a/n: A collection of HM: SI drabbles. I got bored, and at the present, have no ideas I like for a full fic on anything. First up's something with Vaughn. Probably very out of character, but I don't know. HM gives so little insight into real character, but thankfully this means there's much to experiment with…
Disclaimer: Harvest Moon Sunshine Islands = not mine
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Immune
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Talking has never been one of his strong suits. He's reminded again of the fact as he exits his room; Julia lifts her head and smiles, and Mirabelle positively beams at him. It's so ridiculously uncomfortable that he wouldn't be surprised at any point if someone threw a carrot at him and said, 'Happy April Fool's!' He doesn't know where the 'happy' came from. He's been listening to Julia too much – happy, so happy, everything's great today, doesn't it make you happy? Aren't you happy Vaughn? Mirabelle might also have been a contributing factor (Vaughn! You're looking well, relaxed and happy, eh? I can't tell you how glad we are you came; it's made us all so happy…)
He resists the urge to groan as Julia pipes up again with, 'Happy Birthday, Vaughn!' He tries to think positive – they remembered, they've probably made a cake (with carrots), maybe Julia didn't tell anyone (come on, think something better, this is Julia), maybe this is all just a dream, maybe, if he closes his eyes and counts to ten, there's no place like home-
'We even got candles! See if you can get them all!'
He knows the smile he attempts to force out is not remotely dissimilar to a grimace, but fortunately the women don't seem to notice. He's brought over to the table by Julia's iron grip of excitement, and is subjected to the ultimate in embarrassing renditions of traditional methods of torture, and then the cake is pushed in front of him.
It's a bonfire. There is no other way to describe it – the Islands must be magic, because there is no other explanation for the still standing house around them. How old do they think he is? He's vaguely aware that his grimace is turning into something less agreeable, and turning very quickly from something less agreeable into a freezing death glare capable of taming hell as he smells something that smells so very similar to-
'-my favourite, carrot cake!'
His death glare apparently has no effect on the food of hell.