Hey guys. Well, I've been writing this story a bit. I actually have some good ideas for On Tour-year, so I'm working up to that, but we still need to get through SSX3. I only have a few chapters done, but hopefully I'll have more time to write soon. If anyone wants to beta this story, that'd be great. I just need another set of eyes to catch the things I haven't.
Please, please, please review. Reviews feed my soul. And they make me write more. Literally. I read a review and I get all "Yay! I write more now!" So please review.
Chapter II
The shower felt really good after the flight. Marshal relaxed under the stream of water as she shook out her hair, feeling the gel oozing down her body. It was always an odd feeling whenever she washed her styled hair out, but she was used to it now. Scrubbing down quickly, she then turned up the temperature and just stood there, enveloped in hot water and steam. Cold and tension eased out of her; eventually she decided that she should get out of the shower, before she drove Psymon's bills up any higher.
Grabbing the faded yellow towel she had placed on the countertop, she dried herself off then wrapped herself up. Opening the bathroom door cautiously, she peeked around. Not seeing or hearing Psymon, she went to her make-shift room and started dressing. When that was done, she went on to unpack her stuff. There really wasn't much, and there weren't many places for her to put things. She settled on using the floor at the end of the couch as her dresser and the coffee table for a bookshelf and assorted items storage.
Everything went black. Gasping, Marshal thrashed in the pile of blankets that had been dumped on her head. Tearing them off as she heard Psymon's laughter, she shot him a glower.
"You're a bastard."
He shrugged and started picking the blankets up off the floor and placing them on the couch, along with a couple pillows. "I would have though you'd be more grateful for blankies. Is cold out." He nodded solemnly to accentuate his point.
"Yeah yeah," she muttered, pulling herself up off the floor to sit on the couch. "Okay, so, I'm unpacked," she announced as she gesticulated around the room. "What do you want to do now?"
Shrugging again, Psymon flopped down on the couch beside her. "I want to go boarding. But you're probably 'lagged, so we can hold off until tomorrow or the next day." Reaching out, he brushed her short, damp hair off her forehead and smiled somewhat. "We can just watch movies for the day if you want, as you settle in."
"Hm. I need to go clothes shopping, get stuff for racing and such. We can hold that off for now though." She paused. "Hey, what about dinner?"
Thinking for a moment, his blank gaze drifting over her as he did so, he eventually spoke. "Let's just get pizza. I doubt either of us wants to bother cooking."
"Roger that," she sighed as she stood and stretched. "Can we go out, or are you just gonna order in?" Kneeling at the end of the couch, she started rooting around for a hoodie. Emerging with a deep red one, she tugged it on over her t-shirt and turned back around to look at Psymon, who had returned to thinking.
"We can go out," he said slowly, nodding to himself. "If you want to."
"Yeah, I do. I feel restless. I don't wanna stay inside. We have all night for that. Unless you want to cause havoc or something."
He responded with a wry grin. "Nah, I'm good for tonight."
Smirking, Marshal sat back down onto the couch and lazed out over his lap. "And until then?"
Giving her a shrug, he petted her damp hair. "I have nothing planned. You?"
"You're supposed to be my host, loser."
"How about we catch up?"
"Marshal, you have thirty seconds to finish; this is pathetic child. I'm an old man and I still finished before you. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"Sorry Dad," she managed to gasp out as she forced to legs to move faster, nearly stumbling at the way they felt like jelly, how her muscles trembled and screamed in protest. "But you know I'm not a distance—"
"Do I look like I care?!" he roared, glancing at the stop watch. "There are no excuses for failure. Move it!"
Huffing a tendril of sweat dampened hair out of her eyes, she scowled at her father and double-timed it. Faltering as she made it to him, she was heaving on the ground as he clicked the stop watch.
"You shaved off ten point eight seconds. Good work." Reaching down, he helped her up off the ground.
"So the Colonel is doing alright than?" Psymon wondered at Marshal's eyes slitted over to his.
"Yeah, Dad's doing fine. As annoying and overbearing as ever." She paused and mulled over that for a moment. "Okay, that's not quite true. He's finally learned that his little girl has grown up. Or, at least he's in the process of learning. He isn't as bad now. Still, he'll leap out of shadows for sudden drills and Gods help you if you fail to perform as expected." Sitting up with a sigh, she leaned back in the couch, getting comfortable.
"He just wants you to be the best," Psymon commented.
"Yes, well, being woken up at three in the morning to your father screaming in your face isn't the most concerting thing in the world."
He chuckled. "I wouldn't imagine so." Just picturing "the Colonel", as Psymon had dubbed him from day one, suddenly bursting in on his sleeping form to start shouting at him and dragging his warm ass out of bed into the cold was shudder inducing.
"But he's loosened up enough to let me enter SSX. Though, I think to him, this is just another training ground and it'll just prove my worth or somesuch." Cracking her knuckles, she cocked her head at Psymon. "How about you? Anything new?"
"Meh." He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. "Nothing more than I've written."
"Fuck you're boring," she teased. "What, all you do is work in that dinky repair shop of yours, go snowboarding and dirtbike?"
"Yeah," he returned wistfully as his eyes became dreamy, "something like that."
"You know," Marshal sighed as she leaned against him, "sometimes I hate you. You can have my father if you want."
"Err . . ."
"For fucks sakes Psymon!" she cried, trying desperately not to laugh, "I didn't mean nail his ass! Oh holy fuck that's disturbing. That is really, really sick." Holding her head, she shook it in attempt to dislodge the offending images.
In reply, Psymon just started whistling "In the Navy."
Dinner hadn't been too bad. Then again, anything was better than what she was used to. They had gone to a pizzeria run by actual Italians, so they knew what they were doing. Psymon had even offered to pay for it; she had found that endearing, but unfair. It wasn't like it was a date, and besides, it was the offer that counted. She was used to splitting costs with friends. And on top of that, she was already living in his house and not having to pay for it. So when it came time to pay the bill, she split it with him, saying it was only reasonable that she pay her portion. Something in his eyes had glinted, but he had shrugged then, saying it was cool.
There was really nothing else to do after that. They had left with no plans as to how to spend the rest of the night after gorging themselves. Each quietly thinking to them self as to what to do, they both arrived at the same fail-safe that had guided them through countless boring nights. As they entered Psymon's car, both nodded and looked to the other.
"You just wanna watch movies?" they asked at the same time, making them chuckle over their predictability.
"Oh we're pathetic," Psymon stated as he started the car, pulling out of the parking lot. "But I did just get another Kubric, so we can watch that."
"Sweetness. Can we watch Full Metal Jacket too?" Marshal wondered as she curled up in the seat, studying her friend.
He grunted. "Sure. Why not. Skull fucking always makes me happy," causing Marshal to start laughing once more. "I even have popcorn," he tacked on; something in his tone made her lose it, howling until tears streaked down her face. It was good to be back amongst civilised company. And stating that Psymon was civilised was saying a lot.
Three Kubrics, two bowls of popcorn and way too many Vodka sodas found Marshal lolling on the couch, Psymon laughing at her before lumbering off to his own room, ricocheting off the walls until he made it to his bed. She could hear him mumbling to himself, and probably Roy, as she managed to gather herself enough to lie on the couch. Groaning, she rolled over and rested her head on her arm, staring blankly off. Well, that had been an interesting day. He hadn't changed so much; but he had seemed shocked by her. A smirk crossed her features. Damn right he would be shocked. She wasn't a little girl anymore, was she?
Tendrils of nausea began winding up through her belly. Shutting her eyes tight, Marshal forced it down. Thinking took too much energy. She'd have to just sleep this one off. If she could manage to get to sleep . . . Her head kept spinning . . . sleep would never happen . . .
Naturally, as it always did, sleep happened. Marshal was more than thankful for that, waking up slowly with a yawn, stretching her arms out over her head. Rolling her shoulders, she glanced around, wondering what time it was. Blinking the haze out of her eyes and rubbing out the sleep with a knuckle, she lumbered up out of the couch and went to the kitchen. Morning. Nothing like alcohol to fix jet lag, she thought wryly. Walking through the kitchen she stopped at Psymon's door and knocked, figuring he had to be up by now.
"What?"
She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."
"Gimme a minute," he grumbled.
She hesitated slightly, then called out, "Are you masturbating in there?"
"Yes. Go away."
"Can I help?" she quipped in return.
A second later the door opened, a half-dressed Psymon quirking a brow at her. "I was actually getting dressed."
"At least you have pants on," Marshal retorted, returning the arched brow. "Finish getting dressed – let's go do something."
He nodded and shut the door, searching for a clean shirt. Marshal went to the bathroom for her usual morning routine, finishing with brushing her teeth. Spitting foamy white toothpaste into the chipped, tan enamel sink, she flushed it down with water and rinsed out her mouth as Psymon barged in.
"Out," he grunted.
"I'm almost done," she sighed, splashing water on her face.
"I haveta piss."
"Then piss," she growled, drying her face and her hands on the yellow towel from the day before. "I promise I won't look at your peepee," she swore solemnly, "because I'd need a microscope to do so."
Suddenly her feet weren't on the ground anymore and she realised she was squealing. Psymon's arms squeezed tighter around her as she wiggled, trying to escape his clutches. He carried her out of the bathroom, dropped her unceremoniously to her feet, plucked her pink toothbrush from her hand, re-entered the washroom and shut the door behind him, locking himself inside.
"Sensitive much?" she demanded, banging on the door a few times before going into the kitchen and sitting at the table. It was a really nice day out, she mused. The sun was shining (and horrifically bright, positively glowing off the snow drifts outside), the trees were sparkling in their frozen, snow-dusted glory and the birds were, actually, chirping now and then. It was a perfect day for boarding and she could only hope the conditions were as good as the weather appeared.
Gazing out windows holds its appeal for only so long; when she heard the shower starting, Marshal got up and grabbed one of her books. She had expected Psymon to come barging out of the bathroom, right quick, for breakfast. Apparently not. Settling into the plush, unbelievably comfortable black leather couch, she cracked open her book, removed the bookmark and resumed reading. Her eyes were scanning the pages a few chapters on, when she heard the click of a door opening and Psymon's distinct gait entering the kitchen. Closing the book and placing it down on the table, she stood and went back to the kitchen, smiling at the sight.
Washed, shaved, dressed – damn, he looked almost respectable.
"Are you civil now?" she wondered, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, "or are you still a bear?"
"I'm never civil," he returned, flashing a grin before rummaging through the fridge. "Breakfast?"
Pushing off the counter with her hip, she strode over and peered into the fridge. "Any souls of the innocent?"
He shrugged and lifted up a carton of eggs, head still buried in the interior. "I have eggs," came his semi-muffled voice, "it's sort of the same."
"Do you have bacon?" she wondered, taking the eggs, allowing him to fill up his arms with food.
He snorted in disbelief. "Do you have bacon, she asks," he taunted, shutting the fridge door with a gentle kick. "I'm a man – what do you think?"
Going with him over to the stove to start helping, she was taken slightly aback when he shook his head and pointed to the table.
"What?" she wondered, staring curiously at him.
"Go sit. I'll cook. Breakfast is a man's meal anyway," he tacked on, not letting her near the eggs.
"Fine," she breathed, throwing her hands in the air as she went to the table. Sitting, she drummed her fingers on the table, watching Psymon cook for her amusement. That was the one thing that had always surprised her about him. He could actually cook. And he learned techniques really fast, too. He must have been learning, recently.
"Are you still watching those cooking shows?" she wondered, putting as much of a scathing tone in her voice as possible.
He cringed slightly from the attempt on his manhood. "Yes," he muttered. "I've learned a lot!" he whined, trying to defend himself. "I don't have anyone to cook for me," he finished lowly. "And I'm good at it," he tacked on, sounding defensive.
She giggled. "I was just teasing. I'm glad you can cook. Beats starving."
"True," he sighed, frying up the bacon and setting the oven on.
"Are we going snowboarding today?" she asked as the bacon sizzled and popped in the frying pan, sending a shower of grease up at Psymon, who leapt back and missed the worst of it. He brushed the boiling oil off his arm and went back to the range.
"Sure. Everything's in the basement. You're going to have to get a new board though, at some point," he informed her, turning around slightly to face her before flipping the bacon. "And boots. Clothes, too. You also have to get the right bindings, and those aren't cheap."
Shrugging at the revelation, she ran a hand through her hair. "My dad gave me one of his credit cards and cleared me to use it. He told me to get whatever I want, as long as I don't put him in the poor house."
Psymon snorted and put the bacon on a tray, firing it into the oven. Then he cracked the eggs and fried them up in the bacon grease. "Must be nice, being rich, Marsie."
"I'm not rich!" she cried, "My dad is!"
"The Colonel gonna spread the love, or what?" he wondered, turning the eggs over as gently as possible.
"Like I said, I have his credit card."
He just grunted non-committally, concentrating on the food. "Well," he finally said as the eggs finished and he placed them on a plate, tossing potatoes into the pan, "we won't bother buying anything yet. You still have to get your snow legs on. Your old shit's fine for now."
"Okiedokie, Psyborg." She sat in silence, and he cooked in silence, until finally the meal was done and served up. As he poured orange juice, Marshal got up and grabbed knives and forks, the toast and her plate, leaving him to carry the two glasses and his food. They sat together, eating, the silence continuing, save for the scrape of utensils. Psymon seemed overly focused on his eggs, not even bothering to look at Marshal. She hated his moods, how a tiny little thing that only annoyed him would fester until it infuriated him. Even a joke could leave him sullen and moody, or his own comment that grew in his mind until it became something offensive.
"Did you take your meds this morning?" Marshal dared to ask, her voice soft. Psymon shook his head like a morose little boy. She squeezed his arm and got up, heading for the pantry where his medication was stored. The place never changed and she was greeted by the same bottles of pills, as if they just stood there, eternally untouched. She knew he would prefer it that way, but he couldn't function without them. Searching through the bottles, trying to remember which one he took in the morning, and the dosage. Popping one of the white lids off the orange bottles, she shook two small pills into her palm and walked over, placing them on the table by his hand.
"Thanks," he grumbled, not thankful that he had to take them, but that she cared enough to grab them for him. Tossing them in his mouth, he dry-swallowed them, then took a swig of orange juice. "I hate meds," he muttered, rubbing his forehead.
"They make you better," Marshal sighed, placating him. "At least they don't numb you." She rubbed his back. "They just stop you from getting all dark and brooding."
He smirked and laughed a bit. "I thought chicks were into that."
A grin crossed her features, eyes sparkling as she pinched his cheek as if he was an adorable little kid. "Yeah, but the qualifier 'handsome' is always a part of it. And 'tall'. One out of three, buddy."
Chuckling woefully, he glanced over at her. "You keep insulting me and it'll so thoroughly crush me that my doc will have to up the dosage."
Giggling, she smacked him gently. "Don't even threaten. Your ego is so vast that it would take years trying to wear it down."
"I'm hurt," he breathed, standing and taking their empty plates, stacking everything up to drop into the sink. He ran some water and let them soak, watching as Marshal got up and walked over to him. His eyes flickered up and down her length and a slight, indulgent smile formed on his lips. For the next few months, he was going to be around her all day, every day. Studying the curves he could have never suspected her body capable of growing, he smirked and didn't care that she could see the indolent, enraptured expression on his face. Simply looking was a great medication. Screw the pills, he had a better cure standing in front of him. Someone who cared, who could talk to him and someone who was thoroughly yummy.
"You're staring," Marshal sighed, sounding bored.
"Mmhmm," he murmured, grinning wickedly at her then. "I've had my fill. Let's go."