This is Part 1 of what's going to be a SHORT ficlet. I know I've said things like that before, but this time I actually mean it. Maybe three parts.

Enjoy!

"We're moderate, we modernize
'til our hell is a good life."

- Emily Haines, "Our Hell"

The house is unnervingly quiet for the first few moments after James LaFleur ducks through the door, but then, it's really just because he's been half-deafened by the rain splattering on the car roof for the past twenty minutes. He's not used to rain like this, hasn't had to deal with furious storms in a good nine years, and anyway, once his ears adjust, the sounds of the boys close to killing each other in the basement take over.

Yanking the door open, he sticks his head through, shaking the rainwater out of his hair and listening at the stop of the stairs. "HEY!" he barks, and it all goes silent, although he hears some shuffling feet and slight panting. "No bloodshed before dinner!"

"We're not doing anything!" comes a howled protest. Seth, by the sound of it.

Yeah, he's heard that one before. "If you put another hole in that wall - "

"I swear!" Andrew yelps.

James pauses, but now they're silent, waiting. Figuring that they'll be on their absolute best behavior only while they know he's listening, he gives up for the time being. As he retreats to the back of the house, the TV turns on, loud. Sounds like "He-Man," James thinks, rubbing a hand over his face.

"...Fabulous magic powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my magic sword and said..." the TV echoes from downstairs.

"BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!" comes a screech.

All right. That's at least half an hour of entertainment, right there. Maybe some semi-quiet. Long enough to get changed, see if Jules needs help with dinner, maybe score a brief makeout session before they're interrupted by "What's for dinner?" and "But I don't LIKE that" and "Nuh-uh, I set the table LAST night, it's HIS turn now!"

Juliet's always been able to tune them out when necessary, anyway, much better than James can, and yet somehow she always seems to know exactly when they're getting into actual trouble versus just making a good-hearted brotherly ruckus. So maybe they really weren't getting into any serious fights down there? Should he have gone down there anyway? Juliet would have gone downstairs. Except... where the hell is she?

"Jules?"

Once he's done kicking through the Transformers in the hallway, he's surprised to find her standing eerily still at the sink, her arms splayed wide, both hands curled around the edge of the counter. She's wearing sweatpants tucked into her winter boots (those ancient L.L. Bean ones, the brown ones from that first winter, back when they were still freezing their asses off in Ann Arbor). It contrasts with just a thin tank top above. Her hair's tied back into a messy low ponytail.

"Hey there," he says curiously, wondering how she got home fast enough to change and lapse into a coma at the counter. Usually she makes it home barely five or ten minutes before him. Those latchkey kids of theirs take the bus, let themselves in after school, have a snack and then walk themselves over to the Fredericksons next door. Because, hey, it's 1986 and nothing bad happens, or at least people don't think it does. As it is, they're the only parents in the neighborhood who still make their six-year-old use a booster seat in the car.

Juliet still isn't responding, tension set clearly in between her shoulder blades.

"Hey," James says, a little louder, a little more concerned.

Juliet half turns, and her forehead is crimped up in anguish. At first panic shoots through him, the way it does sometimes for no good reason at all, like someone's going to find them out, living here in Chapel Hill, North Carolina in the middle of the '80s. Like this isn't supposed to have happened and they're all about to disappear.

"Hi," Juliet finally whispers. She blinks once and then her eyes are brimming, but their house is full and he just said goodbye to Miles and Jin not half an hour ago at work. There's no one else to worry about. Not in this life, not technically. Not if everything that happened, happened.

James approaches without thinking, reaching out for her hips and swiveling her the rest of the way toward him. She leans into him, reaching up and looping her arms around him. Gives up and drops her head onto his shoulder, burying her face in his neck.

"What is it, baby?" he asks as softly as he can, rubbing her back in slow circles. Her skin is warm against his hand and it's March and why is she wearing those furry boots right now?

"I called her school today."

"What'd they say?"

"June 16."

James lets out a long, slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Should we get Mr. and Mrs. Ghostbuster to watch 'em?"

Juliet nods, her face still pressed against his neck. Her tears are hot against his skin. "Yeah."

James runs his hand across the back of her head, petting over her hair until he finds the rubber band tying it back. He's always taking out her ponytails, been doing it since goddamn 1975, but he'd think after all these years he could manage to undo them without scalping her. Juliet whimpers a little as the rubber catches on her hair, but finally he gets it undone. So he just holds her for awhile, stroking his hand along the length of her hair, with the noise from the TV leaking out of the basement and an occasional yelp from one of the boys. The rain is hitting the overhang of the kitchen roof, rattling the gutters.

"It's a long drive," he says hesitantly.

"We could fly," she murmurs against him.

"We ain't doin' that."

"I know."

"You sure you wanna do this, baby?"

Juliet pulls away a little bit, then, just enough to meet his eyes. Hers are huge and blue and sad and scared. "No. But I have to."