Chapter Text
“Caspar.”
Caspar grunted noncommittally and continued to work his way through the huge stack of dishes. This place might be able to regenerate food, but the dishes were entirely manual, and, currently, the bane of his existence.
He put a lot of work into his misery; he was more than just a hobbyist. If you were going to spend most of your life miserable anyway, he reasoned—and if the past was any indication, he was—it was worth putting the time in to get really good at it.
He liked to mix it up and focus on a new grievance every week. Last week he’d spent most of his time grousing about how much litter he had to sweep out of the parking lot. The week before that, it was the way the walk-in kept a full stock of pickles in the corner despite the fact that he refused point-blank to serve them. The week before that, it was the fact that every trash can seemed to require a different size trash bag.
This week it was the dishes.
But at the moment, the Mucklewains seemed bound and determined to distract him from working up a good head of steam.
“Caspar!” Effie repeated.
He glowered at the radio. “Just because I’m talking to you now doesn’t mean you get to monopolize every customer-free moment of my time, alright?” he snapped. “I’m busy.”
“You do seem to be scrubbing that plate with a curious level of contempt,” Zebulon observed.
Caspar rolled his eyes and refocused on the plate.
“Caspar, my husband and I wish to speak with you.”
“Clearly.”
“With you, Caspar, not just to you.”
Caspar continued to scrub. “Fine.”
There was a long pause. The radio crackled disapprovingly. The sponge squelched against the plate.
Sometimes Caspar could swear he could feel the Mucklewains’ eyes like they were really in the room. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
“Well?” he finally demanded.
“Oh, I’m sorry, do we have your attention now?” Effie asked shortly.
“Oh, for fuck’s—” He turned off the faucet, dropped the plate into the sink, and turned to face the radio. “Fine. Go.”
“Thank you,” Zebulon said graciously, as if he hadn’t noticed the tone. “Caspar, my wife and I have grown… concerned over the past few weeks about the language you employ around the customers.”
Caspar stared at the radio. “Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You’re—you’re telling me off for swearing?”
“Well, I don’t know about ‘telling you off,’” Zebulon replied, but Effie cut him off.
“Yes.”
Caspar felt an incredulous smile start to spread across his face. “We’re in a time traveling, dimension spanning diner,” he said slowly, tone dripping with irony, “and you’re worried about cursing? What are you going to do, wash my mouth out with soap?”
“It is exactly that migratory nature that has us so concerned,” Zebulon said gravely. “Among so many… unfamiliars, how are you to know if there are children present?”
Caspar stared at the radio a moment longer, then turned back to the sink and turned the faucet back on. “What do you want me to do?” he pointed out, glaring at the plate. “Memorize the visual signs of aging on every planet we visit? Look up each new species in my handy field guide?”
“Now, Caspar, I think you are more than aware that the solution to this particular conundrum lies not in miraculous knowledge of wherever we set down, but rather in altering your own behavior so that that in the event—”
“I should stop swearing just in case there’s an alien child somewhere in a five mile radius,” Caspar deadpanned. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“Don’t you take that tone with us,” Effie snapped. “You know full well that’s not what we’re suggesting.”
“It can be difficult to break a habit,” Zebulon said diplomatically. “But we have full faith in your ability to persevere. You have already proven yourself very resilient, running this place almost entirely alone.”
Caspar set the plate aside and picked up another one. “You should know by now that flattery isn’t gonna win you any points with me.”
Zebulon persevered. “You could try replacing some of your more… colorful vocabulary with phrases that have more of a universal appeal, for instance.”
Caspar snorted. “You think I should start breaking out more ‘golly gees’ on alien planets, Zeb?”
“That is merely one example. You could also employ something along the lines of ‘my goodness.’”
“Hm. Not really hitting the whole vibe of the place. I don’t think being held at gunpoint in space is a ‘heavens to Betsy’ moment.”
“My mother used to say ‘snails,’” Effie suggested.
Caspar inhaled wrong and nearly choked, sending himself into a coughing fit. “I’m—I’m sorry, snails?” he demanded once he’d recovered himself.
“Snails. It is still a minced oath, and very satisfying to let loose if one has stubbed one’s toe.”
“I’m not going to start saying ‘snails,’ Effie.”
“Caspar—”
“Nope. That’s a no to snails, and a hard pass on the cursing abstinence. I have so few things to rely on in this place, I’m keeping fuck and shit and—cover your ears, Zebulon— goddammit.”
For a second, he thought he’d won. He was almost disappointed. Some part of him missed having people to argue with.
“Hm,” Effie mused, and he could tell the fight was far from over. “We shall see.”
“We can revisit this conversation another time, my friend.”
“Sure.”
It was nearly a week before the topic was raised directly, but it was clear to both parties that it hadn’t been forgotten. Anytime a word that wasn’t Mucklewain-approved left Caspar’s lips, he couldn’t help but notice a slight rise in disapproving static behind the Hour of Power. They couldn’t say anything about it during a shift without breaking the illusion of a normal radio, but each time, he was once again convinced he could almost feel their eyes on him.
He didn’t let it get to him. In fact, as the days wore on, he found himself rather enjoying it. The ominous rise in static was like a subtle version of a clap of thunder, an odd pathetic fallacy following him around.
It was a few hours til closing on a small, sleepy town on a planet he didn’t know the name of when the Mucklewains made their next move.
“What was it you were saying to me the other day, dear, about the power of language?” Effie asked her husband as Caspar tried to figure out what sleeping versus dead looked like in whatever species the person slumped over the counter belonged to.
“Language, dear?” Zebulon inquired.
Caspar prodded the person reluctantly, and they looked up, made sleepy eye contact, and let out a loud, eye-watering belch directly into his face.
“Jesus,” he grunted, backing up. The person closed their eyes again. Definitely sleeping.
“Language,” Effie repeated reproachfully, static rising briefly.
Ah, yes, taking the Lord’s name in vain, Caspar remembered. Definitely in the naughty column.
“I have often heard it said, husband, that coarse words and rough vernacular are the refuge of small minds.”
Caspar rolled his eyes.
“Now, dear,” Zebulon said gently, “we mustn't stoop to their level. It is true that such… poor language is a bit uncreative, and does nothing to show one’s goodwill towards your fellow man—”
“Nor does burping in a guy’s face, but who’s counting,” Caspar muttered under his breath.
Another patron at the end of the counter shot him an odd look, and he shrugged, making a vague you-know-how-it-is face. They drifted back to their food.
“—but all too often it is the result of hearing that same language in one’s upbringing. We cannot fault the sheep for following the shepherd, now, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“But as we grow, perhaps it behooves us from time to time to stop, to look around and ask, ‘do I wish to keep following this flock? Do I truly believe in where it is taking me?’”
“Do I get to know where it’s taking me, or does it just fucking zip around at random?” Caspar mumbled, taking care to keep his back to the counter. No point spooking anyone at this point, the shift was so close to ending without incident.
“Is this how I wish to present myself to the world?” Zebulon continued stubbornly. “Is this what I’ve been called upon to bring to those around me? Do I truly wish to lead others as I have been led? Am I so at ease with how my life has gone that I believe others should be made to repeat it?”
Caspar winced. That one hurt.
“Nobody is alone,” Effie added. “In this universe of ours, we are products of our upbringing but we are also products of the company we keep. Who do you want those around you to be? What do you wish to see reflected back at you?”
Goddammit.
“And to soothe you through those meditations, here is the Wilson Quartet with ‘Words of Peace.’”
Caspar sighed.
“Interesting sermon today,” Caspar said casually as he locked the doors.
“Why, thank you, Caspar,” Zebulon responded. “They may not be much, but they’re our little way of staying in conversation with the world. Er, universe.”
“Hm.” Caspar gathered the glasses scattered across the counter, brooding. “You really think you’re going to convince me?”
“I have faith in you, Caspar,” Zebulon said matter-of-factly.
Caspar snorted. “Oh yeah?”
“Indeed.”
“And why’s that?”
“Well. Faith is what I do.”
“I thought that was supposed to be faith in a higher power, not random people.”
“I believe faith can be in something more than both, which inevitably includes each in its own way.”
Caspar sighed. “Sure. Whatever. Still saying ‘fuck,’ though.”
“Besides, it is but one idea of many.”
Caspar paused and looked back at the radio with sudden suspicion. “What?”
“It is good to plan for multiple eventualities,” Zebulon said cheerfully.
“And while I too have faith, I also know a stubborn mule when I see one,” Effie added. “Don’t worry yourself about it, Caspar, Zebulon may prefer the direct approach, but I know better’n anyone the best way to boil a frog.”
Caspar stared at the radio a moment longer. “You know, if you weren’t trapped in a box that I could just stuff in the walk-in, that would be really ominous.”
“Thank you kindly.”
He gave them one last suspicious look before leaving them to their scheming. After all, this week he was annoyed about the mismatched glassware currently stacked on the tray in his hands, and they weren’t going to glare at themselves.
The door closed.
“Dear, I’m starting to think you didn’t want my way to work,” Zebulon murmured thoughtfully.
“Nonsense.”
To Caspar’s surprise, they didn’t bring it up again. He would occasionally be on the receiving end of a passive-aggressive comment when he indulged a bit too much in the rough vernacular, but no more sermons aimed his way, at least, no more about that.
There was something odd, though. He could swear that, before his first old-timey talking-to, ‘snails’ was not an exclamation they actually employed. Now, it seemed to creep into every show. And then it invaded the time between shifts as well, more and more, and suddenly it was the only interjection they used.
He hadn’t heard a ‘my goodness’ from Zebulon in days .
He didn’t see the point. Did they think leading by example was going to get them anywhere? It’s not like he’d thrown up his hands and pledged allegiance to the Baptist Church after so long in their presence.
He didn’t realize what they were doing until it was too late.
He’d discovered a hole in his oven mit. That in and of itself wasn’t so bad, but he’d discovered it by picking up a pan of tuna melts and burning his finger, which made him drop the pan in surprise, tuna tumbling to the floor.
“Snails!” he hissed, frantically turning on the faucet and shoving his injured finger under cold water.
He froze.
The radio was out front, entertaining patrons, and as the cold water ran over his burn, it dawned on him that he was traveling with an evil genius.
The products of the company we keep, she’d said. She’d told him, right to his face. Use it enough, and it’ll sink into his brain, too. It was insidious, the way they’d managed to normalize something so absurd, to the point where he’d said it without even thinking.
Fine, he decided. Fine. Now that he knew what they were doing, he just had to make sure he didn’t fall for it. This one had been a moment of weakness, but they hadn’t seen it. It was a warning shot. All that meant was it was time to duck.
He lasted three more days.
It was embarrassing.
The planet they’d landed on wasn’t happy with their presence. It seemed the only alien species the local populace knew of originated in horror and ghost stories, so when Caspar showed up, pink-skinned, two-eyed, and not levitating several inches above the ground, they had a less than welcome reaction
It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Over the course of however long he’d been here, Caspar had learned the diner was more resilient than it looked, so he did what he always did. Turned out the lights, locked all the doors, and hunkered down behind the counter until it was over.
A few hours into this lockdown, he suddenly realized he was being watched.
An extremely small blue-skinned figure was staring at him with a single, unblinking eye, frozen in its hovering tracks in the door from the kitchen.
It was a kid.
“Oh sh—”
“Caspar!”
“—shhhhhhhnails.”
Fucking goddammit.
There was muffled static from the radio, the crackling sound of barely suppressed laughter. Caspar’s ears burned, but he tried to refocus on the kid in front of him.
“Shnails?” the kid asked.
The Mucklewains snickered, and Caspar let out a bitter sigh. “Nevermind. It’s… nevermind. What are you doing here?”
The kid looked down. “Hiding.”
And didn’t that make the whole thing a billion times worse. Great! Just fucking great. Caspar tried to rearrange his face into something nonthreatening, despite the constant stream of rebellious expletives drifting through his head. “Okay.”
The kid stared at him, tense, ready to bolt at the slightest movement.
The Mucklewains’ laughter had been replaced by soft, soothing music, and Caspar took a deep breath.
“It’s okay,” he repeated. “I’m hiding too.”
The kid nodded uneasily.
Snails.
“You did a very good job with that young person,” Effie told him once the diner was traveling again.
Caspar stood, back aching from sitting on the floor most of the day. “Sure. Whatever.”
“And we appreciate you watching your language in their presence,” Zebulon added.
Caspar glared. “They were obviously a kid,” he grumbled. “They could’ve been all of five years old for all I know.”
“That is good to hear you say,” Zebulon agreed.
Caspar squinted at the radio. “You have this tone sometimes where you make it sound like you’re on my side even when you’re making fun of me,” he commented.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“And I’m sure my mother would be proud to know you’re getting such good use out of her favorite interjection,” Effie added.
Caspar pointed at the radio. “I know what you’re doing,” he told them. “Don’t think you’ve won. You can take my fucking cursing from my cold dead hands, the both of you!”
“I don’t believe we’re doing anything,” Zebulon said innocently.
“Whatever.”
Caspar wished he could say that was the start of a great test of wills between them, but that was really it. He didn’t stop cursing, exactly, but the ridiculous phrase wormed its way into his head and stubbornly refused to move. It had become part of the Mucklewains’ vocabulary too, but they reveled in it. It fit them.
Coming from him it was just… silly.
The defeat was when he realized he’d stopped noticing it.
He didn’t know how long it had been. Time was hard to track in the diner, but he was pretty sure it had been several months. They were on Earth, or an Earth, anyway, sometime in the relative past. It was a slow day, a few people drifting in wearing the classic confusion of most Midnight Burger customers.
Caspar’s mind drifted as he was pouring coffee for a young woman at the counter, and his hand slipped. The woman jerked out of the way, and a few drops landed on the table.
“ Aw, snails,” he muttered. “Sorry about that.”
The woman’s mouth opened in surprise. “Snails?”
Goddammit. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Picked that up from some… friends of mine, I guess. I’ll be right back with something to clean that up.”
“Sure,” the woman agreed, and he identified a slight twang in her voice, different from the other customers. “I always thought I was the only one who said ‘snails’ like that.”
“You thought—uh…”
Caspar’s brain stuttered to a halt. The odds had to be staggeringly low.
The woman smiled, a sharp smile, the smile of a person who seemed to know both sides of the script even as she sat unawares in a time traveling diner. “You give my regards to your friends then, I suppose. Important to keep that sense of humor, wouldn’t you agree?”
There was no way it was really Effie’s mother.
Right?
“Yeah. I… I will,” he agreed after another beat of silence. “Um. Be right back.”
He grabbed the rag in silence, avoiding eye contact as he cleared up the last few drops. The Mucklewains’ music hummed through the diner.
“Interestin’ show,” the woman said conversationally, nodding at the radio. “Sounds just like back home.”
“Oh yeah?” Caspar said as casually as he could manage. “Where’s that?”
“Little town in Arkansas. Haven’t gotten to spend much time there recently, been feelin’ a bit homesick. It’s nice to hear somethin’ so familiar soundin,’ even all the way up here.”
Caspar’s voice sounded strange in his ears as he replied. “Yeah. I guess.”
The song came to an end.
“And that was ‘I’m Going Back Home’ by Avon Comedy Four,” Zebulon said pleasantly. Caspar took the opportunity to give the woman an awkward nod and retreat back to his place behind the counter.
“What does it mean to share a language?” Zebulon mused. “Is it simply a means to an end? A collection of grammatical rules and structures built to speed efficiency of communication? Or is it, perhaps, a way we can begin to understand one another?”
“Don’t see why it can’t be both,” Caspar muttered to himself, but without any real venom.
“Two people speakin’ English can talk right past each other without even knowin,’” Effie continued. “But to share a language—to hear oneself reflected in the speech of another—to know that if you had not met them, there would be different words comin’ out of your mouth—that is somethin’ else entirely.”
Caspar suddenly realized he had actually paused to listen. He shook himself, quickly turning away from the radio and half-heartedly chastising himself about getting too comfortable, but something warm lingered in his chest.
“Now, some might argue that we can never truly know one another,” Zebulon acknowledged, “but perhaps it is all we can do to try. A familiar phrase in the right mouth can be a home away from home.”
“And if you’re out there, somewhere far from the place you call home, maybe lend yourself a bit of comfort,” Effie continued. “I like to think of my mother’s voice, of all the little words and phrases a family builds up over the years—that connection isn’t one borne of blood. It’s borne of time, it’s borne of people tryin’ their level best to take each other in and give back in kind.”
He looked up. The woman who may or may not have been Effie’s mother was looking thoughtfully at the radio, a slight smile on her face.
“Even now, when I hear certain phrases, certain words, I hear my mother’s voice and I’m right back to those times when all I knew was home.”
Zebulon spoke again. “Friends, we may never know the heart of one another. We may never find our way back home, back to that Garden of Eden, but we can carry some precious piece of that home within ourselves. Collect them, fragment by fragment, from the people around us. Give some of our home in return. And when we speak, may our words provide shelter. May our words provide comfort. When I speak as I do, I am offering you something. A thought. A hope. A prayer, certainly, but more than that—”
“Home.”
Caspar sighed.
They’d won. Sure, the war had really been over for months, but in that moment he finally, consciously, surrendered. It was part of him, now. The Mucklewains were part of him.
Another song began playing through the radio’s speakers, and the woman smiled at him, toasting him with her cup of coffee.
He smiled back, and just for a moment, he could’ve sworn he felt the Mucklewains’ eyes on him once more.
“Snails,” he murmured again, just for good measure, and shook his head.
He'd start being miserable again tomorrow.