Work Text:
Ice swirled together, clicking against the wall of the glass as Fred set it gently on the marble. Condensation dripped down from where his fingers were. He hunched forward, the barstool beneath him creaking as he resumed poring over an assortment of papers spread across the cold countertop. He ran his finger across a few lines on one, and then his eyes darted over to another, full of sketches and scrapped ideas for what appeared to be a new cage design. Underlined in dark graphite was the word steel.
It had been a few more minutes of Fred sitting alone with only the company of the clock quietly keeping time when his father stepped through the door, water running off the raincoat he wore over his deep, navy blue suit. Fred glanced over as he pulled papers on top of his sketches, these new ones being physics homework. Fred Sr. pulled off the plastic cover, hanging it to dry on the coat rack that held Fred’s, now dry, umbrella from his own run up to the porch hours ago. Tucked under his father’s arm was a stack of mail.
“Tickling chin whiskers, Fred,” his father muttered, “Why didn’t you check the mail before it started raining?”
“It was raining when I got home, Dad,” he answered, twirling a pencil between his fingers as he eyed the different envelopes his father carried over. His silent question was answered when his father tossed the stack beside where Fred was working, and a plastic-wrapped magazine peeked through the rest of the spam mail and bills. The latest issue of Traps Illustrated.
He reached for it, pulling it out from its cover, while his father slipped on over to the fridge as he hooked his fingers around the red of his tie.
It was a smooth process, Fred watched—like looking down the end of a barrel, gun aimed for him—his father. How the meal came together as his outfit came apart. The way the microwave hummed softly as his father shook off his jacket, the way his shoulders dropped as he rolled up his sleeves. By the end of this routine, his father was always only in the base layer of his suit and walking away to the living room with both dinner and dessert.
He made it look easy. Being around, present enough. Just to disappear.
“How’s the schooling going there, Fred?” his father asked, appearing beside him as Fred faded back into reality, “Physics, huh? I don’t remember you choosing that class for this year.”
Fred glanced down at his papers: physics spreadsheets his teacher passed around the class weeks ago to help them through this period's curriculum, the homework he had abandoned earlier sat almost finished, and some of his notes he had taken in class.
He glanced back up at his father, “It’s been okay, Dad. I told you at the end of my Junior year I would be taking it, since I want to pursue engineering.. eventually.”
His father gave a half-hearted shrug, “Huh, who knew?”
Fred lingered on his father’s retreating frame for a couple of seconds before returning to his work. Was he always going to be this way? Fred humored the thought only slightly before the buzz of his phone snapped him back.
He took another swallow of the carbonated soda, now watery from melting ice, as he flipped open his phone to find a message notification from Velma.
It was late, sure, but Velma was one to stay up. He read the message: “Hey Freddy. Update on the—” The sound of old cartoons from the living room TV disrupted him. Does he think he lives alone, Fred asked himself, frustration growing. He read the message again:
“Hey Freddy. Update on the lake monster issue, the mayor hasn’t posted any warnings or signs about the problem. So, another set of swimmers were attacked today. Some idiots from our high school, who probably didn’t care about the last set of swimmers who ended up in the hospital.”
Fred looked back up at the countertop, sliding off his physics homework to skim over his new cage. If his father wouldn’t fix the issue, then he would.
. . .
Fred stumbled through the dark of his backyard, a binder chalked full of blueprints from previous mysteries and sketches for new designs tucked under his arm. Leaves from the hardy oak he walked beneath squelched under his feet, soaked from the rain. Thankfully, it had died down to a drizzle, only dusting his hair with droplets.
Fred found his footing on a paver that sat at the entrance of a decently large shed. It sat at the far edge of the backyard, alone if not for the oak tree to keep it company. Walking in, he was met only with musty air before flipping on the light switch to a fully organized workspace: welding MIGs, torches, and angle grinders hung against the far wall, while wire brushes, soapstones, and other smaller tools sat neatly on shelves. His scrap material leaned orderly against the wall, stacked together by type.
Fred threw open the binder on a wooden worktable, engrossing himself in the first few steps of the steel cage he needed to make. While glancing through the measurements he had hurriedly scratched down on the paper, he flipped open his phone, snapping a picture of the plans for Velma, before pausing, thumb over the send button. She didn’t need this confirmation, he coaxed himself, don’t bother her with something she already knows, because what else would he be doing if not building a trap?
The phone snapped shut, and he slipped it back into his pocket to forget about for the next few hours.
And a few hours had passed, with the rain starting back up again. Fred probably forgot himself during that time, and he wasn’t even halfway finished with the bottom steel border. Taking an aching step back to look at the heavy steel beams he had welded into a square, Fred realized he’d need.. 4 nights to finish this, maybe even a week if he was careful with himself.
“Ugh,” he groaned, slumping backwards into what seemed like a misplaced recliner, but it was how he was prepared for nights like this. When he had renovated the shed months ago, turning it into what it is now, Shaggy had stopped by and accounted for a lack of lounging amenities— and even without a heart for laborious work, brought in the recliner along with a rug, mini fridge, and end table to take up the front corner of his workplace.
Fred’s lips upturned into the slightest smile at the memory of Shaggy gleefully zipping away in the Mystery Machine to return later with all the snacks he picked out for the mini fridge’s first-ever stock up, half of which Shaggy terribly missed the mark on. Several cans of Big Ol’ Burps soda, three foil-wrapped sub sandwiches, so many probiotic drinks that Fred had a mini yogurt plight in the following days, and the only other thing Shaggy got right besides the yogurt, a handful of granola bars.
The mini fridge now sat in a less-than-ideal state, keeping cool only a couple of water bottles, a half-finished bottle of Gator(sburg)ade, and a bag of salted peanuts. He found reprieve in the soft cushions, his thumb running over the leather slowly back and forth, back and forth, back and— his thumb stopped moving.
Hmm, how effective the rain was at singing him a lullaby.
. . .
Velma sat at her desk, back in poor alignment from how close to her computer monitor she was sitting. Her glasses sat forgotten beside where she typed, her fingers jabbing quickly at the keys she barely glanced at.
Her cursor blinked at the end of a half-made message: “No one wants to believe it in this town, even my|”
She sat there, considering her next words, staring at the username of the person on the other end, shewholives_on. The sound of keys resumed clacking, Velma finishing her sentence before hitting enter. She spun her chair around to face her room. Burnt orange pillows sat atop her favorite leopard print blanket.
Seems a little far-fetched for Velma, huh? But no, this was what she loved. And the rain outside had made everything infinitely better.
The leopard print blanket, the obnoxious zebra print pillows with those annoying tassels on each corner, her candles adding that warm glow to the lush green tips of the plants she had hanging off the ceiling. Ugh, this was her element, although admittedly a little blurry since her glasses had been giving her a headache thus far.
She pushed her tiptoes off the floor and tucked her knees up to her chest, spinning the chair back around to stare into the screen. Her parents had already wandered off to bed hours earlier; it was what now? 11 p.m.? 12?
It didn’t really matter; she was waiting for a response from at least one of the two people she was talking to. Speaking of, she thought, grabbing her phone, where is that boy? She flicked the screen up and pressed on Fred’s contact: nothing. No update, which was only a little off for him.
A little, because ever since they got Daphne’s boat—well, Daphne’s father’s boat—slashed to bits by that moss-covered lake monster, she assumed he had been feeling the repercussions of that mistake from the mayor. God, imagine being the mayor’s son. But, she wagered, imagine being the daughter of parents who ran a museum built on lies.
A blip sound of a message coming in from the computer pulled Velma’s head up from her phone. shewholives_on messaged back.
shewholives_on — Instant Message
shewholives_on: “The festival the mayor put on forced everyone into this craze.”
vbug_thedbug: “No one wants to believe it in this town, even my parents think all of this is real. Even when we keep proving them wrong.”
shewholives_on: “I believe you.”
shewholives_on: . . .
Velma smiled. Finally, someone. She reached out with one hand to type out her reply. Another blip sound came with shewholives_on’s next message: “Have you read the history of this place?”
For once, Velma realized, no, no she hadn’t. She backspaced what she initially wrote and typed out a new message: “No. Have you?”
shewholives_on — Instant Message
Even when we keep proving them wrong.”
shewholives_on: “I believe you.”
shewholives_on: “Have you read the history of this place?”
vbug_thedbug: “No. Have you?”
shewholives_on: “It was the first thing I did.”
First thing they did? Before what? Yet, before Velma could answer, the phone in her hand buzzed.
She flipped her phone open, eyes meeting the alert “1 message.” Velma pressed the center button and opened it. Fred’s mistyped words greeted her: “Rotty, fell asleeo."
Velma sighed, the back of the chair giving way as she leaned back. “Did you even see my update?”
“Yea, I did.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You’re the traps expert, Fred!”
“Oh, yeah, I have something.”
Thank god he was getting something done about it. She thought about designing her own warning signs for the lakeside campsite, doing work the mayor should’ve thought about weeks ago. A lie like “Acid Lake, Don’t Swim,” or even a hospitalization counter now standing at 7, if she had done her math correctly. Velma sent a quick “<3” before returning her attention to the computer.
But, she’d have to get her answers another time.
shewholives_on — Instant Message
shewholives_on: “I believe you.”
shewholives_on: “Have you read the history of this place?”
vbug_thedbug: “No. Have you?”
shewholives_on: “It was the first thing I did.”
shewholives_on has signed out.