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Entry tags:
fic: in the right direction
Title: In the Right Direction
Fandom: Run, Fatboy, Run
Rating: PG-13, for cursing?
Characters: Dennis Doyle, Libby O'Dell, Gordon O'Dell, Jake O'Dell
Notes: Set immediately after the close of the film (not the very end, but the end before that), which means -- GIANT SPOILERS. This is the first (and longest) in a series of vignettes exploring the time between the climax of the movie and the sort-of-epilogue. It's also the only one I've finished so far. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fightingthecage, coffeeshopnight, and gypsyjr (and possibly other people who I've forgotten!) for helping in various stages.
Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or situations from the film, and I am gaining no profit from this; it's just for fun. I am not British, also, so any errors in that regard are mine and mine alone.
Dennis Doyle’s moment of triumph wound up being something of a blur, thanks to blinding pain and the coexisting struggle and desire to keep drawing air into his lungs. But he remembered seeing Libby and Jake under the finish line; remembered the way that their voices echoed and their worried faces blurred, and remembered that he had known, the sort of knowing that knocked you upside the head and rattled your brain, that got down into you as deep as it could, sinking its hooks in – he could not let them down. Not again.
So Dennis remembered Libby and Jake most of all. When he’d first seen them standing over that finish line, he’d been a little afraid they were figments of his imagination, like that wall – awfully Pink Floyd, wasn’t that? When he’d collapsed into Libby’s arms, though, he’d been forced to recognize that they were solid and very real, and Libby was telling him what a stupid thing that had been to do while Jake seemed dead set on crawling all over him and Dennis didn’t mind one bit, because it meant that he could grab him and never let him go; kiss his head and wind an arm tight around him, with more strength than he’d thought he had left.
He’d known that he had to refrain from passing out, A) because it would be in front of Libby and Jake, B) because it would be on national television, and C) because he had something he had to say. It took a minute to remember it, through the pain coming from the leg that felt like it had been caught in a bear trap and/or had spent several hours being pounded with a cricket bat, through the exhaustion and his head attempting implosion and the way his lungs weren’t working quite right, but he remembered what he had to tell Libby.
“Don’t go to Chicago.”
He thought he even said it, too.
After that, things got a little blurry. He didn’t open his eyes much; Libby was holding him and Jake was on him and his leg was twisted out on the cold pavement, as if keeping it as far as possible from his body would disassociate his ankle from the rest of him. There were voices, snippets of dialogue here and there, and a whole lot of hands touching him.
“He has a son! I didn’t know he had a son!”
“Dennis! Oho Dennis, you’re beautiful, you’re the love of my life; I promise, any time you want to borrow a couple’ve quid now, I’ll only laugh a little—”
“Looks like it’s broken; get him up here—”
“Dad! Dad! Mum chucked Whit!”
“—nbelieveable! Ladies and gentlemen, this presenter has never seen anything like this in all his living days—”
“You’re not all going to fit in the ambulance. Who’s coming?”
“Why not—”
“I am—”
“Mum!”
“Go on, Lib. Jake an’ me’ll follow in a cab.”
“Mum!”
“… Thank you, Gordon.”
“But Mum—!”
“Steady, little man. We’ll be right behind, I promise you that.”
Dennis might have been out of it, but he wasn’t about to forget something like Libby’s hand in his, in the ambulance. Even if it was accompanied by her telling him—slightly hysterically, he thought—what a foolish thing running had been to do, and that he hadn’t had to prove himself to her like that.
Yes, I did, he thought, but when he opened his mouth to tell her that, it came out, “Ow.”
If he passed out at some point, they were all too kind to remind him of it later.
Hospital was where things got even fuzzier, thanks to what Gordon—he’s pretty sure it was Gordon—told him were some top-notch painkillers. Everything turned all – pink and sort of wobbly, and people kept prodding his fucking foot, and by the end of it, he was perfectly cognizant of the fact that he was sitting in a wheelchair and swimming up to his eyeballs in drugs.
“I’ll need to release Mr. Doyle to someone,” said the bear in a white coat. Right, no, the hairy man in a white coat. Hairy man in a white coat. Possibly he was the doctor? “He certainly shouldn’t go home alone.”
Libby – and she was always Libby, mind-altering substances or not, even if her curls seemed to be moving independently of one another – pressed her hand to the corner of her mouth.
Leather coat – Gordon, Gordon said brightly, “Where do I sign for the bastard?”
“Gordon,” Libby started, a few curls writhing in agitation, but Gordon shook his head.
“I owe him my unbroken legs and a couple hundred thousand quid, Libby. I can spend a couple’ve days making sure he doesn’t fall down any stairs or drown himself in the toilet.” Gordon looked at the bear. Doctor. “It is only a couple’ve days, right?”
“—Right,” said the doctor. Bear. Doctor Behr! Dennis remembered that part now. “Mr. Doyle will need the most assistance for the first several days, though he isn’t to start putting any weight on that leg until he has a physician’s approval.” (Dennis was the oblivious recipient of a stern, disapproving look.) “He’s very fortunate not to need corrective surgery, after running on that ankle. Once the swelling has gone down in a few days, he’ll need to go to the fracture clinic I’ve given you the number of and get a more permanent plaster on. They’re the experts, but I can say with some confidence that Mr. Doyle should be in a cast and on crutches for six weeks.”
Dennis said, “Six weeks?” but it came out as a zombie-like groan. They all turned to look at him.
Gordon clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
“Right, Mr. …”
“Gordon,” Gordon supplied.
“… Mr. Gordon. If you’ll come this way to fill out some paperwork—” Gordon willingly followed the doctor off to a dark corner of the waiting room. Dennis looked twice as they crossed into shadow, just to be sure that Dr. Behr didn’t transform into anything big and tall and furry, but he didn’t.
He was pretty sure.
“Dad!” was all the warning Dennis got before something was clambering up his legs and into his lap, using his ankle as a ladder rung in the process. Dennis sucked a breath in through his teeth in a concerted effort to choke back a scream (he succeeded – mostly).
Jake froze, sitting on Dennis’ knees, his eyes wide.
“ S’alright,” Dennis said, struggling to make one word distinct from the next, and having to fight valiantly just to have enough coordination to wave away Libby—who looked about to haul Jake off of him—with one hand. “’m alright, Snuhface.”
“Really?” Jake asked, his voice thin.
Dennis put forth the Herculean effort needed to keep his eyes from spontaneously crossing, and he looked right at the small, worried face passing in and out of his line of sight. “I swear.”
Jake gnawed on his lower lip for a moment longer, and then he hesitantly smiled.
Dennis thought that his return expression probably looked more like a grimace or a menacing lip curl than a smile, but hey – he tried.
* * * * *
There was something ringing inside Dennis’ brain, drilling into his skull by way of his ears, and shaking his brain to liquid, or, at the very least, gel.
“Awuuurkgod,” he said, waving an arm out blindly, in the direction that did not involve the back of the sofa. His hand hit several items – glass, he categorized, can, channel changer, napkins – aha! He grabbed the blocky object and held it to his ear. “H’lo?”
The ringing went on unabated. He cracked an eyelid to find that he was trying to answer his alarm clock. “Fuck!” he said, immediately regretting the attempt at speech through a dry mouth, and he felt along the table again. This time, he came up with his battered mobile, and by some minor miracle, switched it on before he got it near his head.
“Nurk,” he said.
“Dad?”
“Jake.” As he said it, he found himself trying to sit up straighter, then wishing he hadn’t, as he whacked his enormous ankle against the sofa arm that it was elevated on, and the world spun dangerously and his stomach contents lurched. “Aghfuck!”
“…Daddy? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, covering his eyes with his hand. “Yeah, ’m okay, Jake.”
Silence. “Really?”
“Really really. ’s fine.” If not entirely sure that Gordon had been giving him the right dosages of painkillers. Where the hell was Gordon, anyway?
And why were the trousers he’d been wearing earlier on the coffee table?
They sat alongside a full ashtray (one of the cigarette butts in it was still giving off a thin stream of smoke) shaped like an elephant ear, a Joanie Mitchell record, and a watch, a ring, and a woman’s bracelet, all of which were the wrong size to belong to Gordon. Something else rested under an old copy of the Sun, left open to page three.
There was no way, Dennis reflected momentarily, as he raised his left foot to shift the newspaper aside and as Jake happily chattered on over the phone, that those were real.
All thoughts of the page three models were driven from his head, though, as he was confronted with a dirty athletic supporter. Given that Gordon avoided any and all strenuous activity like the plague, Dennis didn’t want to know who the jockstrap belonged to or how long it had been on Gordon’s coffee table.
He had enough presence of mind to avoid saying, ‘That’s disgusting’ aloud, as Jake was still talking, but his nose wrinkled. He casted about and came up with what looked like a polished stick from days in primary school, which the teacher would use to point out distant items on the blackboard, and also to slam on the desks of unsuspecting students who were stupid enough to fall asleep in class. Dennis discovered, on further inspection, that there was a clay apple at the end of the handle, and decided that he didn’t want to know why Gordon had this.
“Yeah,” he said absently, in response to Jake’s inquisitive tone. With the pointer firmly in hand, he nudged the athletic supporter off the table and out of sight.
That was when he realized that the Sun was smoking. Literally.
He’d pushed the tabloid on top of the ashtray, and the embers of a cigarette had apparently been hot enough to set it on fire.
“Shit,” Dennis hissed, and then he hurriedly said, “No, not you, buddy,” as he grabbed the glass of water from the table and dumped it over the ashtray.
As the spark went WHOOMCH and roared up into a full-fledged flame, Dennis was forced to admit that that glass of colorless, odorless liquid probably hadn’t been water.
Dennis stared blankly for a moment, and then he grabbed the first thing that came to hand – which happened to be Gordon’s trousers – and beat at the fire.
“Yeah,” he said distractedly to Jake’s voice, the phone clenched between his shoulder and his ear, “yeah, that’d be fine—”
A spark hit Dennis’s finger, and he jerked his hand back with a whimper of, “Hot, hot!” Spotting what he knew was a glass of water, that he was almost 100% certain he’d left on the end table under the lamp a few hours ago, he yelled into the mobile, “Just a minute!” and wrangled his way up. His body immediately made its displeasure known, mainly through severe vertigo and the floor shifting dramatically under him, but he persevered, lunging on one leg for the glass.
White dots flashing across Dennis’s vision like strobe lights, he threw water over the merrily crackling fire, and it sizzled into a smoking mess of wet cinders.
Panting, he stared at the sodden pile of burned celluloid, for a moment, and then he picked up the phone. “…Here.”
Silence.
“Snuhface?”
Dennis realized, after another pause, that Jake had hung up.
* * * * *
Gordon yanked the door open as it buzzed once again, saying, “Alright, alright already, I’m coming—” and found himself face-to-face with his favourite cousin.
“—Libby,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. A half-second’s pause, as he realized that Jake’s hand was still on the buzzer, and mostly as Gordon tried to rationalise the pair’s sudden presence on his doorstep. “You’re on my doorstep.”
Libby nudged Jake in front of her with a hand on his back. “Jake wanted to see how Dennis is getting on.”
Oh, said Gordon’s eloquent raised eyebrow, so Jake wanted to see how Dennis was getting on, did he? Libby didn’t react, though he imagined she coloured faintly. “—Um,” he said diplomatically. “I don’t know if now’s really the best time.”
Libby frowned, her hand coming to rest on Jake’s shoulder. “Jake called and spoke to Dennis; he said it was alright for him to come by now.”
Gordon laughed. “Dennis said it was alright? Libby, Dennis is a vegetable.” He gestured broadly with one hand. “He hasn’t said anything in two days but ‘ow’ and ‘fuck.’ ” He paused for a half-second. “And maybe ‘what.’ ”
“He said ‘shit,’ too,” piped in the highest of the three voices, causing Gordon to frown a moment before remembering to look down. Jake was staring up at him from under that ridiculous fur hat, face worried. “Is Daddy alright?”
Ah shit. “Uh—”
“He’s fine, sweetheart,” said Libby, squeezing Jake’s shoulder. In an undertone as she looked back up: “Gordon, is he really that bad off?”
“Nah. Well—” Gordon considered. “Nah. He mostly sleeps all day and slurs like Great Uncle Bartemius.” It’s the flat that’s really that bad off.
“Go on, Jakey,” said Libby, giving him a gentle push, and the boy ducked past Gordon and sprinted up the stairs.
“Hey,” Gordon protested, as Libby followed. He closed the door behind her and went up the stairs after her. “I didn’t invite you in, you know. That would have been a real problem, if you’d been vampires.” Libby tutted lightly; Gordon’s eyes alighted on the box tucked under her arm. “What’s that?”
She moved the box more securely against her hip as Gordon made an unsuccessful poke at it. Climbing the last step and walking along the landing, she said over her shoulder, “Just some leftovers from dinner last night. I thought the two of you would be living on lager and stale—” She stopped dead in the doorway.
Behind her, Gordon frowned, then peered over her shoulder. “What? What’s the matter with you?”
“It’s – it’s even worse than I’d thought it would be,” Libby said, staring at the disastrous disorder laid out in every possible direction inside the flat.
“What?” asked Gordon defensively. “I cleaned. I threw away all the old takeaway from the counter for His Nibs.”
“Gordon—”
A loud yell rose from within the flat, and a higher-pitched one started a split second after. Gordon instinctively ducked.
Libby, however, was off like a shot – “Jake!” – with Gordon following several, less hurried, steps behind.
In the living room, Dennis lay sprawled across the sofa, which was just about the only surface in the room not blanketed with miscellaneous items, with his bandaged fat ankle propped up and Jake leaning over him. From the look on Dennis’s face, he’d just woken up; from the two sets of wide eyes and Dennis’s hands on Jake’s shoulders, he’d woken to find Jake’s face a few inches from his.
“Snuh – Jake,” Dennis was saying, slurry. “What – what… What?”
“Told you,” said Gordon in an undertone to Libby, ignoring the fact that Dennis had also said ‘Jake’ and ‘Snuh,’ and then he raised his voice. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you apparently told Jake to come on over the last time you were awake. That was in addition to burning my trousers and page three of the Sun.”
Jake was talking at the same time. “Your foot looks like it’s going to fall off,” he informed Dennis doubtfully.
Dennis glanced over in Gordon’s general direction, then squinted down at his ankle in no small concern. Libby had seen enough. “Jakey, your dad’s not feeling very well,” she said. “Come on, we’ll let him rest.”
“No,” said Dennis, his voice muffled as he struggled into a sitting position. “No, I’m fine. Libby, ‘m fine.”
“You don’t look fine, Dennis!”
“I feel it!” he insisted, holding himself up on one elbow.
Jake clung to Dennis’s neck; Dennis reflexively put an arm around him. “Please, Mum? Can we please stay?”
Libby looked at both sets of pleading eyes, and she sighed. “For a little while.”
“Yes!” cheered Jake, and Dennis grinned at him, his eyes unfocused.
“Only a little while!” Libby reminded them, but she was waved off by two hands, one significantly smaller than the other.
“Come on.” Gordon set his hands on her shoulders and steered her into the kitchen. “Let ‘em do that weird connecty thing they do in peace. The kitchen could use some of – whatever it is you brought.”
“Oh, Gordon,” said Libby, as she was unceremoniously ushered over the threshold. She stopped in her tracks. “This is atrocious.” The mess flowed smoothly from the range to the countertops to the sink to the floor; unwashed plates and cups, old napkins, empty bottles, ashtrays, several plates that had been used as ashtrays, photos, blank CDs, dirty socks, and elephant figurines.
“It’s not so bad,” Gordon protested, moving to lean casually against a pile of newspapers on the counter. His eyebrows knitted, and then he smacked at something on the countertop and went on as if nothing had happened. “Not so bad at all.”
Libby shook her head, set down the box of chicken and sautéed vegetables on the one hob on the range that wasn’t already covered by a pot of something orange and congealing, and rolled up her sleeves. “You could be a little nicer to Dennis,” she said tartly, gesturing at Gordon with the pot she’d just taken off the range.
“I am being nice to him,” said Gordon. “I’m being perfectly nice. I don’t know how much nicer it gets than helping somebody to, from, and in the toilet.”
She continued as if he hadn’t said anything, placing the pot in the sink and running the faucet. “After all, he did save you, Gordon.”
“Libby,” Gordon said, and when she looked over at him, he was looking back at her with that knowing expression that made an appearance every once in a long while; kind and aware and disconcertingly perceptive. “Do you really think he did it for me?”
“Well, I— W—” Libby glanced away, uncomfortable and immediate, and set about bustling again, moving dirty dishes into the sink. “This is easy enough to reheat,” she said, without looking at him over her shoulder, as she placed the container of leftovers on the counter. “You just need to set the microwave on low for five minutes.”
“Uh huh,” said Gordon, and Libby didn’t have to be looking at him to sense his infuriating smile. He leaned over and kissed her cheek from behind her. “Thanks, Lib.” He ruffled her hair.
“Gordon!” she protested with a laugh, swatting at his hand.
“What? I’m not allowed to show affection to my devastatingly attractive cousin?”
“You’re disturbing,” said Libby, but there was still a hint of a smile as she smacked his arm. “Do your dishes.”
Gordon stared at her, blankly. “…Why?”
Libby glanced about the kitchen, and plucked an egg-encrusted spatula out from under the remnants of an ancient spice rack. “You know, Jake told me about Dennis’s landlord and the spatula,” she said, brandishing it after shooting it a distasteful look. “I’m pretty good with one of these, myself.”
“Oooh,” said Gordon. “Kinky.”
“Gordon!”
“Okay, okay!” yelped Gordon, shuffling toward the sink with the aid of Libby’s smack. “I’m going on! You know, you are just as bossy as you were when we were kids. I almost preferred it when you shoved dirt in my face.”
“I’m not bossy,” said Libby, shooting him a look. “I’m looking out for you. You can’t live like this.”
“Now, that’s where you’re mistaken.” He stopped chuckling abruptly as she went to step out of the kitchen. “Hey,” he said, sharp and insistent. “You can’t abandon me to, to clean!”
“I’m not bringing you any more food until you have something clean to eat it off of,” said Libby tartly.
“…You wouldn’t.”
Libby smiled at him, sweetly.
His mouth set in a petulant line, Gordon turned on the tap and started rolling up his sleeves.
Libby, smiling wider, stepped out of the kitchen and back into the other room, where she found Jake sitting with (half-on) Dennis, laughing.
“That’s not real!” said Jake.
“It is,” said Dennis, still slurring. “It’s very real.”
“Daaa-aaad.”
“What sorts of nonsense is your dad filling your head with?” asked Libby, picking her way toward them, across the minefield of dirty clothes and ripped magazines and bits of ceiling plaster.
Jake turned his small face up to her. “Dad says there’s a shark with ruffles on it, and it’s like a dinosaur.”
“Does he?” asked Libby, mildly, taking one look at the state of the only other chair in the room, and choosing to sit on the sofa instead. She sat, after a few seconds’ awkward pause, by Dennis’s knee, careful to maintain at least four or five inches of space between the two of them, and extra cautious not to touch his bad ankle.
“There is,” said Dennis. “They found it in January off the coast of Japan. They thought this thing was extinct, til they got a live one. I’d tell you the scientific name, but I can’t pronounce it.”
Libby stared at him, mouth agape.
Dennis reached around Jake and picked up an edition of The Guardian from the table. He tapped his finger on the date: 26 January 2007. Ten months old.
“Gordon,” said Libby, shaking her head, and she almost laughed.
“Is that from today?” Jake asked, making an excited grab for the newspaper.
Dennis let him take it, blinking. “No. Do you have a deep and abiding interest in current affairs that no one’s told me about?”
Jake giggled. “No,” he said. “Only when you’re on the front page.”
“I – huh?”
Libby sighed. “What’d we say about telling your dad that, Jake?”
He pulled a miniscule face, kicking his legs. Reluctantly: “To wait til Dad felt better.”
“Huh?” said Dennis, his mouth hanging open, shifting his attention to Libby.
“You’ve – become something of a celebrity,” said Libby. “After the marathon and all.”
“Huh?”
“You’re famous!” said Jake, helpfully. “People at school ask about you.”
“What.”
“You were on the news,” Libby told him, only a little impatiently.
“I was, too, and Mum,” added Jake, with an unmistakable, ‘And it was so cool!’ face.
“Business has been a little mad ever since. It was how we knew you were still running. Jakey,” said Libby, and she rubbed Jake’s head, “has got some keen eyes.”
“Muuuuuum,” Jake complained.
Dennis, meanwhile, only had eyes for Libby. “Then you did come to the finish line on purpose?” he asked, his eyes steadily growing more lucid. Libby’s mouth opened and closed.
There was a sudden, loud clatter in the other room. “Hey!” yelled Gordon from the kitchen. “Short stuff! I need a hand here! Chop chop!”
Dennis gave Jake a nudge. “Go on, buddy.”
“Okay,” said Jake, and with a glance at his dad, he obediently trotted off.
Libby half-laughed in the sudden silence, rueful and desperate to change the subject. “Not the most subtle man, is he?”
“Who, Jake?” Dennis asked, pulling a face. “Nah.” When Libby didn’t laugh, he sobered. “Nah. Um, Libby – thank you. For coming at the end of the marathon.”
“Of course,” she said, momentary fluster handled. “W— Jake was awfully worried about you.”
He chuckled, quietly. “I looked that bad off, huh?”
“You looked awful,” she said frankly, and he laughed, “Aheh, aheh,” again. Libby bit her lip, and glanced at him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Um,” said Dennis. “Great. Never better.”
She smiled and laughed a little, softly. She folded her hands in her lap.
Dennis watched her, for a moment, and then he scrunched his face up and went for it. “Did you really chuck Whit, or was that just the pain talking?”
Libby’s smile faded. She held up her ringless hand.
“I’m sorry, Libby.”
She stared at him. “—What?”
If Dennis were standing, he would be shuffling his feet. As it was, he glanced down at the sofa, his eyebrows furrowing. “I know that you liked the guy. It couldn’t have been easy.”
Libby looked at him for a long minute. She didn’t say anything, but she might as well have, her eyes softer than Dennis had seen in years. She cleared her expression with a toss of her head. “Actually,” she said, setting her mouth in the fierce line that Dennis knew all too well, “it was easier than you’d think. You should have heard what he said to Jake.”
Dennis immediately shoved himself up on one elbow. “He said something to Jake?”
“He shouted at him; called him a little shit,” said Libby through pursed lips.
He sucked in an involuntary breath through his teeth. “That shithead.”
She frowned, but only a little. “Well,” she said, and she glanced up from where she’d been momentarily contemplating her knees, “you judged him right all along.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You said he was a twat right from the start.”
He made a consider-y face. “Actually, I said he was an arsehole.”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry,” he said, reflexively. “But I wasn’t – I didn’t judge him, Libby. I just – automatically disliked him, and then it just so happened that he turned out to be a twat.”
Libby said nothing for a long moment, her eyes downcast. Finally, gamely, as she looked up again: “I thought he was an arsehole.”
“Actually, to do it proper, he was a shithead.”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry.”
She was watching her fingers, resting on her knees. “Still, you saw that he was – whatever he was, before I saw it.” She looked up at him, sadness – and a little guilt – writ large across her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”
Something in his chest lurched at the look on her face; his hand twitched with the painful impulse to reach for hers. “Didn’t have much reason to,” he said. “I wasn’t exactly the most unprejudiced judge of character.” Not when it came to Libby’s boyfriends.
She smiled, swift and small and fleeting. “I know.” That tiny smile faded. “It was very stupid, you know. What you did.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Dennis,” she said, quiet and reproachful. “I mean it.”
More seriously, he told her, “I know.”
“I’m not sure you do,” said Libby firmly. “You didn’t have to run a marathon on a broken ankle to win my respect.” She glanced from his hands to his face. “You already had that.”
Dennis swallowed, hard. “Oh,” he said. Neither of them said a word, until Libby finally looked away. “Now you tell me.”
Libby smiled, and like that, the quiet tension, fraught with old (and new) emotion, had vanished. She lowered her voice, glancing toward the kitchen. “Will you be okay? If we leave you here.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Dennis said, with a wave of his hand. “We’re good.”
“Okay,” she said, and she rose from her seat on the table. “I’ve just got to – Jake—” She motioned toward the kitchen; Dennis nodded, vehemently, to show that he understood.
Libby took exactly six and a half steps toward the kitchen before she stopped, made a decision, and turned back around. “Would it be alright if I brought Jake ‘round again on Friday?”
Dennis stared at her for a moment. Then he began to smile, startled and quiet and honest. “Yeah. Yeah, Friday would be great.”
“Great,” said Libby, and she took a step toward the kitchen.
Gordon’s voice carried well, as it always did. “Does this mean you’re bringing more chicken on Friday?”
Fandom: Run, Fatboy, Run
Rating: PG-13, for cursing?
Characters: Dennis Doyle, Libby O'Dell, Gordon O'Dell, Jake O'Dell
Notes: Set immediately after the close of the film (not the very end, but the end before that), which means -- GIANT SPOILERS. This is the first (and longest) in a series of vignettes exploring the time between the climax of the movie and the sort-of-epilogue. It's also the only one I've finished so far. Thanks to
fightingthecage, coffeeshopnight, and gypsyjr (and possibly other people who I've forgotten!) for helping in various stages.Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or situations from the film, and I am gaining no profit from this; it's just for fun. I am not British, also, so any errors in that regard are mine and mine alone.
Dennis Doyle’s moment of triumph wound up being something of a blur, thanks to blinding pain and the coexisting struggle and desire to keep drawing air into his lungs. But he remembered seeing Libby and Jake under the finish line; remembered the way that their voices echoed and their worried faces blurred, and remembered that he had known, the sort of knowing that knocked you upside the head and rattled your brain, that got down into you as deep as it could, sinking its hooks in – he could not let them down. Not again.
So Dennis remembered Libby and Jake most of all. When he’d first seen them standing over that finish line, he’d been a little afraid they were figments of his imagination, like that wall – awfully Pink Floyd, wasn’t that? When he’d collapsed into Libby’s arms, though, he’d been forced to recognize that they were solid and very real, and Libby was telling him what a stupid thing that had been to do while Jake seemed dead set on crawling all over him and Dennis didn’t mind one bit, because it meant that he could grab him and never let him go; kiss his head and wind an arm tight around him, with more strength than he’d thought he had left.
He’d known that he had to refrain from passing out, A) because it would be in front of Libby and Jake, B) because it would be on national television, and C) because he had something he had to say. It took a minute to remember it, through the pain coming from the leg that felt like it had been caught in a bear trap and/or had spent several hours being pounded with a cricket bat, through the exhaustion and his head attempting implosion and the way his lungs weren’t working quite right, but he remembered what he had to tell Libby.
“Don’t go to Chicago.”
He thought he even said it, too.
After that, things got a little blurry. He didn’t open his eyes much; Libby was holding him and Jake was on him and his leg was twisted out on the cold pavement, as if keeping it as far as possible from his body would disassociate his ankle from the rest of him. There were voices, snippets of dialogue here and there, and a whole lot of hands touching him.
“He has a son! I didn’t know he had a son!”
“Dennis! Oho Dennis, you’re beautiful, you’re the love of my life; I promise, any time you want to borrow a couple’ve quid now, I’ll only laugh a little—”
“Looks like it’s broken; get him up here—”
“Dad! Dad! Mum chucked Whit!”
“—nbelieveable! Ladies and gentlemen, this presenter has never seen anything like this in all his living days—”
“You’re not all going to fit in the ambulance. Who’s coming?”
“Why not—”
“I am—”
“Mum!”
“Go on, Lib. Jake an’ me’ll follow in a cab.”
“Mum!”
“… Thank you, Gordon.”
“But Mum—!”
“Steady, little man. We’ll be right behind, I promise you that.”
Dennis might have been out of it, but he wasn’t about to forget something like Libby’s hand in his, in the ambulance. Even if it was accompanied by her telling him—slightly hysterically, he thought—what a foolish thing running had been to do, and that he hadn’t had to prove himself to her like that.
Yes, I did, he thought, but when he opened his mouth to tell her that, it came out, “Ow.”
If he passed out at some point, they were all too kind to remind him of it later.
Hospital was where things got even fuzzier, thanks to what Gordon—he’s pretty sure it was Gordon—told him were some top-notch painkillers. Everything turned all – pink and sort of wobbly, and people kept prodding his fucking foot, and by the end of it, he was perfectly cognizant of the fact that he was sitting in a wheelchair and swimming up to his eyeballs in drugs.
“I’ll need to release Mr. Doyle to someone,” said the bear in a white coat. Right, no, the hairy man in a white coat. Hairy man in a white coat. Possibly he was the doctor? “He certainly shouldn’t go home alone.”
Libby – and she was always Libby, mind-altering substances or not, even if her curls seemed to be moving independently of one another – pressed her hand to the corner of her mouth.
Leather coat – Gordon, Gordon said brightly, “Where do I sign for the bastard?”
“Gordon,” Libby started, a few curls writhing in agitation, but Gordon shook his head.
“I owe him my unbroken legs and a couple hundred thousand quid, Libby. I can spend a couple’ve days making sure he doesn’t fall down any stairs or drown himself in the toilet.” Gordon looked at the bear. Doctor. “It is only a couple’ve days, right?”
“—Right,” said the doctor. Bear. Doctor Behr! Dennis remembered that part now. “Mr. Doyle will need the most assistance for the first several days, though he isn’t to start putting any weight on that leg until he has a physician’s approval.” (Dennis was the oblivious recipient of a stern, disapproving look.) “He’s very fortunate not to need corrective surgery, after running on that ankle. Once the swelling has gone down in a few days, he’ll need to go to the fracture clinic I’ve given you the number of and get a more permanent plaster on. They’re the experts, but I can say with some confidence that Mr. Doyle should be in a cast and on crutches for six weeks.”
Dennis said, “Six weeks?” but it came out as a zombie-like groan. They all turned to look at him.
Gordon clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
“Right, Mr. …”
“Gordon,” Gordon supplied.
“… Mr. Gordon. If you’ll come this way to fill out some paperwork—” Gordon willingly followed the doctor off to a dark corner of the waiting room. Dennis looked twice as they crossed into shadow, just to be sure that Dr. Behr didn’t transform into anything big and tall and furry, but he didn’t.
He was pretty sure.
“Dad!” was all the warning Dennis got before something was clambering up his legs and into his lap, using his ankle as a ladder rung in the process. Dennis sucked a breath in through his teeth in a concerted effort to choke back a scream (he succeeded – mostly).
Jake froze, sitting on Dennis’ knees, his eyes wide.
“ S’alright,” Dennis said, struggling to make one word distinct from the next, and having to fight valiantly just to have enough coordination to wave away Libby—who looked about to haul Jake off of him—with one hand. “’m alright, Snuhface.”
“Really?” Jake asked, his voice thin.
Dennis put forth the Herculean effort needed to keep his eyes from spontaneously crossing, and he looked right at the small, worried face passing in and out of his line of sight. “I swear.”
Jake gnawed on his lower lip for a moment longer, and then he hesitantly smiled.
Dennis thought that his return expression probably looked more like a grimace or a menacing lip curl than a smile, but hey – he tried.
There was something ringing inside Dennis’ brain, drilling into his skull by way of his ears, and shaking his brain to liquid, or, at the very least, gel.
“Awuuurkgod,” he said, waving an arm out blindly, in the direction that did not involve the back of the sofa. His hand hit several items – glass, he categorized, can, channel changer, napkins – aha! He grabbed the blocky object and held it to his ear. “H’lo?”
The ringing went on unabated. He cracked an eyelid to find that he was trying to answer his alarm clock. “Fuck!” he said, immediately regretting the attempt at speech through a dry mouth, and he felt along the table again. This time, he came up with his battered mobile, and by some minor miracle, switched it on before he got it near his head.
“Nurk,” he said.
“Dad?”
“Jake.” As he said it, he found himself trying to sit up straighter, then wishing he hadn’t, as he whacked his enormous ankle against the sofa arm that it was elevated on, and the world spun dangerously and his stomach contents lurched. “Aghfuck!”
“…Daddy? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, covering his eyes with his hand. “Yeah, ’m okay, Jake.”
Silence. “Really?”
“Really really. ’s fine.” If not entirely sure that Gordon had been giving him the right dosages of painkillers. Where the hell was Gordon, anyway?
And why were the trousers he’d been wearing earlier on the coffee table?
They sat alongside a full ashtray (one of the cigarette butts in it was still giving off a thin stream of smoke) shaped like an elephant ear, a Joanie Mitchell record, and a watch, a ring, and a woman’s bracelet, all of which were the wrong size to belong to Gordon. Something else rested under an old copy of the Sun, left open to page three.
There was no way, Dennis reflected momentarily, as he raised his left foot to shift the newspaper aside and as Jake happily chattered on over the phone, that those were real.
All thoughts of the page three models were driven from his head, though, as he was confronted with a dirty athletic supporter. Given that Gordon avoided any and all strenuous activity like the plague, Dennis didn’t want to know who the jockstrap belonged to or how long it had been on Gordon’s coffee table.
He had enough presence of mind to avoid saying, ‘That’s disgusting’ aloud, as Jake was still talking, but his nose wrinkled. He casted about and came up with what looked like a polished stick from days in primary school, which the teacher would use to point out distant items on the blackboard, and also to slam on the desks of unsuspecting students who were stupid enough to fall asleep in class. Dennis discovered, on further inspection, that there was a clay apple at the end of the handle, and decided that he didn’t want to know why Gordon had this.
“Yeah,” he said absently, in response to Jake’s inquisitive tone. With the pointer firmly in hand, he nudged the athletic supporter off the table and out of sight.
That was when he realized that the Sun was smoking. Literally.
He’d pushed the tabloid on top of the ashtray, and the embers of a cigarette had apparently been hot enough to set it on fire.
“Shit,” Dennis hissed, and then he hurriedly said, “No, not you, buddy,” as he grabbed the glass of water from the table and dumped it over the ashtray.
As the spark went WHOOMCH and roared up into a full-fledged flame, Dennis was forced to admit that that glass of colorless, odorless liquid probably hadn’t been water.
Dennis stared blankly for a moment, and then he grabbed the first thing that came to hand – which happened to be Gordon’s trousers – and beat at the fire.
“Yeah,” he said distractedly to Jake’s voice, the phone clenched between his shoulder and his ear, “yeah, that’d be fine—”
A spark hit Dennis’s finger, and he jerked his hand back with a whimper of, “Hot, hot!” Spotting what he knew was a glass of water, that he was almost 100% certain he’d left on the end table under the lamp a few hours ago, he yelled into the mobile, “Just a minute!” and wrangled his way up. His body immediately made its displeasure known, mainly through severe vertigo and the floor shifting dramatically under him, but he persevered, lunging on one leg for the glass.
White dots flashing across Dennis’s vision like strobe lights, he threw water over the merrily crackling fire, and it sizzled into a smoking mess of wet cinders.
Panting, he stared at the sodden pile of burned celluloid, for a moment, and then he picked up the phone. “…Here.”
Silence.
“Snuhface?”
Dennis realized, after another pause, that Jake had hung up.
Gordon yanked the door open as it buzzed once again, saying, “Alright, alright already, I’m coming—” and found himself face-to-face with his favourite cousin.
“—Libby,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. A half-second’s pause, as he realized that Jake’s hand was still on the buzzer, and mostly as Gordon tried to rationalise the pair’s sudden presence on his doorstep. “You’re on my doorstep.”
Libby nudged Jake in front of her with a hand on his back. “Jake wanted to see how Dennis is getting on.”
Oh, said Gordon’s eloquent raised eyebrow, so Jake wanted to see how Dennis was getting on, did he? Libby didn’t react, though he imagined she coloured faintly. “—Um,” he said diplomatically. “I don’t know if now’s really the best time.”
Libby frowned, her hand coming to rest on Jake’s shoulder. “Jake called and spoke to Dennis; he said it was alright for him to come by now.”
Gordon laughed. “Dennis said it was alright? Libby, Dennis is a vegetable.” He gestured broadly with one hand. “He hasn’t said anything in two days but ‘ow’ and ‘fuck.’ ” He paused for a half-second. “And maybe ‘what.’ ”
“He said ‘shit,’ too,” piped in the highest of the three voices, causing Gordon to frown a moment before remembering to look down. Jake was staring up at him from under that ridiculous fur hat, face worried. “Is Daddy alright?”
Ah shit. “Uh—”
“He’s fine, sweetheart,” said Libby, squeezing Jake’s shoulder. In an undertone as she looked back up: “Gordon, is he really that bad off?”
“Nah. Well—” Gordon considered. “Nah. He mostly sleeps all day and slurs like Great Uncle Bartemius.” It’s the flat that’s really that bad off.
“Go on, Jakey,” said Libby, giving him a gentle push, and the boy ducked past Gordon and sprinted up the stairs.
“Hey,” Gordon protested, as Libby followed. He closed the door behind her and went up the stairs after her. “I didn’t invite you in, you know. That would have been a real problem, if you’d been vampires.” Libby tutted lightly; Gordon’s eyes alighted on the box tucked under her arm. “What’s that?”
She moved the box more securely against her hip as Gordon made an unsuccessful poke at it. Climbing the last step and walking along the landing, she said over her shoulder, “Just some leftovers from dinner last night. I thought the two of you would be living on lager and stale—” She stopped dead in the doorway.
Behind her, Gordon frowned, then peered over her shoulder. “What? What’s the matter with you?”
“It’s – it’s even worse than I’d thought it would be,” Libby said, staring at the disastrous disorder laid out in every possible direction inside the flat.
“What?” asked Gordon defensively. “I cleaned. I threw away all the old takeaway from the counter for His Nibs.”
“Gordon—”
A loud yell rose from within the flat, and a higher-pitched one started a split second after. Gordon instinctively ducked.
Libby, however, was off like a shot – “Jake!” – with Gordon following several, less hurried, steps behind.
In the living room, Dennis lay sprawled across the sofa, which was just about the only surface in the room not blanketed with miscellaneous items, with his bandaged fat ankle propped up and Jake leaning over him. From the look on Dennis’s face, he’d just woken up; from the two sets of wide eyes and Dennis’s hands on Jake’s shoulders, he’d woken to find Jake’s face a few inches from his.
“Snuh – Jake,” Dennis was saying, slurry. “What – what… What?”
“Told you,” said Gordon in an undertone to Libby, ignoring the fact that Dennis had also said ‘Jake’ and ‘Snuh,’ and then he raised his voice. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you apparently told Jake to come on over the last time you were awake. That was in addition to burning my trousers and page three of the Sun.”
Jake was talking at the same time. “Your foot looks like it’s going to fall off,” he informed Dennis doubtfully.
Dennis glanced over in Gordon’s general direction, then squinted down at his ankle in no small concern. Libby had seen enough. “Jakey, your dad’s not feeling very well,” she said. “Come on, we’ll let him rest.”
“No,” said Dennis, his voice muffled as he struggled into a sitting position. “No, I’m fine. Libby, ‘m fine.”
“You don’t look fine, Dennis!”
“I feel it!” he insisted, holding himself up on one elbow.
Jake clung to Dennis’s neck; Dennis reflexively put an arm around him. “Please, Mum? Can we please stay?”
Libby looked at both sets of pleading eyes, and she sighed. “For a little while.”
“Yes!” cheered Jake, and Dennis grinned at him, his eyes unfocused.
“Only a little while!” Libby reminded them, but she was waved off by two hands, one significantly smaller than the other.
“Come on.” Gordon set his hands on her shoulders and steered her into the kitchen. “Let ‘em do that weird connecty thing they do in peace. The kitchen could use some of – whatever it is you brought.”
“Oh, Gordon,” said Libby, as she was unceremoniously ushered over the threshold. She stopped in her tracks. “This is atrocious.” The mess flowed smoothly from the range to the countertops to the sink to the floor; unwashed plates and cups, old napkins, empty bottles, ashtrays, several plates that had been used as ashtrays, photos, blank CDs, dirty socks, and elephant figurines.
“It’s not so bad,” Gordon protested, moving to lean casually against a pile of newspapers on the counter. His eyebrows knitted, and then he smacked at something on the countertop and went on as if nothing had happened. “Not so bad at all.”
Libby shook her head, set down the box of chicken and sautéed vegetables on the one hob on the range that wasn’t already covered by a pot of something orange and congealing, and rolled up her sleeves. “You could be a little nicer to Dennis,” she said tartly, gesturing at Gordon with the pot she’d just taken off the range.
“I am being nice to him,” said Gordon. “I’m being perfectly nice. I don’t know how much nicer it gets than helping somebody to, from, and in the toilet.”
She continued as if he hadn’t said anything, placing the pot in the sink and running the faucet. “After all, he did save you, Gordon.”
“Libby,” Gordon said, and when she looked over at him, he was looking back at her with that knowing expression that made an appearance every once in a long while; kind and aware and disconcertingly perceptive. “Do you really think he did it for me?”
“Well, I— W—” Libby glanced away, uncomfortable and immediate, and set about bustling again, moving dirty dishes into the sink. “This is easy enough to reheat,” she said, without looking at him over her shoulder, as she placed the container of leftovers on the counter. “You just need to set the microwave on low for five minutes.”
“Uh huh,” said Gordon, and Libby didn’t have to be looking at him to sense his infuriating smile. He leaned over and kissed her cheek from behind her. “Thanks, Lib.” He ruffled her hair.
“Gordon!” she protested with a laugh, swatting at his hand.
“What? I’m not allowed to show affection to my devastatingly attractive cousin?”
“You’re disturbing,” said Libby, but there was still a hint of a smile as she smacked his arm. “Do your dishes.”
Gordon stared at her, blankly. “…Why?”
Libby glanced about the kitchen, and plucked an egg-encrusted spatula out from under the remnants of an ancient spice rack. “You know, Jake told me about Dennis’s landlord and the spatula,” she said, brandishing it after shooting it a distasteful look. “I’m pretty good with one of these, myself.”
“Oooh,” said Gordon. “Kinky.”
“Gordon!”
“Okay, okay!” yelped Gordon, shuffling toward the sink with the aid of Libby’s smack. “I’m going on! You know, you are just as bossy as you were when we were kids. I almost preferred it when you shoved dirt in my face.”
“I’m not bossy,” said Libby, shooting him a look. “I’m looking out for you. You can’t live like this.”
“Now, that’s where you’re mistaken.” He stopped chuckling abruptly as she went to step out of the kitchen. “Hey,” he said, sharp and insistent. “You can’t abandon me to, to clean!”
“I’m not bringing you any more food until you have something clean to eat it off of,” said Libby tartly.
“…You wouldn’t.”
Libby smiled at him, sweetly.
His mouth set in a petulant line, Gordon turned on the tap and started rolling up his sleeves.
Libby, smiling wider, stepped out of the kitchen and back into the other room, where she found Jake sitting with (half-on) Dennis, laughing.
“That’s not real!” said Jake.
“It is,” said Dennis, still slurring. “It’s very real.”
“Daaa-aaad.”
“What sorts of nonsense is your dad filling your head with?” asked Libby, picking her way toward them, across the minefield of dirty clothes and ripped magazines and bits of ceiling plaster.
Jake turned his small face up to her. “Dad says there’s a shark with ruffles on it, and it’s like a dinosaur.”
“Does he?” asked Libby, mildly, taking one look at the state of the only other chair in the room, and choosing to sit on the sofa instead. She sat, after a few seconds’ awkward pause, by Dennis’s knee, careful to maintain at least four or five inches of space between the two of them, and extra cautious not to touch his bad ankle.
“There is,” said Dennis. “They found it in January off the coast of Japan. They thought this thing was extinct, til they got a live one. I’d tell you the scientific name, but I can’t pronounce it.”
Libby stared at him, mouth agape.
Dennis reached around Jake and picked up an edition of The Guardian from the table. He tapped his finger on the date: 26 January 2007. Ten months old.
“Gordon,” said Libby, shaking her head, and she almost laughed.
“Is that from today?” Jake asked, making an excited grab for the newspaper.
Dennis let him take it, blinking. “No. Do you have a deep and abiding interest in current affairs that no one’s told me about?”
Jake giggled. “No,” he said. “Only when you’re on the front page.”
“I – huh?”
Libby sighed. “What’d we say about telling your dad that, Jake?”
He pulled a miniscule face, kicking his legs. Reluctantly: “To wait til Dad felt better.”
“Huh?” said Dennis, his mouth hanging open, shifting his attention to Libby.
“You’ve – become something of a celebrity,” said Libby. “After the marathon and all.”
“Huh?”
“You’re famous!” said Jake, helpfully. “People at school ask about you.”
“What.”
“You were on the news,” Libby told him, only a little impatiently.
“I was, too, and Mum,” added Jake, with an unmistakable, ‘And it was so cool!’ face.
“Business has been a little mad ever since. It was how we knew you were still running. Jakey,” said Libby, and she rubbed Jake’s head, “has got some keen eyes.”
“Muuuuuum,” Jake complained.
Dennis, meanwhile, only had eyes for Libby. “Then you did come to the finish line on purpose?” he asked, his eyes steadily growing more lucid. Libby’s mouth opened and closed.
There was a sudden, loud clatter in the other room. “Hey!” yelled Gordon from the kitchen. “Short stuff! I need a hand here! Chop chop!”
Dennis gave Jake a nudge. “Go on, buddy.”
“Okay,” said Jake, and with a glance at his dad, he obediently trotted off.
Libby half-laughed in the sudden silence, rueful and desperate to change the subject. “Not the most subtle man, is he?”
“Who, Jake?” Dennis asked, pulling a face. “Nah.” When Libby didn’t laugh, he sobered. “Nah. Um, Libby – thank you. For coming at the end of the marathon.”
“Of course,” she said, momentary fluster handled. “W— Jake was awfully worried about you.”
He chuckled, quietly. “I looked that bad off, huh?”
“You looked awful,” she said frankly, and he laughed, “Aheh, aheh,” again. Libby bit her lip, and glanced at him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Um,” said Dennis. “Great. Never better.”
She smiled and laughed a little, softly. She folded her hands in her lap.
Dennis watched her, for a moment, and then he scrunched his face up and went for it. “Did you really chuck Whit, or was that just the pain talking?”
Libby’s smile faded. She held up her ringless hand.
“I’m sorry, Libby.”
She stared at him. “—What?”
If Dennis were standing, he would be shuffling his feet. As it was, he glanced down at the sofa, his eyebrows furrowing. “I know that you liked the guy. It couldn’t have been easy.”
Libby looked at him for a long minute. She didn’t say anything, but she might as well have, her eyes softer than Dennis had seen in years. She cleared her expression with a toss of her head. “Actually,” she said, setting her mouth in the fierce line that Dennis knew all too well, “it was easier than you’d think. You should have heard what he said to Jake.”
Dennis immediately shoved himself up on one elbow. “He said something to Jake?”
“He shouted at him; called him a little shit,” said Libby through pursed lips.
He sucked in an involuntary breath through his teeth. “That shithead.”
She frowned, but only a little. “Well,” she said, and she glanced up from where she’d been momentarily contemplating her knees, “you judged him right all along.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You said he was a twat right from the start.”
He made a consider-y face. “Actually, I said he was an arsehole.”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry,” he said, reflexively. “But I wasn’t – I didn’t judge him, Libby. I just – automatically disliked him, and then it just so happened that he turned out to be a twat.”
Libby said nothing for a long moment, her eyes downcast. Finally, gamely, as she looked up again: “I thought he was an arsehole.”
“Actually, to do it proper, he was a shithead.”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry.”
She was watching her fingers, resting on her knees. “Still, you saw that he was – whatever he was, before I saw it.” She looked up at him, sadness – and a little guilt – writ large across her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”
Something in his chest lurched at the look on her face; his hand twitched with the painful impulse to reach for hers. “Didn’t have much reason to,” he said. “I wasn’t exactly the most unprejudiced judge of character.” Not when it came to Libby’s boyfriends.
She smiled, swift and small and fleeting. “I know.” That tiny smile faded. “It was very stupid, you know. What you did.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Dennis,” she said, quiet and reproachful. “I mean it.”
More seriously, he told her, “I know.”
“I’m not sure you do,” said Libby firmly. “You didn’t have to run a marathon on a broken ankle to win my respect.” She glanced from his hands to his face. “You already had that.”
Dennis swallowed, hard. “Oh,” he said. Neither of them said a word, until Libby finally looked away. “Now you tell me.”
Libby smiled, and like that, the quiet tension, fraught with old (and new) emotion, had vanished. She lowered her voice, glancing toward the kitchen. “Will you be okay? If we leave you here.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Dennis said, with a wave of his hand. “We’re good.”
“Okay,” she said, and she rose from her seat on the table. “I’ve just got to – Jake—” She motioned toward the kitchen; Dennis nodded, vehemently, to show that he understood.
Libby took exactly six and a half steps toward the kitchen before she stopped, made a decision, and turned back around. “Would it be alright if I brought Jake ‘round again on Friday?”
Dennis stared at her for a moment. Then he began to smile, startled and quiet and honest. “Yeah. Yeah, Friday would be great.”
“Great,” said Libby, and she took a step toward the kitchen.
Gordon’s voice carried well, as it always did. “Does this mean you’re bringing more chicken on Friday?”
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Also - EEEEEEEEEEEEE!
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