Work Text:
Five People Who Love Callie (And One Who Might Someday)
“I think we've got enough food for all of Calamari County,” Callie says.
Craig chuckles. “Just what I wanted. Now, could you do your old grampa a favor? Could you check the squiddymelons to find the ripest one, I never pick out one as good as you do.”
Callie beams at him, lowering her sunglasses just a tad to wink. “Of course, gramps. I'll meet you at the check-out.”
Just what he wanted. She's still not back when Craig gets to the cashier. Craig waits until Callie rounds the aisle, just in sight, to ask the bagger, “Did you know I have the most fantastic grandsquid?”
Callie stops short. Her ears twitch.
“Again, Craig?” The bagger, a betafish saving for inkblot, chuckles. “Which one are you talking about this time? The one who's gonna make a name in radio, or the future movie star?”
Callie's cheeks darken.
“Future, nothing! She's a TV star now,” Craig says. “She has a million friends, I'm tellin ya, she's already got it made.”
Callie's blush escapes her cheeks.
The bagger gives him a friendly, absent eye-roll. “I'm sure she does,” she says. “Are you buying her favorite candies again?”
“Nah, I'm makin' her crabby cakes this time,” he says. “Her favorite. Cod, I love her. Did you know she's gonna be at the grouper awards?”
Callie suddenly goes white.
“You must be very proud,” says the bagger, finishing up with his stuff. “You need to bring her sometime! We wanna meet the squid whose grampa's so proud of her.”
“I'll invite her to meet you anytime she wants,” he says, making eye contact. “I need to brag.”
Callie goes to a different checkout line.
“Callie, when did you last have a day off?”
“Don't need one, when I love everything I'm doing,” Callie says. She doesn't look up from her script.
Marie scowls and crosses her arms. “Look at me.”
“Fie, evildoer, I shall do no such—”
“Callie Lula Cuttlefish, look at me.”
Callie blinks a couple times before looking at Marie. “Middle name? Seriously?”
“Not my fault you don't listen,” Marie snaps. “Did you have lunch?”
“Of course I—”
“Something more substantial than celery and lemonade?”
Callie blushes.
“Have you gone for a run this week?”
Callie has to think, then shakes her head. “No time.”
“No time for a run?” Marie crosses her arms. “And you say I overwork myself. I always leave time for exercise and food. You've had at least three things booked every day this week, and last week, and last month.”
Callie groans and sets down the script at last. She rubs her eyes. “I know, it stinks,” she says. “And I'm tired, and cranky. But I really do wanna do all this stuff, Mar,” she says. “And they keep offering me more; how can I say no? It's great, being an actress.”
“Not as great as your health,” Marie says. “Or a no-phones-allowed picnic in the valley. I made your favorite sandwich and packed extra candy bars; I know those roles come with image restrictions but you're starting to go in the other direction.”
Callie sighs. “You'll drag me if I don't go, won't you?” When she stands, she winces. “Okay, maybe I've been sitting for too long. Thanks.”
“Don't thank me yet,” Marie retorts. “Thank me once you actually feel better.”
“So how do I do this?”
Callie giggles as she puts her hands over theirs. “Well first, you need to put these further apart,” she says, sliding Marlin's hands on the roller handle. “Too close together or too far apart, you lose some of the control you need.”
Marlin nods, and holds it when she steps away. “How do I keep my hands from sliding together? That feels better.”
“I'll give you one of my old rollers, too broken for turf, with the right spots roughened on the handles,” she says. “Anyway, what you need to do is jump and lift. The roller head is designed to rotate when you do that. Lean forward, just a little, to compensate for the weight shift of the rotation so you don't fa—yeah, that's a pretty good way to fall.”
Marlin stays flat on their back on the ground, sighing, then gets up. “This isn't worth it,” they say. “I could do something else.”
“Why do you wanna learn roller, anyway?” Callie asks. “I mean, not that I'm against helping our illustrious captain learn something new...”
Marlin scowls at her. “You'll laugh.”
“I won't laugh.”
“You'll totally laugh.”
“Marlin, if I laugh, I'll take the next patrol of Octo Valley solo,” she says. She fights the urge to bounce on her toes, this has to be good.
“Well....” they look at the ground, their cheeks gradually turning orange. “There's this turtle, they live outside of town and come to the fisher's market every Sunday with homegrown fruit, and, uh, we got started talking about whether it'd be easier to ink the field with a roller or a shooter or what, and I said, hey, maybe I could come over a few times and try all the different weapons so we can compare, and, uh...” they trail off.
Callie isn't laughing. She's not. But she does have the biggest grin on her face. “Marlin, oh Marlin,” she says, “do you, by any chance, have a crush on this turtle?”
Marlin's cheeks go from dull orange to bright, burning orange. So does their nose, for that matter. They sputter, several times, half-spoken 'No' and 'But' and 'It's not' that get abandoned while they scramble for some dignity.
Callie leans on the handle of her own roller, looking up into their eyes. “And are you, by any chance, hoping to woo them with your roller skills!”
“Don't say 'woo'! You're making it weird, Callie,” they whine.
“Sorry! Sorry,” she says. She'll find out about this turtle—name, age, address, shoe size—later, when she tells Marie. “Come on, let's try that again.”
Lucky shows up at Callie's apartment a good twenty minutes early, but Callie's ready. She opens the door before Lucky can knock and ushers the girl inside. “Nervous?”
“No! Yes! I don't know!” Lucky grabs a tentacle in each hand and pulls, her neckflaps waggling. “It's the Inkopolis Invitational! I've only been training for the Olympinks for a few months, I'm not ready for this yet, there'll be people there from everywhere!”
“You'll probably be sidelined for most of it, yeah,” Callie says. “But the under-16's are usually there to warm up the crowd, go between the really big races. What can I do to calm you down?”
“Well,” Lucky scuffs a foot. “You said, I'll always do better if I look my best, right? And... I don't know Ashti kept saying she's not the person to talk to about outfits.”
Oh, Callie can totally help here. “I can book us a spa day for tomorrow, and I'll be cheering you on the day after,” she says, “and I can't help you with clothes. They've got you in a uniform, right?”
“Swimsuit,” she says. “I'm doing races between the top-level competitors, the 100 meters and 800 meters.”
She's gonna wear herself out. “What color?”
“The swimsuit is gonna be my ink color, just the same blue as me, so it matches my ink lane,” she says. “But I'll have tight wide bracelets and anklets in pink and green, the national colors, so they can find me if something goes wrong. Green with a pink stripe in the center on my wrists, pink with a green stripe on my ankles.”
That'll look cute, and it gives Callie something to work with. “How about we dye your fingers and toes, then?” Callie asks. “I've been meaning to redo mine, it's been a while. I wanna go Marie Green, she's got an awards show tonight I'll be in the audience for.”
Lucky's cheeks flush, and the tips of her neckflaps curl up. That's a good sign. “Can I... do you know if neckflaps can be dyed, too? I've never tried.”
“Neither have I,” Callie says. “Holding them in the dye might be hard...”
“One of my teammates is an Octoling with super dark purple ink and he's definitely from underground but he's always been really nice and he's helped me swim and he's gonna be in the same lane as me and told them that he wanted them to do my ink color not his because it'd stand out more so I wanna dye things purple like him because he's always helping me out,” she says. “Or do you think that's weird? I don't know I—”
“It's fine!” Callie grabs the ends of her neckflaps and waggles them, and Lucky lets her. “I bet he'll be honored, I know I would be, lemme get my dyes and we'll match his ink.”
The last thing Callie expects at five in the morning is a frantic text from Ashti, but when Callie gets it she runs to the window and shoves it open. Just in time, too: Ashti superjumps inside and pulls Callie into a hug with both arms and every tentacle.
Callie lets her. “What's wrong?”
Ashti tightens her tentacles. “It is no thing.”
“Bullfish,” Callie says. She's being hugged too tightly to return the hug, not unless she turns squid and drops out of Ashti's grip, but it's clear her fellow agent is spooked. “You're not being chased by the cops, are you?”
“I'd go to Lucky for that, just like the one time.”
Callie twitches at that. “Wait, it already happened once?”
“No,” Ashti says, far too quickly. “No, no thing happened. No police. Nothing happened, nope, not at all.”
Oh, Callie is absolutely getting this story out of her later. “Okay, so what happened?”
“It's—”
“Don't give me that.” Callie switches to Octarian. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Ashti picks her up and moves them both to Callie's bed. She settles down, pulling Callie onto her lap; her tentacles are looser now, and Callie makes herself comfortable. “I—I had a nightmare ,” she says, dropping into Octarian. It may not be a word she uses in Inklish. “I was in the metro again, and you were there only, you were on the other side.”
It takes Callie a moment to process this. “ Do you mean I was an enemy, or I was another test subject, or...?”
“You were green,” Ashti says. “ You were, and Lucky was—only, Lucky I could check. I opened the door to her room and peaked inside, and she was held safe by the darkness. But...”
Callie can put the pieces together. “I'm here,” Callie says, resting her hands on Ashti's tentacles. “And I'm not going anywhere.”
“Okay, Terry, get over here.” Callie stoops to pick up Tribble, the salmonid likes her, and she tickles him under the chin while Terry glares at her, his arms crossed and tentacles stiff. “This isn't up for debate.”
“But I don't need it!”
“I don't care.” Callie hardens her voice. “Now get over here.”
“But Agent One—”
“Now.”
Terry's tentacles tuck flat against his head, but he stomps towards her. When he's in range, she puts a hand on his shoulder. “You don't have to like it,” she says, “but I won't let your pride get in the way of your health.”
“I'm healthy!”
“You're hungry,” she says. She picks up the bag again. “Don't think I can't tell.”
“Dad always makes sure I eat,” he says.
“More than he does, I bet,” Callie says. “Look. Just take this.” She shakes the backpack. “Five pounds of rice, a dozen cans of pigeon, I cushioned the jars of pickles and peppers with a vest; Marlin—er, Captain Marlin says that they got you two of them, improvements to your uniform while we wait for the proper thing.”
“I don't need it,” he says again, and even his ears are flattening now. “What do you think I am, some sort of—of charity case, some weak and helpless little—”
“Of course not.” Cod, Terry's worse than Lucky. “Look, you don't get paid—”
“Neither do you.”
“Yeah, but between merchandise and movie deals and our last CD I don't need money.” She doesn't say that he does. “So take it from your senior agent: this is a perk you should enjoy.”
Tribble makes a noise in her arm. She shoves the bag into Terry's arms; he takes it on reflex, and she returns to scratching the salmonid.
“All right, fine,” he grumbles, shrugging it on. “But we don't need it, okay? I'll bring you money for—”
“I'll give it right back,” Callie says. She doesn't believe he'll give her any, not with what he already did. “Now go home, and have a nice dinner.”
He scowls at her, turns his back, and kicks the sand. “Come on, Tribs. Let's get away from this pushy inkling.”