So I'm back again.
And just a side note, for those wondering/worrying about it. I realize that according to established canon, they are very OOC. But twenty years and mental illness kinda has a way of changing a person, and everyone around them. And tragedy, also, changes people a lot. So just bear that in mind.
As to why Marie doesn't recognize Thomas, my current reason for that is when Ferb went to college, he and Phineas grew apart. Phineas's subsequent marriage to Isabella as well as Ferb and Vanessa's wedding and their children all kinda got in the way, and Phineas and Ferb don't talk anymore, even about each other. As a result, Marie and Thomas have never met, and neither one knows that their dads used to be best friends as well as stepbrothers.
No reviews to answer. Hmm. Oh well, I guess that's what I get for going MIA for three or four years.
So anyway, enjoy this chapter. No trigger warnings, but a bit of coarse language.
You know you love me, IzzytheGreat14
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Marie was viciously pounding out a Mozart sonata on the school practice room's (horribly out of tune) piano when she heard the door open.
A tall, skinny boy with brown hair and blue eyes peeked in as she stopped playing in surprise and turned to face him.
"Sounds good," he said weakly, slipping all the way into the room as Marie frowned.
"I still have this practice room for seven and a half minutes," she informed him.
"Yeah," the boy agreed. "I mean, I know. I just like to listen."
Marie raised an eyebrow.
"I'm Thomas Fletcher," the boy blurted.
"Marie Flynn," the girl replied.
"Yeah," Thomas said again. "I mean, I know."
"It's a little creepy that you know," Marie said flatly.
"We've gone to school together for, like, six years…" Thomas said, almost questioningly. "I sit behind you in four classes."
"Also creepy," Marie muttered, turning to the piano again.
"You're in here a lot. Before school and after," Thomas noted, and Marie sighed.
"Right. Seven minutes," she said pointedly, and his face fell.
As Thomas turned to leave, Marie chuckled.
"You give up way too easily," she said, and he stopped and turned to face her again.
"You're kind of a confusing person," he said.
"You should meet my mother," Marie said with a wicked grin, and as Thomas watched, she attacked the piano keys once more.
/\0/\0/\0/\0/\
Phineas sat in the car, watching as Isabella disappeared into the clinic. He sighed and sat back into the seat.
"Who's more crazy?" he mused. "Izzy...or me? Her, who can't cope with...well, life, or me, who hopes it'll all go back to normal? She's the one who goes to the doctors. She can't even drive, let alone be her brilliant 24-year-old self again."
With a rueful chuckle, he settled in to wait.
"But I'm the one talking to myself."
\/\
Isabella tuned her doctor out as he droned on about her pills.
What an odd relationship we have, she mused internally. He knows all about me, and I know...his name. Hmm. Well, at least he'll always take my calls. Like a lover, almost? But no lovemaking.
She chuckled softly.
/\/
Flynn, Isabella. Bipolar-depressive with delusional episodes. Sixteen year history of medication. Adjustment after one week.
/\/
"I've got less anxiety, but...I have headaches, blurry vision, and I can't feel my toes."
"So, we'll try again, and eventually, we'll get it right."
"Not a very exact science, is it?" Isabella drawled.
Doctor DuBois chuckled and turned, handing Isabella a list of medications.
"Oooh, thank you, doctor," she said, scanning the list. "Valium is my favorite color. How'd you know?"
/\/
Marie leaned against the wall as Thomas idly plunked a tune on the piano.
"It's just...the thing about jazz is…how do you ever know if you've got it right? It's just making shit up."
"Which is also known as the act of creation," Thomas pointed out.
"Oh, you're one of those pretentious stoner types," Marie joked.
"That's totally unfair. I'm not pretentious," Thomas laughed. "And I'm definitely not classical. It's so rigid and structured. There's no room for improvisation. You have to play the notes on the page."
Marie raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, and what did Mozart know anyway? He shoulda just smoked a bowl and jammed on Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."
"Yeah, let's do that," Thomas grinned.
/\/
Flynn, Isabella. Second adjustment after three weeks. Delusions less frequent, but depressive state worse.
/\/
"I'm nauseous, and I'm constipated… Completely lost my appetite and gained six pounds, which, you know, is just...not fair," Isabella sighed.
/\/
Marie sighed, head in Thomas's lap as he played the piano. She adjusted the hem of her orange jacket.
"I have wasted, like, weeks of practice with you in here improvising," she mumbled, pretending to be angry, but both of them knew she didn't mean it.
"Oscar Peterson was classically trained," Thomas observed.
"Beethoven did cocaine," Marie fired back.
"Miles Davis went to Juilliard," Thomas retorted.
"Mozart wrote poems about farts," Marie snarked.
Thomas's throaty laugh filled the practice room.
/\/
Flynn, Isabella. Third adjustment after five weeks. Reports continued mild anxiety and some lingering depression.
/\/
"I now can't feel my fingers or my toes," Isabella complained to Doctor DuBois. "I sweat profusely for no reason. Fortunately, I have absolutely no desire for sex. Although, whether that's the medicine or the marriage is anybody's guess."
"I'm sure it's the medicine," the doctor reassured her.
"Oh, thank you. That's very sweet," Isabella grinned.
Then she shot him a level look.
"But my husband's waiting in the car."
/\/
Phineas sighed, glancing at a picture of him and Isabella in their first summer of college. She was beaming at the camera, cheek pressed to his chest as she wrapped her arms around him. His face was in her hair, lips pressed to her temple, eyes closed.
"I miss that," he sighed. "When she was brilliant, and brave, and so young. We were so young, and I was so dumb, and now...I'm just old, and tired."
He slumped forward, resting his head on the wheel of the car. Waiting for Isabella...forever waiting for Isabella.
"Love is blind, they say," he scoffed. "Oh, believe me, it's not. Love is completely insane."
/\/
Flynn, Isabella. Seven weeks.
/\/
"I don't feel like myself," Isabella said dully. "I mean...I don't feel...anything."
Doctor DuBois nodded.
"Hmm," he said. "Patient stable."
