A/N: A bit more friend-plugging in this chapter, for which I think I can be forgiven. I only mention the phics that I think should be read. Also, a reference is made in this chapter to Good Omens, one of my two favourite books, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Wholly recommended. Hilarious. Take it from me, a Crowley fangirl. That is all.

Chapter Eight: Numerous References to Cheese

At considerable length, he emerged from the bathroom, attired in jeans and sweater— leading Lonny to wonder how in the world he managed to turn a perfectly normal, slightly rumpled outfit that was sagged around the waist and shoulders, into the most elegant, smoothly-lined uniform she'd ever seen.

She thought about asking him, for a few seconds, and quickly decided against it.

"You look nice," she said brightly. He glowered at her as though she'd just given him the rudest insult she could think of. "I put your clothes in the washer. You can have them back in an hour or so."

Without a word, he stalked past her, headed back down for the basement. She hurried after him.

"Don't you want some breakfast?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll make you some toast. Do you drink orange juice?"

"No."

"Alright, I'll bring you some coffee then. Do you want blueberry jam on your toast or strawberry?"

"No."

"Strawberry, then."

He swung round and glared at her. "Do you even listen to a word I say? I'm here talking and you just run right over everything I say without a second thought. Hasn't anyone ever told you that's an incredibly rude way to act?"

"Blueberry?"

He sighed harshly and started down the stairs, running a hand over his slicked-back hair, straightening his clothes, looking for all the world like a man getting ready to meet the woman he had a crush on— which made Lonny worry slightly over which phic he was reading.

"Um— Erik?"

He ignored her and carried on down the stairs. She decided to leave it for the moment, went and made him toast. So she wasn't supposed to have food in the basement— so what? There was a bigger issue at stake here, and she couldn't get rid of the nagging sensation that, if her parents had suspected she might someday harbor a fictional fugitive in her bedroom, that probably would have been forbidden as well. She decided to disregard this idea for as long as possible, and made the toast as quickly as possible.

He was so engrossed in the computer screen that she was able to sneak up behind him and peer over his shoulder.

"Aha," she said in his ear. "An Eternity of This. I should have known."

At least, that's what she intended to say. Shortly after the first exhalation she made, she felt his hand clamp around her throat— not tightly, causing her no pain, but an undeniable pressure, intended to let her know that her presence, this close to him, was not welcome. His fingers choked off her voice for the beat of three seconds, then let her go. She backed off, rubbing her throat.

"That wasn't very nice," she said, quietly.

Erik's unfathomable eyes were fixed on the screen; his eyelids didn't flicker. She ventured a bit closer and eyed him, then the computer.

"Ah, you're at that part," she said. "Well— I forgive you then."

Erik nodded, slowly.

For some time, Lonny lay on the bed, holding her battered copy of "Good Omens" above her head, reading; and Erik read through several more chapters, occasionally chewing his lower lip, once in a while shifting his weight as though uncomfortable. Finally he heaved a sigh and sat back.

"It is not finished?"

"No," said Lonny, marking her place in her book (the birthday party, with the water guns and the pigeon) and sitting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and giving him her full attention. "I imagine it will go on for a while yet— which I'm glad of, I must say."

He frowned at the screen. "Will she update soon?"

"I don't know, Erik. You know what they say— good things come to those who wait." Lonny frowned. "Unless you're waiting for a bus. In which case you just get— a bus."

Erik sighed.

"Or," said Lonny, "if you're waiting in the middle of the street. Then you just get run over. Which isn't— good, I mean."

Erik turned his eyes away from her and towards the screen, his gaze longing.

"So," said Lonny, delicately, "can I take it that you are not quite as set against OWs as you were?"

"OWs—"

"Other Women."

He sighed, again. "These are turbulent times," he said ruminatively. "Obviously, though one would wish to cling to the loves one has known in one's life, one would necessarily perforce be pressed into adaptation to new ideas and concepts."

Lonny gave a sage nod. "You know," she said, "if you said that in French, I'd have more of a chance of understanding. Do you write words for your songs like that? Does anyone understand them?"

He frowned. "I do not write words for my songs— they tend to be music only."

"That's— boring," said Lonny.

Erik took a deep breath and aimlessly clicked the mouse button a few times. "The music speaks for itself."

His voice was quiet, and impressed her with its starkness. She sobered a bit and sat up straight.

"I know," she said. "Or— well, I don't know, but I understand. I think."

His lips twitched up in a slight smile. "Someday I will show you. I believe I can make you understand."

"Alright," said Lonny. Her seriousness dissipated quickly, and she got up off the bed. "You might try some of the funny phics. They're not as good as the serious ones, but they're— funnier."

He turned to one side, glanced down at the desk, and saw the toast which was now cold. With a slight shrug he picked it up and took a bite. "Perhaps I will. I have tried a few of them— there would seem to be many puns which do not entirely make sense to me."

"Oh yeah?" The toast had left slight traces of strawberry jam on the bottom lip of the mask, and Lonny snickered to herself and decided not to point it out. It would only embarrass him— "Like what, for instance?"

"There are numerous references to the cheese."

Lonny blinked. "Ah, yes, well— you might as well just ignore those ones."

"You don't think you could explain it to me?"

"Not a chance," she said firmly. "The same with, well, muffins. No muffin questions, best just to leave that kind of thing alone. Anyway. I'll go through and find some that you might like. You want me to try now?"

He sighed. "Actually, I was going to endeavor to read the story called Fraternite— the first chapter appealed to me."

"Oh, right on." She sank back onto the bed as he turned back to the computer. Clearly he intended to be preoccupied for some time.

Which left her in an interesting position. The Phantom of the Opera was in her bedroom— and he was busy reading fanfiction. There was a cruel irony in this, if she could but grasp it—

Oh yes, that was it.

The opportunity of a lifetime was flitting by, waving merrily, and going on its way. She made a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh. Erik took no notice.

She was watching as he eagerly clicked forward to the next chapter when the ghost of a Very Interesting Idea entered her mind. Speculatively she watched his long fingers; he'd gotten rather comfortable with the keyboard, in quite a short time.

Perhaps, she thought—

The nice thing about the Very Interesting Idea was it would be good for him, and rewarding for her. That's what made it Very Interesting.

Of such stuff our dreams are made.