Bonnibel was stressed.

For a while, she had confused her symptoms with the onset of some sort of sickness - dull pounding in her skull, eyes that felt like hot glue, the twitch twitch twitching of her fingers that she couldn't control - and then she thought maybe it could be withdrawal, but then came to the conclusion her drug habit was far too casual for this sort of reaction. Yet, as soon as she decided it was impossible, the paranoia set in. When was the last time she took something? What had she ingested? (just over a week ago, a dash of nicotine) What else had she ever taken? (coke had not impressed her much, meth had scared her away, marijuana was a monthly indulgence) Did she possess a personality prone to addiction? (she didn't think so; she preferred variety, thrived on change) Was she taking in any substances without being aware of it? (well, she didn't sleepwalk and had no roommates who could slip anything in, so she couldn't see that being a possibility)

Even so, she was convinced the jitters of nervous tension had to be down to a latent drug habit. And what better way to cure a latent drug habit than to dope it out?

She shuffled from her bed and into some old slippers that had been flung halfway across the room, one foot comfortably inside, the other chafing along the back of the heel as she dragged herself along. Gosh, her room was a mess. The realisation hit her sometimes, but not strong enough to tempt her otherwise. She had always prioritised cleanliness, but had recently discovered how easy it was to let it be. Shoes were more accessible when tossed onto the ground, mugs could be quickly collected from whatever surface they'd ended up on, dust needed no more regulation than a quick wipe when someone attentive was coming over.

Bonnibel honed in on the cigarette box that poked out from beneath a pile of discarded records she'd got bored of hearing - Amy Winehouse's sultry contralto was just as enchanting as it was insipid - and moved the lot to trap an old book instead. With the singular grace of a neophyte narcoticist, she flicked open the cardboard cap and jerked the box to let a cigarette fall into her palm. Instead, what met her skin was a crumpled up note: 'restock! keep packet as cheap gift box for something small'. Disgusted at her previous laziness, she threw the packet away. She pulled on some clothes, using the small child's method of wear-everything-in-one-colour that seemed to be making a comeback in the fashion stakes, and left her dorm room with a clear destination in mind. All pink to match her hair, she felt like a little girl's bubblegum fantasy - now jaded, she supposed, a product of sketchy means to a sketchier end.

Daniel Abraca, half Turkish pharmaceutics major lacking any energy or confidence, lived in one of the dorm houses on the far side of campus, on the outskirts of the industrial estate. It was as if he was his own industry; selling homemade shit to bored students in need of a little mental stimulation. He was due to graduate top of his class and eschew a respectable job in favour of a white van and sunglasses deal. Or, that was the consensus. Bonnibel herself couldn't imagine the shirking personality to defy the law in this way.

He was slow to open the door and greeted her with a leap in his throat, residue of puberty, "Hi Bonnie, I am in love with your shoes."

"You're so gay," she scoffed, then realised she had forgotten to change out of her slippers, "Go fuck yourself."

"Well, you're not going to. What do you want?"

"What do you have?"

"The usual. No smokes, but I've got some stuff raw if you're ready to roll them up yourself."

"I can make the time."

"Of course you can, most junkies give up all their time for their fix," he made an unimpressed face. Though Daniel was the man about campus for the best hit, he himself had never dared touch his stash, relying instead on customer feedback; drug use would cloud his brain, and he needed that fully functional both for study and sales. Growing up with an addict for a mother meant he knew the ins and outs, and how lucrative the business could be - the unpayable bills had been a testament to that. He eyed his clients with distaste, and they were the only ones who ever heard his voice without its characteristic quake, "Stimulant, depressant, hallucinogen?"

"Nothing stimulating, thanks. Surprise me."

He shut his door and went to look through his room for something suitable. Bonnibel tried to look nonchalant in case someone went out into the hallway and instantly figured out why she was around; though Daniel had a reputation, she did not. None of her friends were stoners, and very few people saw her butt-freckled fire escape, so her habit went undetected by most.

He handed her a sealed bag of peanut brown powder, "Never given you heroin before, have I?"

"First time. What do I need to know?"

"Don't snort it, this lot isn't pure. You can smoke it, or dissolve it and inject it straight in, hits harder that way. Do you want a needle for that?"

She had always been scared of needles, though did not confess to this and turned the offer down offhandedly.

"Suit yourself," he said, disappointed he couldn't make any more money off of it, "First time can be really fierce, and there's the chance you'll spend the next couple hours vomiting, but most people don't get much worse than dizzy and giddy. That'll be ten."

Bonnibel handed over the money and made her way out of the building without being spotted, kicking off her slippers at the foot of the stairs so that she could carry them instead, the one heel rubbed rough from the lazy way she had worn it. Back in her dorm, she threw her slippers back on the ground and returned herself to her bed. She slicked a little saliva onto the sore developing at the back of her foot (she planned to ask Florence if she had any aloe vera or arnica for that) and contemplated the small bag she'd stuffed into her pocket.

Her eyes went right past it, to the stack of unfinished papers that lay atop her chest of drawers, an entire wad of essays, plans and sheets she had to complete - some overdue, others nearing their deadline at breakneck pace. It was then that she understood her problem. It was stress. Nothing to do with drugs.

She could fix that, a cynical voice inside her suggested, rooting around for cigarette paper. Her solution would not be to actually get started, oh no, not until she'd relaxed herself a bit.

Maybe the vomiting would emancipate her from all this work.


Campfires, Marceline thought to herself, were a sort of universal ritual understood to patch up team spirit, a rousing celebration that brought a tear to the eyes of the collected - though that must surely be from the acrid smoke that crept across the wind than any real bonding experience. The camp directors had organised the big fireside gathering in order to 'nurture relationships' and 'encouraging the fertilisation of ideas'. It was typical campfire business (pretentious bullshit, if you wanted Marceline's opinion on it all) and the usual activities had been prepared for the occasion. She'd always found these sacraments incredibly dull. Country songs and charred s'mores and half-assed ghost stories weren't really her thing. They were quite simply corny, contrived. Maybe with a few adjustments, she could imagine herself getting into the spirit - kick up the tempo a bit, pass around some beers and other things that hit harder, and add some hot company...

Company came over in the form of Bonnibel Grabb. The girl handed her over a mug of cocoa, cheeks red from the fire and perhaps a little genuine enjoyment, "You almost didn't get any since it was in pretty high demand. If I hadn't thought to bring some over, you'd definitely have dehydrated."

"I don't think one evening without a drink would've killed me," she said, though she imagined she'd kill herself by the end of the evening if she didn't get a proper drink in. Maybe a glass could bring its vinous pleasures even to this dull-as-fuck gathering. She stared into her mug (kitsch flower pattern) and the thick hot chocolate that swelled to the rim; it was the cloyingly sweet stuff she adored but wouldn't admit to, "Besides, this is quite concentrated, I don't think it'll help maintain my water balance so well."

She raised an eyebrow, "I see you have some rudimentary science knowledge."

"I'm not at Ooo for fuckall."

Hands up in surrender, Bonnibel gently sat some distance away from Marceline on the same log, "I wasn't trying to insult you, if that's the impression you got. Just you never struck me as a science nerd, more like law or business. Serious, scheming stuff, the superfluous lifestyle..." and when she saw the other girl still did not look much impressed, she quickly trailed away again, "But, you know how it goes. First impressions are often wrong, you can't really rely on them any."

Marceline chuckled lowly, and took a sip of the sweet cocoa. She gave a small, neat swallow and slid over her smouldering coal eyes, mouth curling up just slightly in the corner to expose a sly sliver of teeth, "And what about me, Bonnie? How accurate would you say your first impression of me was?"

The familiarity of the nickname found Bonnibel half smiling half shivering, a shimmer of soft joy nestlng in her stomach like a small spectral bird. This felt nothing like the initial spark of discomfort she'd felt when she had first encountered the surly, shouty, skinny girl. Her anger and her comfort with cursing had taken Bonnibel aback, and the aggressive manner of her dress- those boots that struck the pavement like thunder - had all combined to make a decidedly negative first impression. But, thinking about it, it wasn't as though she'd been wrong. Marceline still swore like a boatman, and was forthcoming about her vices, of which there appeared to be many indeed.

So, in response to the question, she just shrugged, "I hardly know you well enough to say."

"By that you mean yes, that first meeting was pretty bloody telling."

Marceline didn't let her object to this assessment, and remarked that Bonnibel had hardly surprised her either. She'd expected a demure, geeky, neat-freak and that promise had been delivered - and she didn't allow any objections to this either, since that would ruin the reserved, retiring image she'd built up of the girl. Then, with a wink, she politely asked her to continue to be as timid and ingratiating as possible, so that Marceline was allowed to be smug about her powers of perception.

Someone picked up a guitar and announced it was time for the singing to start. Bonnibel, excitement glowing in her blue eyes, turned to Marceline, "You should one hundred percent go do it, I bet you'd blow them all away."

Marceline's eyes lost all the life that her friend's had just gained, "I'll pass, thanks."

"But I've heard you play and you're absolutely incredible. I know that's a guitar and you prefer your bass, but you said you can kinda do both, and you've got some of your own material you can wow them with, which in my opinion is far more impressive than learning someone else's music. I really think you should do it, at least once."

"I said, I'll pass."

She didn't heed the warning in the tone of her voice, "Just think about it!"

"I have thought about it. And I don't want to play in front of people I don't give a shit about," she spat, and gave her mug back to Bonnibel, "Sorry for thinking what happened yesterday was more important than that, I guess I'm just a conceited fuck."

"Marceline, I-"

"Screw your campfire."

Bonnibel was left alone, watching Marceline sullenly make her way back to the lodge house, fists stuffed tight in the pockets of her hoodie. She blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears, confused by the startling vehemence, at the concentration of emotion directed straight at her. She'd said something wrong, underestimated the meaning Marceline had attached to things, and had screwed up what would've most likely turned out to be a good evening - the bonding oppurtunity the camp leaders so desired. The soft feeling evaporated from her stomach.

Someone tapped her shoulder. Ricardo smiled down at her. She was glad her face was mostly obscured despite the fractal flicker of fire in the distance, so that he could not notice the tears that had welled up so traitorously. However, he must have noticed Marceline's hasty exit since his voice was cautiously comforting, "Do you want to come lark about with us? You look like you might not be a terrible singer."

She laughed, sniffed, "I don't want to break it to you but..."

"We're all accepting people here, no need to feel ashamed," he jerked his head to the direction of the fire, "You coming?"

"Yeah. Wouldn't miss it."

"Fabulous!" he grinned, and pulled her towards where the others were singing a raucous medley of Queen hits. Bonnibel launched herself straight into the tomfoolery. It was funny how emotions could be swept up so easily in favour of others, she thought, giddy with the stupidity of singing so badly and yet so loudly; and funny how people could be swept up with them.

Someday, she would have to acknowledge Marceline was far too difficult for her.


"So," Ash said, "I think we're alone now."

"There's no one else around, so I'd agree with that."

"Don't be a tightass," he frowned.

"Oh, I've got the tightest arse around and you know it."

"You know, I'm really into this whole flirting thing and appreciate every opportunity you give me to look at your arse, but I kind of get the feeling that this isn't ini fact an invitation to stare at your anatomy and is actually a subtle fuck you that I will never understand because you still haven't told me why you talk to me like this all of a sudden."

"It's not really sudden, Ash. We've been like this for a while now."

"No, you've been like this for a while now. And I'm confused by it."

"Look, I don't want to talk about it."

"Ever since Ooo, I think, if I'm going to timeline it. What was it about that place? Did you go there, mingle with all the smart people and realise I'm so utterly beneath you? Because I know I am, I've always known, but I never thought it mattered."

"Ash, it's not about you."

"Then what is it about?"

"Why are you so determined to know?"

"Because-"

"Don't you think your constant need to know what's gone wrong is making things, oh I don't know, more wrong? More weird? I'm getting quite sick of hearing you complain about how things have changed, to be entirely honest with you."

"I'm sorry, that isn't my intention, you know that."

"I know," she sighed.

Ash was sat on one end of the empty meeting room, legs flung across the top of a table, blue eyes intense and earnest upon her, sat meekly on the other side. She felt every iota of discomfort in her closed posture, the tucked knees and hair across her face, and tried to wipe it all away with harsh, defensive words. Sometimes, she wasn't even sure why she was like this. Why had Bonnibel changed how she treated him? And why was she so scared to confess to him? She wasn't sure why, but she felt like that would mean giving in. To what, she didn't quite understand.

"Just know that I won't judge you for whatever it is."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"I thought not." A pause, "Why did you attack me yesterday?"

To hell with it. Nothing would happen if she confessed. She closed her eyes, exhaled once, long and low, and told him, "Because for a moment I was going to kiss you."

A smirk lit his face, and he stretched his legs taut with pride. As quickly as it came, the pleasure dulled from his being, "And that made you angry?"

"I think it was fear."

"Why...? No, you don't need to answer that," he looked at her with compassion flooding his eyes, "I think I get it. You don't get it yourself. Which I think might be a paradox when I phrase it like that but I've never been that articulate have I?"

She laughed softly, "No, especially not your texts."

"Lol mate no way."

"Even worse than that, usually."

"You scorn me."

She didn't know how to reply to the dramatic flourish of woe in his voice, so gave him a nod to show she had heard him speak. This managed to stilt the burgeoning conversation considerably, and some minutes passed before Ash talked again, his voice a wounded blur, "Does my touch scare you?"

"No, I don't..."

He rose and crossed to her, put his hand on hers, "I don't want to be something bad for you. You know that."

Marceline struggled to come up with the words to explain the sensation she had felt in that spur of a second the day before, and felt herself reliving the desire again as the old magnetism pulled them in again - his hand met her shoulder, the other slipped down onto her knee, his warmth became hotter, more insistent, his breath shallow across her face, eyes fading to subtle suggestion of colour, lips ghosting against hers, all the gentle depth of passion that he'd always had became hers again, and he was so close, she was so close to giving herself in to him, giving up almost.

She pushed him away, cautious not to hurt him this time. He must have seen and felt the temptation that swamped her, how was she going to explain her denial to him?

And then she realised she didn't need to, his eyes understood, "I won't bother you anymore, it's okay."

With this, Ash returned himself to his seat on the opposite side of the room and kept his eyes politely away.


A/N: This fic fizzles out a lot :') I guess I got distracted with exams and by the time I got back, my draft had wiped. That meant I lost a bit of plot and a lot of motivation; hence why it's taken me a while to return to this. Thanks to reviewers for reminding me this exists. Y'all are so kind about this teensy little fanfic and it's really wonderful, I appreciate it heaps :)

Just reverse Daniel Abraca to get who he's modelled on ~ Once again, not really accurate to the canon character but somehow wizard = drug dealer made sense to me?