving in!”

Two Weeks Ago …

For most of the past two years Bog and Marianne had been living at Bog’s house with Griselda while they got their jobs in order and the house was built. Sometimes it was only the thought that the situation was temporary that got them through a day spent around Griselda’s well meant but tactless nature.

Their house had finally been completed the previous month, but both of them had been too busy to actually move into it. Marianne had an art show and Bog had some last minute complications with the blue prints for a gallery he had been working on.

In the time between completion and officially moving in Bog and Marianne had started using the nearly empty house to crash in. Dawn had seen the mattress tossed into the main bedroom, the heap of takeout boxes, pile of DVDs and sketchbooks, and asked then, “Are you homeowners or squatters?”

“Is it really an either/or situation?” Marianne asked, sketching on a blank wall with a pencil. It was evening and she was just back from her show with a handful of purchase requests for pieces. A box of pizza lay open on the floor, one slice in Marianne’s hand so she could eat while she sketched.

All of the walls were primed white and many of them already bore the outlines of murals. In fact, the house was also painted completely white on the exterior, so that the structure, with a tower attached to the back corner, looked like some sort of ghostly mirage of some long fallen castle. Bit by bit sketchy black outlines were creeping over the blank canvas of the house, waiting for Marianne and Bog to have the time to buy and apply paint.

“You have all this lovely furniture that Boggy built—you should at least use it. You need to set a move in date. You two are going to put this off so long you’ll keep your first born child in a cardboard box because you never set up the crib.”

“Don’t you have your own brats to look after? Real ones? Not hypothetical-potentially-might-never-exist ones?” Marianne grumbled, sticking her pencil in her hair and grabbing another slice of pizza.

“Griselda is babysitting them.”

“Great. Every time she looks after the triplets she starts bugging us to produce grandchildren for her to fuss over. Well, I guess that’s a constant state of being for her, but it intensifies after she’s cooed over your little birds all day. Imagine what she’ll be like once we finally get the house in order!”

“Oh, Marianne, your fear of commitment is amazing. Especially considering you’ve been married for two years now, you know.”

“How can I forget? You and Griselda never let Bog and me forget an anniversary.”

Dawn folded her arms and gave Marianne a look. A look that told Marianne that her little sister wasn’t going to accept anymore excuses or delaying. That if Marianne didn’t make plans … Dawn would. “Set a date, Marianne. Sunny and I will help move everything in and you and Bog get to squabble over where to put the TV.”

“Bedroom.” Marianne said, throwing the crust of her pizza back into the box.

“Living room.” Bog said, just coming in the door, sliding a tie from around his loosened collar and throwing it into a corner. “More convenient for when we have people over.” He rolled out the word ‘people’ like it was an unfortunately chronic disease that was unwanted but necessary to deal with.

“Let’s just not have people over then.” Marianne suggested, scrubbing pizza sauce off her face with a paper napkin.

“That’s a good argument.” Bog agreed, ruffling Dawn’s hair as he passed her, “But they seem to keep creeping in when we’re not looking.”

Bog stooped over and scooped Marianne into a hug, squeezing her tight so that she could feel all the tension caused by his day. She rubbed his back and let him lean on her.

“You invited us to that laser tag fight.” Dawn objected, paying no attention to their quiet moment, “It wasn’t us who nearly put a hole in your brand new walls by tripping over a box.”

“Shut up.” said Marianne ordered, opening her eyes and peeking around Bog’s arm, “Now go away and tend to your brood of small demons.”

“Set a date,” Dawn sang, waving a hand as she skipped out of the room.

A moment later she popped her head back in, “By the way, you two are sooooo cute!” Then she popped back out again, the pizza crusts Bog and Marianne had aimed at her head smacking the blank wall and leaving faint traces of tomato sauce.

Yesterday …

“Sorry about that.” Roderick had said, hopping out of his car to check the damage and whistling at the sight of the garbage can crumpled under his unharmed vehicle. “At least it was empty, right?”

Bog made a noise deep in his throat, not trusting himself to speak.

The two of them were standing on the front lawn of their house, a party in full swing behind them.

A party.

The plan had been to move in, not throw a shindig. But Dawn and Sunny had called Steph and Thane to come help, who had in turned called the rest of the construction crew and it spiraled from there, thanks to Thane misunderstanding and telling everyone it was a house warming party.

The barbecue was up and running again after a rather unfortunate incident involving a too close proximity to an open window and the smoke detector inside. Long story short, Marianne had blasted the whole thing with a hose, drowning three hot dogs and spraying several of the uninvited guest with liquefied charcoal. Marianne herself was still rather damp and Bog had been chuckling despite several jabs of her elbow to his ribs.

“It’s a brand new house!” She complained, “I wasn’t going to let it burn down!”

“You certainly saved us from overdone hot dogs.”

Then Roderick had pulled up and murdered their trash can.

“Oh, no, and it’s too late to bury him in the foundations.” Marianne said, glowering. Things between them and Roderick had been somewhat better in recent times but he still wasn’t their favorite person to see.

“Wow,” Roderick said, taking off his sunglasses and looking up at the house, “You built this, Bog?”

“More or less.”

“Wow.” He said again, “You built your wifey a house. That is so adorable.”

“I am going to put a skewer through your eye.” Marianne declared.

“Not on the new lawn, love.” Bog said. “Do it on the driveway. We can hose it off. You’re good at hosing things off.” He dodged another jab from Marianne’s elbow.

“Okay, okay,” Roderick waved his hand, “That came out wrong. You designed and built a house for—and with—your wife. I’m impressed. I’m in awe. It’s like watching two planet destroying life forms meet and find love together, building something when before they only wrecked destruction. I’d shake your hands but I haven’t got the one usually designated for that purpose. I’d hug you, but I’m pretty sure you’d snap my neck or something. Also, we brought like five kinds of cake with us. Do I get to live?”

Arms folded, Bog and Marianne looked at each other, making considering faces. Bog shrugged.

“For the moment.” Marianne said.

“Hooray! Addy, the hit out on me has been canceled!”

“Until you do something to earn another.” Adeline said, pulling tupperware containers out of the back seat. Five-year-old Gwill was helping, clutching to containers close to himself, small round face serious with this responsibility.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Bog,” He said as he passed.

“Don’t look at me.” Roderick said, taking some containers out of Adeline’s arms, “I was trying to teach him to call you 'Boggy Bear’.”

“What about me?” Marianne asked suspiciously.

“Mrs. Summers King, ma'am!” Roderick snapped to attention, forgoing the salute. “I’m an idiot, but I’m not without a keen sense of self-preservation.”

“Sometimes I doubt that.” Adeline sighed. “Please try not to damage him too much, Marianne. I could only pack so much medical gauze.”

Now …

Dawn was tapping around the yard gathering up trash while Bog and Marianne enjoyed their morning coffee in the sparsely furnished kitchen. A night stand served as a table and Dawn had put a vase full of flowers on it. Bog plucked one out and spun the stem between his fingers. He was slumped in a folded chair, legs stretched out in front of him.

“Does she actually put these things here, or do they just materialize as she passes by?”

“I’ve never been able to figure it out.” Marianne sat on a large box that probably contained an appliance of some sort, legs crossed at the ankles and swinging back and forth. After a few moments thoughtful musing over her coffee she remarked, “In some cultures we’d only just be considered married.”

“Hm?” Bog said at the same moment he took a sip of coffee, causing him to cough.

“The house.”

“Oh, the house.”

“You’ve got to build your girl a house before it’s all legal.”

“I thought it was a dowry of goats presented to your father that sealed the deal.”

“Wait,” Marianne looked down at him from his perch, “Don’t tell me you forgot the give my dad the goats! This marriage is a sham!”

“Oops. Does this mean we have to move all this stuff back out again? Because I already started to unpack my Star Wars stuff and it’s a real pain to wrap them up for transport again.”

“That puts a different angle on things.” Marianne shuddered dramatically, “I will continue with the sham of a union rather than have to make another trip in a moving van. We can never move or get divorced, Bog. I can’t stand the idea of going through this all again.”

“We’ll stay together for the sake of being spared from the torments of shifting heavy furniture and the curse of packing peanuts.” Bog reached up and took Marianne’s hand, bringing it down so he could kiss the tiny purple flower tattooed on the ring finger of her left hand. “And for a few other reasons too, I guess.”

“Name five.” Marianne challenged.

“For starters, there’s your natural grace …”

“Stop right there or this lukewarm coffee goes down the back of your shirt.”

“You asked, love.” Bog smirked, kissing her hand again.

She tweaked his nose.

By the afternoon the house was beginning to look more like a home. There were even curtains in some of the windows thanks to Dawn. Bog’s workshop and Marianne’s studio were the most complete of all the rooms yet to be furnished. Dawn complained that their priorities were all out of whack.

“Do not put away those plastic covers,” Bog warned Dawn as she began to fold the plastic sheets she had taken off the couch, “We’ll need those for when Mari decides to start splashing more paint on all the walls. She’s barely gotten started and already I’m going to have to refinish two chairs.”

“I said I’m sorry!” Marianne called from the other room, “And I totally missed your Return of the Jedi poster. Mostly. And what are your books doing on this shelf? This shelf is for the DVDs, not your P.G. Wodehouse collection.”

“DVDs are going into the cupboard under the stairs.”

“What? No way! Having to rummage under there every time we want to watch a movie?”

“Oh, so every time I want to read some Jeeves and Wooster I’ll have to crawl into the dark? Anyway, books look better out on a shelf. It makes more sense to keep the DVDs under there with all the electronic bits and pieces.”

“Your books can go in the bedroom. It just makes sense to have the DVDs out here by the television. The television which is in the living room as you demanded, sire.”

When Dawn came to check on them later she found them arm wrestling over whether pots and pans should be kept on the top or bottom cupboards.

“Seriously, guys?” Dawn sighed, adjusting the pink head band pushing back her fluffy hair, “Why not Rock Paper Scissors?”

“Tried that.” Bog said, concentrating on shoving Marianne’s arm down.

“He cheated!” Marianne said through gritted teeth.

“Sharp rocks could cut paper!”

The conflict was resolved when Dawn pointed out that if pots and pans were kept high up there was a high chance of Marianne dropping them on herself. Bog instantly agreed to putting them in the lower cupboards and Marianne scowled horribly at this uncalled for condescension. Bog patted her head.

In the evening Griselda came over and cooked their first proper dinner in their new house and Sunny brought the triplets over. It was hardly quiet, but it was much more intimate and comfortable than the impromptu party the day before. Marianne and Dawn’s father showed up near the end of dinner, Griselda having tipped him off about the celebrations. There was food, music, laughing, and all the things that should go on in a home.

And then they were gone.

Leaving Bog and Marianne alone in their house which was now a home. There were books on the shelves, pictures on the walls, the smell of cooking still lingering in the air, the hum of a refrigerator that Griselda had stuffed full of leftovers.

Marianne was painting the wall in the living room earthy shades of green and purple, a plastic tumbler of red wine in hand. She glanced out the windows onto the front lawn and smiled at the sculptures she could still dimly make out thanks to the front porch lights. Bog’s new sculpture garden, hemmed in by rows of flowers that Dawn and Sunny had insisted on planting for them.

Bog plugged his phone into the stereo and music gently filled the room.

Sometime, I can’t help thinking,
Just what my life is for,
I try to do very best that I can,
Yet I know I can do more.

Humming along with the music, Bog went over the the fireplace—both of them had agreed that a house needed a fireplace in which evidence could be disposed of—and set two pictures down there. First, one of Marianne’s mother, then one of his father.

I can’t complain,
I know the sun shines through the rain,
It still survives,
I can’t complain,
Everyday is a new beginning,
And this is journey of my life,
Journey of my life.

Marianne stuck her paintbrush behind her ear and came over to see what he was doing.

“Where did you …?” Marianne touched the frame of her mother’s picture, then drew her hand back again.

“Your dad gave it to me before he left today. Mom gave the one of my dad yesterday.”

“Oh …”

I’m not the only one who’s learned to try again,
And through it all I’ve got my family and friends,
So I can’t complain…

“That—that sounds like dad.” Marianne rubbed her eyes and turned away from the mantelpiece.

Bog pulled her back, taking the wet paintbrush out of her hair and sticking it in a nearby cup. He smoothed back her hair, stooped to look at her face. “Are you okay, love?”

Marianne’s face crumpled and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I think I had too much wine.” She hiccuped.

“One glass. You’re not that small.”

“You’re horrible.” Marianne said, letting Bog pull her close.

“Thinking of your mom, tough girl?”

“A lot. Lately. She—he—mom and dad … they never actually stopped loving each other. I didn’t know until so much later … She—mom—she couldn’t take dad putting work before us and it got so bitter …  but neither of them ever found anyone else. When I was a kid I thought that they had stopped loving each other, that’s what was wrong. Then after Roland I learned that love just wasn’t enough sometimes … Dad and Dawn loved me but it still wasn’t enough. Sometimes I’m afraid that loving you won’t be enough.”

The stereo had switched to another song,

Close your eyes, give me your hand, darlin’
Do you feel my heart beating
Do you understand

“Mari …”

“I haven’t had … I haven’t had this is so long. A home. A real home. Not since we lost mom. I never thought I would ever … have anything like this again. I was going to be strong, I was going to be alone. Because I knew I would only ever be alone. I never thought I’d had a home again and it’s just too good to be true. It feels like. Sometimes.”

Do you feel the same
Am I only dreaming

“Me, too.” Bog whispered, “Oh, God, me too, Mari.” They had both spent so much time alone in the dark that they no longer trusted the light. They’d come so far, but scars remained.

Say my name
Sun shines through the rain
A whole life so lonely
And then come and ease the pain
I don’t want to lose this feeling, oh

“But it’s real, Marianne. Sometimes I can’t figure out how it could be, but it is. It’s real.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.” Marianne said, her cheek resting on his shirt, the fabric damp from her crying. “I’m afraid it isn’t real, but at the same time If it were just a dream it couldn’t hurt me so much if it ended.”

“It’s not going to end. I promised. We promised.” He took her hand in his, running his thumb over the inked petals that curved around her finger. The same pattern was etched onto his hand to match hers, “We decide what that promise means and to me that means always. You and me, always. For as long as you want it to be.”

“You silver-tongued Scot.” Marianne sniffled, “Of course I want it to be always. I’m sorry I’m crying. I’m happy, really. Really happy. Our first home together. First guests, first dinner …”

“A lot of firsts, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” Marianne looked up and smiled, “So many. So many things beginning. I love you, Bog.”

“I love you, Mari.”

“Here’s to firsts and forevers.” Marianne shoved herself up on her toes so she could meet Bog halfway for a kiss, long, sweet, and slow. For a little while they stood in front of the empty fireplace, a fireplace still waiting for the first log to be set in it, and enjoyed the quiet noises of their house settling.

Marianne yawned. Bog kissed her forehead and pulled away, “It’s late and we both have work tomorrow. Time for bed. We talk more about this tomorrow, if you want.”

“Okay,” Marianne agreed, smiling at the thought of how many tomorrows they would have, then suddenly shoved Bog back so hard he stumbled, “First one to the bedroom gets all the blankets!”

“That isn’t fair!” Bog called, regaining his balance, “You get them all anyway! And you’re cheating!”

But Marianne pounded up the stairs, cackling maniacally.

Bog switched off the lights, headed to the stairs, then doubled back toward the stereo.

Close your eyes, give me your hand
Do you feel my heart beating
Do you understand
Do you feel the same
Am I only dreaming
Or is this burning an eternal–

The music stopped and as Bog left the room he could hear the ticking of the clock in the entryway, quietly measuring the minutes he and Marianne filled together in their home.

Chapter Text

Sunny stared at the box of frosted chocolate puff cereal with an intensity rarely directed at breakfast products. Scratching at the red bandanna tied around his head he glanced to his left and then to his right, checking to see if anyone was approaching the aisle.

It was three AM and the convenience store was eerily still, the florescent lights humming and flickering their harsh, lifeless glow. The undead of light fixtures, Sunny mused, rubbing at sleep blurred eyes. It was finals week and he had been up all night cramming. Head swimming with text and trivia, stomach empty and dorm completely void of anything edible, Sunny had come to a crisis point: food or sleep? The gapping chasm in his stomach won and he had walked three blocks to the store and now he stood within reach of his goal.

Almost within reach.

A few test swipes revealed that the cereal of his choosing was about six inches out of reach. A sullen anger overtook him and he muttered under his breath about bias against the height challenged. He could go find an employee and ask for assistance. Or he could retain his dignity and get a box of cereal down from the shelf like the capable adult he was. Once more he checked to make sure the coast was clear before stepping on the edge of the bottom shelf and grabbing the middle one, climbing up toward the prize of cereal made with so much sugar it was a crime against dental hygiene.

The shelf underneath the frosted chocolate puffs—stocked with nut and oat health cereal—gave way under his hand with a decisive crack! He fell backwards, followed by an avalanche of boxes colored in healthful earth tones, and found himself on his back, lying on chilly beige tile, a small mountain of excellent sources of fiber on top of him. Being half-crushed to death by organic products probably wouldn't earn him a reprieve from his test at eight AM, he thought hazily.

“Oooh my goodness!” A voice exclaimed in dismayed tones, “Are you okay? Oh, let me help you!”

A box was pulled off of Sunny's face, he saw light and wondered if he had died after all, because there was an angel digging him out of his preservative-free entombment. The angel of mercy had the most vivid blue eyes Sunny had ever gazed into, her fluffy blonde hair cut into a short halo around her head, a glitter-covered headband sparkling among the yellow of her hair. Slender hands grabbed the sides of his face and the spike in his pulse told him he wasn't dead after all, “You don't look concussed.” Said the angel, “I'm trained in first-aid. Can you hear me?”

“Uh? Uh, yeah!” Sunny sat up, boxes of cereal rattling as they slipped off him. He stood up, the angel helping him. On his feet Sunny could see that the angel was more than half a foot taller than him, her long legs clad in blue leggings with flowers splashed all over. She was amazing. “Think I'm fine.”

“Oh, good. I'm Dawn, by the way—the cashier.” She straightened his bandanna and smoothed his hair back into its usual spiky tuft, “You scared me half to death when I heard that crash! Then I saw you buried!” She started to laugh, “The first stupid thought in my head was whether or not I could get fired for losing a customer to a landslide of cereal!”

“Oh, oh, man, this is my fault.” Sunny looked at the shelf, “I was totally climbing on that to try and get my cereal. I will explain everything to your manager, that it's not your fault.”

“It doesn't look too bad,” Dawn peered underneath the slanted shelf, “It just came off its hooks. Why didn't you just ask me for help?”

“I really should have.” Sunny agreed, tilting his head back to look up at her, “Let me help clean this up? I am such an idiot. I blame finals week for everything. The mental horror of exams has broken my feeble brain and reduced me to a sugar-craving zombie.”

“Oh, were you trying to get this?” Dawn pulled down the frosted chocolate puffs without even fully extending her arm to reach. “These are my absolute favorite.” She looked at him solemnly, “They give me life. I've got three boxes at home in anticipation of finals. My college starts finals next week.”

“I got one at eight.” Sunny yawned.

“Eight? That's not even five hours from now! Come on,” She grabbed his hand and pulled him across the store to the dairy section, picking up a small carton of milk before dragging Sunny to the front. From behind the counter Dawn produced plastic bowls and spoons. “Don't even worry about that shelf. My sister will be here soon and she'll get it put back up. She's got muscles like crazy. I keep this stuff back here so I can snack when it's slow.”

Dawn poured out two bowls of cereal and milk, raising hers to toast with Sunny. “Here's to passing tests with flying colors in the morning. I devote this bowl of cereal to all desperate students during final exams, may they treat me with the same kindly concern.” She saluted with her spoon.

“Here's to convenience store angels.” Sunny saluted back before taking a mouthful of cereal. His stomach growling gratefully, “Restoring the dead to life.”

“Oh, you're cute.” Dawn crossed her arms and leaned on the counter so that their heads were on the same level. “I guess since I raised you from the dead the least you can do is give me your phone number?”

Sunny nearly choked on his cereal.