noteasytobepink | Wheelsy AU ~ Phonecall 1

Wheelsy AU ~ Phonecall 1

Starla tapped her fingers on the counter and held the phone tucked next to her ear. It was clean, and neat, but not exactly the color she'd wanted for her kitchen. She'd have to see if the rental agreement would let her change the counters to something lighter, something less black marble and more wood perhaps? A light pine? Regardless, it was something to think about while the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Of course Bill wasn't home, it was the middle of the day over on that coast! Why had she thought he might be? She nibbled a lip and heard the distinctive rattle of the answering machine getting ready to click over. All the money the government had thrown at Wheelsy to get it rebuilt from it's 'natural disaster' and Bill still hadn't upgraded to a better machine. "You still have a tape, Bill?" she laughed when it finally clicked on. "Still? Haven't I been telling you to upgrade since before I came out here? What happened to the one I got you for Christmas? I eve put a nice recording on it for you!" He was still Bill. Ever, and always, Bill.

"Anyway, that part I told you about? I got it! Not even an understudy, isn't that great?" She was beaming ta her kitchen, a bright, accomplished smile. "It's just like I dreamed back when we were little!" Oh, click, message ended. Oh she hadn't even...

...right, dialing back, listening to the rings. "Sorry about that. You need a better machine Bill! Anyway, I was wondering if you could get the 15th and 16th off next month? I've been saving a bit and I do still need an escort to the premier of our movie. Call me back alright?"

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He was half waiting for her to keep persuing the subject, and so her joke had the intended effect of ending things without starting them again.

"G'night."

He dialed the volume louder on SportsCenter, and slumped deeper into the chair.

She was right about the beer, he'd be spending the rest of the evening clearing out the fridge of them.

And she was totally changing back into real clothing and going out the window like a teenager. There'd be more beer in the fridge in the morning. And probably aspirin laid out on the table for him as well.

It felt good to be moving after all that. Good to be moving, and to do fighting routines, and to explore just how many of the trees near his house had branches she could run along...

...and to watch the sun come up from atop his roof, a beer in her hand as her one concession to the pain in her shoulder now.

He had a nice roof? If she fell asleep up there she would totally blame him somehow.

For Bill's part he passed out in the armchair; empty bottles lined up along the edge of the coffee table, and one tucked against his side.

He awoke with a groggy groan, scrubbing his face and blearily looking around, trying to place his surroundings.

It only took him a minute or two to remember last night, and he winced in regret when he rememberd how things had ended.

Dragging himself out of his chair, he headed down the hallway and, after much hesitation, lightly knocked on her door.

"Clarice?"

Her door swung open easily, not locked, not latched and...well, breeze from the window. She'd apologize later? And pay for wasted heat if the heater was on? She hadn't checked honestly.

Luckily enough she heard him though, his voice carrying through the open window. It was enough to make her lean down, head and hair dangling upside down in the window. "Huh? Yeah?"

He blinked at the empty room, then blinked again when she appeared in the window.

Upside down.

"Wh-- what're you doin'?"

"...I was sitting on the roof and sipping a beer?" And now she was obviously half-dangling off a roof to talk to him? "Join me? It's an awesome roof."

"It's-- " Bill glances around, but there aren't any clocks and he can't read his watch.

"Mornin'."

Which is not really a time for drinking, or for hanging out on the roof.

"Yes, it's technically morning, but I haven;t slept and you haven't slept properly I bet, so we can still make a valid argument for it being night. Get up here."

He'd deny it, but if he looked how he felt there would be no point.

Instead he declined.

"I'm like t'fall off right now. Come in, I'll make somethin' t'eat."

Something to eat might be a good idea, with the unpleasant waves rolling over and through him from last night.

"Oh...good point. Here, hold this." She reached back up with her good arm to snag her beer and pass it through the window to him. That way her only good arm was free to snag the eaves and slowly lower herself. She made that amount of muscle control look easy? It was a hero thing.

"What's for dinner/breakfast then? Hmmm, dinfest? Breakdin?" God, she missed Morph.

He took her beer and held his arm out to catch or steady her if needed.

Wrinkling his nose at her mix and match name suggestions, he stepped out of the way when she was inside.

"Biscuits."

They were quick, easy, and kind to the hungover.

Heading for the kitchen, Bill began to pull items from the cabinets and fridge; working mostly on autopilot, eyes set at half-mast.

She didn't need steadying or catching, but she would need some sleep after the meal if her yawn was anything to go by? She reclaimed her beer anyway and casually bumped him on her way past. It was a reassurance bump?

"Bill, I did put aspirin out for you," she remarked once they were safely in the kitchen. How did she know he hadn't seen them? They were STILL ON THE TABLE. And...biscuits. That was it?

"Sit down Sheriff, it hurts to look at you on autopilot. I can make biscuits."

Bill shook his head, adding flour to a bowl with no need to measure.

"No offense, but you ain't got the right accent t'make proper biscuits."

Other ingredients go in, including buttermilk, and Bill starts mixing up the dough.

"If you could get some coffee goin' I'd appreciate it, though."

He needed it. And yes, the aspirin when he had something to take it with.

"...because apparently the way I talk to the dough makes it turn out wrong." She noted, torn between amused and slightly offended. She'd never had anyone tell her her biscuits were bad? Anyway.

Coffee.

Luckily it was an easy process to figure out and there were directions on the back of the coffee tin anyway. She added a little extra for stronger coffee and...yay it worked. Or started working. They'd see how it was when it was done.

He quirked a small smile, and dusted the countertop with flour, getting ready to roll out the dough.

"There're a few things we take real serious here in the South; biscuits, fried chicken, an' pecan pie. You can't get 'em right anywhere else but down home."

With the dough rolled out, he opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass and used that to start cutting his rounds.

"I'm sure yours are just fine, but these are my mama's, an' just can't any other compare."

"Ah, forget things like Politics, Global Warming, or Social Advancement. The true issues are simple and entirely food oriented." She chuckled and sat down on a chair so she could watch him without stealing Southern Secrets.

She didn't want those secrets after all since he seemed to enjoy them so much.

"You often revert to Momma's cooking after too much beer? Is this a cure all I should know about?"

"Exactly," he agreed on what's important.

With the biscuits cut out, he set to putting them on a baking sheet; a shadow of a frown crossing his features on her questions.

"Growin' up, I didn't pay much attention to what my mom was doin' in the kitchen. I'd help out once in awhile, but I never learned what I should have."

The sheet of biscuits goes into the oven and Bill picks up the plastic chicken kitchen timer on the counter and sets it.

"It wasn't 'til later, when I realized I wasn't gonna have anyone takin' care of me, that I went back an' asked her to show me how."

Pulling out a pot, he starts the burner on the stove and begins making Southern style gravy.

"Sometimes y'just need a little bit of home."

She folded her good arm on the table and rested her chin on her wrist, watching him, then chuckled. "Mr. Creed used to say, all the time 'Sure, it's nice to think someone will take care of you but you gotta face it. People get hurt, people leave, and people die. In all those cases you're left alone, so you are going to damn well learn to do for yourself, and just be grateful when someone else offers'." The impression was full of rumbly snarling, as if Mr. Creed was just this side of a humanoid tiger or lion.

Either that or a really angry man most the time.

"Damned if he wasn't right."

Bill chuckled at the impression, and nodded in agreement to the words.

"Livin' alone ain't so bad, but y'gotta know how to do it."

The gravy was thick and creamy (and lump free!), and Bill turned off the burner just as the chicken on the counter 'dinged'.

Laying a clean dish towel into a bowl, Bill plucked the biscuits from the hot baking sheet and dropped them into the little terry cloth nest; wrapping them up and passing them over to Clarice to set on the table.

The gravy ended up on the table, along with a jar of strawberry and one of grape jelly. And of course, butter.

Passing Clarice a plate and a fork and butter knife, Bill sat down with his own and a cup of coffee.

"Alright now, this is how we do it."

Slicing one of the warm, flaky biscuits in half, Bill spread butter on both sides before putting it back together. He then set the biscuit on the middle of his plate, and ladled a healthy serving of gravy over it.

"Well, Mr. Creed is a very skill oriented person. If it can be learned, it should be learned, that way no matter what happens you're not helpless." She chuckled and eyed the whole biscuit setup. Butter she could agree with, sometimes jam, sometimes not...gravy was with meat and stew though and there was a complete lack of either.

"You know your ancestors here in the great South lands started eating this in order to trick their bodies into believing they'd had meat right?" Yep, teasing, but hell if she wasn't going to try it.

"Eh,".

That 'eh' was like a slap, and Bill looked for a moment like he'd received one.

"Hm. Sorry it ain't what you're lookin' for. If I weren't so hungover I'd of made it with sausage."

He'd have to try that next time and see if it rated any better.

The truth was, though, that this was comfort food. She was right about the meat thing, but it wasn't just his ancestors. Growing up, Bill and his mom didn't have a lot, and so biscuits and gravy was something warm and heavy to fill an empty belly.

"I got honey, or mustard, if you'd rather have some of that. Or you can have somethin' else an' I'll handle these. Looks like I made a lot, but if I take 'em down to the station they'll get snatched up quick."

She reached out to pat his shoulder consolingly. "I grew up with Mr. Creed. He is a mutant, like me, but different? Very much a carnivore. He would get sick if he skipped meat too often, so I guess I'm used to it? If it isn't on hand I tend to hunt it just out of habit, but I really do prefer store stuff these days." Because living off squirrel was doable, yes, just not a lot of fun.

"I'll finish this, don't fret." Another childhood lesson: Never waste food.

"I don't hunt, but if you feel the need you'll have t'get a permit." Ever the cop, even half dead.

Grabbing the aspirin off the table finally, Bill swallowed them and chased them down with some coffee.

He polished off one biscuit, and helped himself to another; heaping on the gravy since it didn't seem like Clarice was going to mind.

"Nope, I am well acquainted with the store now, which means no hunting." Thankfully! Unless when the proper season came he wanted her to hunt of course, to stock his freezer back up.

To be fair she tried his biscuits with every topping he supplied (both jams, butter alone, mustard) and settled for biscuits with butter (and maybe cheese) as the best route. Gods alone knew where she put all that food, she had to have a hell of a metabolism, but she did give everything an equal try. "Mustard. I'm pretty sure you suggested mustard as a joke now." Ew ew ew. Yes, she was finally leaning back in her chair with the rest of her beer.

Not really. The venison she'd found was a gift from someone, and the fact that it'd been sitting in his freezer since last deer season was a show of how often he actually ate the stuff.

Bill had three biscuits and all of the gravy, and half of one with some jam on it before he pushed his plate aside.

Hunching on his elbows on the table, he gave a short chuckle and shook his head.

"Nope. Some folks like 'em that way. 'Course, some folks like mustard in everything; biscuits, grits, fries... I like it with baloney sandwiches myself, but not on the rest."

He sipped his coffee, nursing the warmth between his hands.

"I reckon you'll find a lot about us strange, an' vice versa. Don't know if you've got that kind of regional differences where you're from, but they're pretty strong here."

Wheelsy AU ~ Phonecall 1

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