Cheer Co.

By Shahrezad1

Summary: When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion—related. Woe is me.

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Chapter 4

Worthington had eventually called. Well, texted. Fifteen minutes before her shift started at midnight. He'd wanted to decide on a day to begin their work as 'Cheerers' and Rosie agreed—it needed to be taken care of, even if it was with him.

Honestly, over the years she hadn't held that much against him. The few times they'd bumped into one another since college he hadn't seemed to even see her much less remember their connection. In fact, those small events had resulted more than once in the gentlemanly opening of a door as she left work while he was coming in. Once he'd even apologized upon running into her, so there was really nothing to take offense to. And time and life experience healed most (if not all) wounds, so their college rivalry seemed a thing of the past. Especially with F.C.'s Scaring numbers resting upon their mutual backs—like legs on a table, two elements with the same purpose but kept separated.

Rosie had thought that in a way they were actually working 'together'…until she realized that Johnny had absolutely no hissing idea that 'R. Mercado' was her.

She'd been bemused at his dismay, taking humor from the situation as she watched his pride take a tumble rather than being offended at his obliviousness.

Until Worthington went and insulted Alex.

Her reaction had been instinctive but heart-felt, and all that bottled anger from college seemed to rise up and blast into him like hurricane at full tilt. The feelings which erupted reminded Rosie of the time R.O.R. had toilet-papered the H.S.S. Sorority dorm. And tucked rotten eggs into their beds (which had actually been pretty tasty). And when they'd painted all their exterior walls pink.

It had taken several days to get it back to its traditional light blue, done in shifts between each of the girls' classes.

The memory which was most vivid, shined up by multiple visitations, was what he'd done Rosie's Freshman year. During Rush Week Worthington, then a Sophomore, had been assigned to recruiting. With his braces newly off Johnny had had one stunner of a smile and B. Uppercrust, R.O.R. head and Worthy's 'mentor' of sorts, had seen its potential. Using the smarmy charm he'd been developing the year before, Johnny had managed to finagle the best spot for the Roar Omega Roar table—right next to the Python Nu Kappa girls.

The ploy for luring recruits in that year had been in proving how R.O.R. members, "always got the girl." It had worked and the intellectual insects had been drawn in like woolly-mammoth-moths to flame.

Until she walked up. Kelly Levin ne' Sanders had been a card-carrying member of P.N.K. and decided to call ahead in order to inform the girls of her daughter's arrival. It was fairly standard, Rosie learned later, for new students to be welcomed into their parent's house by way of something called a, "Legacy."

Rosie had tried to tell her Ma off, rightfully anticipating the worst, but those early years she'd been plagued with stony pock-marks and thick coke-bottle glasses. The confidence hadn't come until after she'd started earning a rep and grown a couple of inches taller—high enough to reach her father's chest and loom over her mother. At eighteen and an uncertain Freshman, Rosie hadn't been unable to put a dent in her Ma's enthusiasm.

Thus during her first rush she'd had no choice but to at least approach the P.N.K. table, or risk her mother's eternal censure. Sensing motion, Worthington turned to face the oncoming student.

"Why, hello there, Miss, you-," Johnny's face went from languid to an outright grimace in seconds flat, jaw dropped and wide eyes twitching. He tried to save face for a moment, coughing into his hand, and Rosie had been about to let it go, at the very least. Then he'd opened his mouth again.

"Are you sure you're headed for the right Sorority, Sweetheart? I'm fairly certain that there's someone out there which might better appreciate your…qualifications."

She'd punched him on the spot, a moment which decided her future.

Nadine Hartman, a witness to the fight, had welcomed her into H.S.S. faster than she could say, 'Black's my favorite color.' From there Rosie had nurtured her disdain for Worthington with an eager attentiveness, like a garden of Nightshade. In a way it was Johnny's actions which started her on the route of who she was to become—not that she would ever admit as much.

But that was years ago.

Now somehow he'd snuck back into her professional life, if not her personal one, and she was working to force down old instincts.

Rosie ran a rough hand over her face and groaned. They'd aimed to meet after he got off at four p.m. By that point she would be awake enough to handle him and wouldn't need to get ready for her own shift quite yet. Still, she was reluctant to go.

The Scarer had explained the situation to her father and he'd wheedled Ma into letting Billy stay over during the day. Which mostly meant that the responsibility for his care would hop from sibling to sibling. Their method for babysitting, she'd discovered, was in sitting him down in front television all day long. The single mother hated to put her son in that position, but there wasn't much of a choice—working the night shift always complicated things. The one benefit was that for the first time in ages she had a few spare moments to herself, sans responsibility.

It was almost eery. But the kind of eeriness which was pleasant and addicting.

Rosie marveled at the quiet, eating "breakfast" by herself and dressing slowly. She only put one pair of earrings in this time, a set of diamond studs which wouldn't catch on anything as they trained. Her smart vest was painfully blue, like a black eye. And she was kind of hoping that it would match his black eye, considering where her fist had landed.

Then she settled down with a horror novel and waited until the time she needed to leave. Still Rosie couldn't seem to focus, eyes flitting around the room.

The loft apartment glowed with the hour, the uneven peach of the walls dipping like waves in the afternoon light. It was Alex's favorite time to paint, when the saturated colors of the room became hazy like a dream.

They'd collected a decent amount of stuff over the years together, as eclectic as they were worn in. A few pieces were from Ickea, small items she'd picked up as a new Scarer, but the rest were all salvaged. Her husband had had a tendency to 'save' objects from their own mediocrity and give them, 'new life.' Scraping down and painting over a table and chair set had been their first "couple" activity together, back when they were only dating, while the entertainment center and bookshelf had come later. Similar reminders glowed in a variety of colors all around her apartment.

Some, however, were left bare after sanding them down, the fresh wood gleaning too beautifully to be hidden. These were her favorite, she'd learned over the years.

Paintings, framed and unframed, hung from the walls while unfinished pieces sat leaning up against the edges of the space. When walking from room to room Rosie avoided each one neatly, familiar with their locations after a year of inattention.

But what could she do?—It had been Alex's habit to leave artwork out until it was finished, a process which sometimes took months (hence the uneven color of her living room walls). The grey monster had gotten in the habit of ignoring them until they were finalized, thus most continued where they'd been left a year hence, collecting dust.

Across from her in the kitchen the Venus fly trap bouquet that she'd caught at Joey and Adelaide's wedding was already wilting. Rosie had been horrified upon having it launched at her, the macabre mockery of tradition cutting straight to her core, but now it was just a dry twist of carnivorous plant-life.

Stomping over now, the monster yanked the bundle of 'flowers' and thistles from its vase in order to throw it away but hesitated—setting it aside for drying instead. The pods were great in stew, and while the irony wasn't lost on her she wasn't about to waste food.

After that, however, there were no other tasks. Rosie already turned on the dishwasher after arriving home from work, the machine running while she crashed post-work, the laundry was all done, and there were no messes to clean up. The single mother was dutifully ignoring the pile of bills on the table and she didn't really have the money to get any groceries until her next pay day.

With nothing left to do…it was time to leave.

Brown eyes watched the road without really seeing it, her rusty pickup rattling and popping as the radio played something shriekingly melancholy. The old thing had three seats, two with over the shoulder seatbelts and the middle with a lap belt. It used to be that she and Alex would sit with Billy between them, his car seat maneuvered into place with some difficulty. But now her son was her only companion, leaving the middle section bare after having scooted his place over.

It reminded her of the chairs they'd refurbished together—a set of two, with one perpetually empty.

Billy seemed to fill up her days, and work overshadowed the rest, so that more often than not she was too busy or too tired to feel lonely. But every now and again it crept up on her, like her own personal Scarer. On top of all that her previous ire at Fear Co.'s announcement was slowly simmering into something like despair.

Their overlords had given then a time limit: two months in which to train before they were to be tested once more, as though they were all green recruits. It reminded her of when a recent law had passed requiring that those with driver's licenses for thirty years or more take the driver's test again, for safety reasons. At the time it resulted in more crashes as the test-takers, in their anxiety, forgot everything they knew.

After that point there would be a series of reassignments. There were a handful of Scarers that she saw doing just fine, individuals known for adapting to any situation (admittedly within the scenario of Scaring rather than "Cheering," but still…). However, she was an "old cerberus," so to speak. Rosie had been taught in the old methods and knew what her strengths were—anticipation, subtly and resultant fierceness.

Things like hissing in a child's ear just as it was beginning to think that it was completely alone, deliberately stepping on creaky floorboards but remaining unseen, and roaring just as a child did a double-take in the dark.

What did she know about making children laugh?

Pulling into the parking lot, Levin-Mercado entered the building with a heavy sigh. It was strange to be at Fear Co. during the day, scores of workers heading off toward different tunnels and elevator chutes. Elliot at the desk was answering several phone calls at a time with his various arms and multiple ears, transferring them one by one without pause. He did, however, blink at Rosie as she came up. She tried to fight off the discomfort as she shrugged in the direction of the rec room.

"Hey, El. I'm here for training."

He blinked sympathetically and motioned her on. Meanwhile her anxiety was building up step by unhelpful step. Just re-entering the situation post-confrontation was making her heart race unpleasantly, stomach clenched and muscles stiff. On top of all that, Rosie's spikes were tingling, standing on end from the top of her spine right down to her tail. When first meeting Johnny she'd marched from her station with determination, wanting to get their training done and over with. After the situation escalated she'd left with rage (then later irritation) pumping through her veins.

Now she was in no mood to continue their barbed spat. As a younger monster she might have desired a continuation but right now…she was tired. Tired and anxious. Rosie deliberately uncurled the fists her hands had already made, making a point of stretching them until they no longer looked like weapons (though they were twitching every now and again).

Then the Scarer took a deep breath, reminded herself that she wasn't afraid of anything—especially Worthington of all monsters—and entered the padded room.

It was a bit anticlimactic, actually. Two other pairs were working together, muffled conversation and awkward attempts at humor falling flat. Johnny lounged on a metal folding chair, arms locked and a frown heavy upon brows which were usually lit and expressive. He'd put on another one of those button-ups, which she had to admit were more flattering than the sweaters he used to wear, and while still athletic-looking he wasn't quite as streamlined as he'd been in college. Rosie continued to examine him and was startled to note that there were shots of silver running through his fur. They were subtle, mostly found at his temples and along his jaws—meaning that they were practically unnoticeable when he was running his gob and acting the idiot.

This was the first time she'd been able to actively observe him in, well, years. And he'd gotten older—they both had. It was just startling to sync who he'd been and who he was now and see actual differences.

Her "partner" shifted in his seat, face coming into view, and despite the situation Rosie couldn't stop her smirk—she'd been right about the color of her vest, it did match his eye perfectly.

The thought was more than enough to conquer any last bit of uncertainty.

She pounded her way over to where Worthington was sitting, and once he was alerted to her presence he straightened in the chair calmly, if warily.

"Levin," the guy said in greeting.

She hissed, "Mercado. It's Mercado, Worthington."

"Right," he muttered with only half of his usual aplomb. She was startled by the lackluster response, but explained it away as being a side-effect of their mutual apathy for the task.

When he remained sitting Rosie moved to the folding table, picking up the materials they needed and coming back. His booklet was tossed into his lap but he hardly seemed to look at it.

"'The Elements of Comedy,'" Rosie read out loud and into the empty air, "or the act of making people laugh. An introduction."

When Worthington failed to stir she continued on in silence. The first chapter was titled, 'Know Your Audience,' and she was reminded of their early days in the Scare program at M.U. Where half the battle was in knowing what might scare a kid and what would instead made them cry or whimper or just hide under their sheets. This aspect was familiar and so she moved on.

There was a basic organization to the instruction manual, things like what makes jokes funny and why physical comedy elicits uninhibited painless laughter. Also, the 'pregnant pause.'

What made a pause pregnant, she wondered? Also, the existence of 'painful' laughter was baffling to her, but then again they'd been taught from an early age that children were lethal so she supposed it was possible.

The question nearly left her lips, accustomed as Rosie was to speaking to Billy and receiving a rudimentary reply via hand signs. But when she looked up it was to see Johnny leaning forward, arms propped on his knees as he stared into space, pamphlet clenched in his claws.

Rosie sighed.

"Look, Worthy, I know that neither of us have our heart in…this," she waved her hand down at the pages, "but this is our job, changes and all. So we need to both take it seriously. Scaring involves the Scarer and Assistant; it's never just one monster alone."

He groaned slightly, rising from his crouch as he ran a hand over his maw roughly, "you're right, of course. Sorry. I'll…focus. Two to tango, duets and all that. I just...have a lot on my plate, is all."

"Really?" she asked with folded arms and a bland expression, only half curious.

Her response seemed to surprise him, not expecting any interest at all. With hands on his hips, Johnny barked out a laugh, "yep. Levin, while we can both agree that you don't know me and I obviously don't know you," he touched his eye carefully, "it's safe to say that what I'm dealing with even you might find difficult."

Instinct told her what she should do—blow him off, say 'whatever,' and get on with it. But some element of his words stopped her—eliciting a quizzical stare as Rosie puzzled at why the comment stood out.

His tone. Johnny was being droll, true, but he was also being serious. Whatever was on his mind was severe enough that his trademark posturing was nowhere to be seen, replaced by something that was decidedly more…adult. Solemn. Dry and centered in an unexpected reality.

What could have possibly occurred in two days time to make Worthington uncertain about the future?

"It's money, isn't it?" the former member of H.S.S., known for intelligence while on her feet, said in a sudden epiphany. Money, the root of much of his confidence, was probably the one thing which might actually make him lose his cool. Besides, well, being outshone. The female monster was incredulous, "you can't honestly tell me that the great Worthington heir is worried about rent?"

She'd said the comment in astonishment but somehow a few barbs had been thrown into the mix. The look he gave her was so filled with frustration and rage that she took a step back. Soon, however, Johnny managed to mask the emotion with something more neutral. Rosie even almost regretted bringing it up. Until…

"You wouldn't understand."

The defeated tone would have been worrying, had he not been so talented at pissing her off.

Eyes slitted and ire rising, she stated blandly, "you mean like rent I can't afford, medical and dental costs, car repairs, groceries, a phone bill, child care-."

"Yeah, but you've got your husband to help—"

"—and funeral costs?!"

She hadn't meant to say that, she really hadn't. Especially as it wasn't as though she was angry at Alex for any of what had followed his passing. Everything she'd dealt with lately was circumstantial. She'd just…wanted Johnny to shut up and—

Well, it worked.

He was gaping at her as though that was the only thing Rosie could have said to shock him out of his self-pity.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, a false platitude presented by those who didn't know what else to say. She'd heard the phrase more times than she liked to recall.

Rosie sighed heavily, rubbing at her forehead, "look, its fine. Don't mention it."

"No, really, I—."

"I said don't mention it," the command came as an outright hiss andthere went their moment of calm, right out the window. Johnny was back to looking at the floor. Rosie stared at the booklet for several minutes as letters and graphs swam before brown eyes. When they failed to settle she growled slightly, snatching the pamphlet from him, tossing them on to his chair, and writing the "partnership" off as a lost cause.

She hardly noted the shift in his expression, brows furrowed in thought and spine slowly straightening. The former head of R.O.R. began pacing slightly, tapping his chin in though. Only when Johnny's hand slapped his shirt pocket as though it held all the answers did the other Scarer look at him, a look of irritation tugging at her features as she pulled the strap of her purse tighter.

Worthington was staring at her with sudden determination—as though struck with a split-second, bite-the-bullet kind of idea.

"Levin—."

"Mercado," she corrected automatically, ready to turn away.

"Whatever. Anyway, the other day you accidentally forgot something," he held up the envelope she'd thrown at him, complete with phone number.

Rosie scowled, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't an accident, Worthington."

"I can see how you might think that," he began, like a magician introducing a new trick, "however when I was putting in your cell I realized what this was," Johnny flipped the folded paper open.

She blanched.

He held in his grip one of her bills, one she'd doubled over and shoved into her bag after having left her family's place a few days ago. It was for a particularly painful car repair she'd been trying not to think about. The single mother reached for it instinctively, mortification creating a grimace. But Worthington tugged himself backwards with a look of intelligent appraisal in his eyes, now that he'd gotten her attention.

"I think I recall your mention that you were having some financial difficulty ," he smiled with sudden and renewed confidence, as though his previous melancholy was nonexistent. But she preferred his previous harsh honesty to this…this plasticity. In comparing the two Johnny now seemed sly and smarmy, like a used monster truck salesman. It was the Worthington that she used to know, "what would you say if I told you that I'm renting out a place and that the rent is cheap?"

Struck, Rosie jerked backward instinctually, her bag's handle crumpling in her hands. She tried to mask the response, but Worthington had caught on to it with a grin of jagged teeth.

But the Rosie who'd been head of H.S.S. was dormant no longer, particularly after his last stunt.

"Not on your life, Worthington," she snatched the envelope back with a growl and began to stride away. But he wasn't done.

"There's babysitting provided," he proffered, following her, "you'd be able to switch over to the day shift."

"I like the night shift—there's no schmucks to deal with," her response was a series of growls.

"Utilities are included in the rent. And groceries. It's already furnished, too!" he added the last in a desperate tone, almost reaching out to stop her. Rosie glared at him as though daring him to try it and then tore away.

"Buzz off, Johnny!" she nearly roared. Those few other monsters in the room might have stopped to stare at them, but she hardly noticed. After all, it was just a repeat of their last gossip-inducing interaction.

Putting on a burst of speed, the monster failed to see his shoulders slump inward as yet another idea went down the drain. But minutes later he picked himself up again—there were always other alternatives.

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AN: This was a really long chapter. :S Sorry about that. It was either two short disconnected chapters, or one long one. (Plus there are probably a dozen different problems with this. Arrgh.)

And yay! The "living under the same roof," trope, brought to you by Shahrezad1. –sarcastic, cheesy grin- It'll be just like college again! (Which of course, turned out beautifully.) That being said, they need some one-on-one time, for reasons and plot and reasons. Also I really, really, really want to introduce Shirley James Worthington. :D

Fear Co. night shifts:

I've been trying in many ways to portray Rosie's night shifts as being similar to mine one Christmas—where working overnights works best with the fact that her son is awake during the day but still makes life in general rather difficult.

Johnny's shift: 8 a.m.-4 p.m.

The Swing Shift: 4 p.m.-12 a.m.

Rosie's shift: 12 a.m.-8 a.m. Rosie naps from: 9 a.m.-12 p.m., and again from 8 p.m.-11 p.m.

Billy is with his grandparents from: 7:30 p.m.-8:30 a.m.

The stuff about Rush Week and all that jazz is a combination of my own college experiences and scenes from college-based movies. XD Yup. Very credible. *laughs* The whole, "pock-marked with coke-bottle glasses," was a description of me as a Freshman. Booya. I made Rosie a year younger than Johnny because it felt right, and I know that she's the head of "HSS," in MU but I figured that regardless of being a Junior at the time they voted her in…twice. Hey, it made sense in my head. Shut it.

Song choice for this chapter is: "Mr. Know It All," by Kelly Clarkson. For reasons…