I don't own Adventure Time.

Chapter 9

Around herself, Bonnie spied the junk from her old cubicle, ranging from her Peruvian apple cactus to the stainless steel stapler that she used to pinch herself with to stay awake, all packed into tight cardboard boxes that were strewn across the small office room. She twisted her lips. Honestly, it was a little disappointing. She'd thought walking onto the 149th floor would be an experience. It's not every day you got to be near the top of the tallest skyscraper in Bathurst. So where were the windows? The views of the city skyline?

Nope.

Just an almost bare room with a wood desk and an old-looking black chair.

Boring.

That's why Bonnie's interest was wholly peaked once she'd caught what was behind Marceline's door. It wasn't a drab office like the one she was standing in. It looked like a whole other world on the other side of that door.

And to think she lives there...

Bonnie bit her bottom lip as she put her head down. She did feel slightly guilty – and a bit fearful – when she realized she had woken her boss. She had no idea that the girl's living space was on the other side of the inconspicuous door. Bonnie wasn't unfamiliar with a nocturnal sleep pattern - given her days at Blackwell – but surely the vice-president didn't need to adopt one. After all, she hardly worked at all.

Right?

The sound of the door creaking open caused Bonnie to look up, unsure of how she would react to another eyeful of what saw only moments before. A look of relief graced her features when she stood face-to-face with Marceline who, thankfully, had on her usual get-up of denim jeans and her iconic open flannel jacket. Any mental images of the vice-president's previous attire from before were quickly erased from Bonnie's memory.

Well… attempted to be erased, at least.

Marceline raised an arm, her eyes hidden behind the bangs of her lush hair as she gestured a mocking invitation for Bonnie to come in. The atmosphere was a tangible awkwardness as the redhead stepped through the open door. However, any awkward feelings within Bonnie, however, quickly evaporated as she breathed in her surroundings, her eyes widening with awe.

Holy moly.

The interior of the place wasn't just a whole other world.

It was a whole other universe.

There was a huge openness to the room – no, 'room' wasn't the right word. It was a loft. The feel of the floor had changed from soft carpeting to the hardness of a dusty wooden sheen, white halogen lights blared from the ceiling, and there was a distinct scent that permeated throughout the air that smelled oddly of apple and…

… strawberries?

Funny. It smelled strangely familiar.

A grand white interior balcony lay above a kitchen, a pillar at its center. The chef in Sam would've fallen head-over-heels in love with the futuristic-looking fridge alone. As Bonnie stepped further inside, she peered further across the loft where she saw wooden steps, leading to the far side of the room which had a red velvety chaise lounge that spanned almost the entirety of the floor. On the wall across from the chaise, there wasn't a massive T.V., like she thought. It was actually a pitch-black curtain that draped the entire wall of the floor, the sun's dying rays could be seen just around the edges, suggesting there was a window on the other side. It took every ounce of willpower in Bonnie's body to not rush over and yank the cord besides the curtain that would open them.

"This place is amazing…" Bonnie said, her breath leaving her chest as she spoke.

"Oh, please," Marceline spoke. "You don't have to kiss my ass yet. Don't think you'll get promoted again so soon."

"No, really. I've never seen someone live in such a huge space." Bonnie's voice echoed throughout the loft. "You really live here?"

"Uh... yes? Is that so hard to believe?" Marceline scoffed, leading Bonnie to the chaise in the middle of the room. "Sit. We're going to lay down some ground rules if we're going to make this…" - she gestured between herself and Bonnie - "... work."

Straight to business, huh?

Bonnie did as she was told, taking a seat on the lounge. The velvet cushioning couldn't have been more deceptive as the seat was actually firm as stone. Bonnie could help but notice Marceline must've been thinking the same thing as she sat on the opposite end a few feet away, looking cramped.

'It's your couch. Why are you surprised that it's hard as bedrock?' Bonnie wanted to say.

"Rule number one," Marceline began, raising her right index finger. "You do exactly what I say, when I say it. Got it?"

"I thought that was standard between an assistant and their employer."

Marceline shook her head, her long hair swaying from side-to-side as she did so. "No. When I say 'exactly', I mean exactly. In and out of work. No arguing, no comments, no questions. You do everything I tell you. Understand?"

"Okay..." Bonnie replied, an eyebrow raised at the woman's assertiveness, unsure whether this was a violation of several human rights or not.

Didn't quite take her as a control freak.

"Good." Marceline propped her legs onto the couch to which the tension in Bonnie's neck grew, an image of the white skin under the woman's denim briefly flashed in Bonnie's mind. "Rule number two…" the vice-president continued. raising another finger, her eyes narrowed as her expression became serious. "... Don't ever lie to me."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I'm not one to lie, anyway."

"Great. Then we'll have no problems. Break one of those rules, and you're gone." Bonnie could feel the daggers Marceline's stare emitted. "Let's pick up where we left off then."

"Pick up where we left off what?" Bonnie asked, confused.

"The interview. You may have gotten the job, but there's still some questions that we have to go through - and we didn't get to them because… well…"

"You decided to cut the interview short?" Bonnie put lightly.

"Yeah, that's a nice way to say you pissed me off so I told you to get out." Marceline twirled the loose ends of her ebony hair with a finger. "Which was a bit brash, now that I think back to it. So - you're going to answer me these things with rule number one and two in mind, got that, princess?"

Princess? Princess!? The nerve on this girl…

Bonnie returned an uneasy smile of her own as she nodded.

"What was your time like at Blackwell Academy?" Marceline asked.

Okay, well, this is an easy question.

"It was a school, and I studied there. The grounds were well equipped and the faculty were all very welcoming. There's not much more to say," Bonnie replied, hoping to have avoided the underlying question.

"That's not what I asked. I said, what was your time like there? Did you like it?"

Gosh… do I really need to be a hundred percent honest with these?

Bonnie sighed. Seemed like there were just some things she couldn't escape from no matter where she went. "It wasn't… the best part of my life. So, no - my experience at Blackwell wasn't the best. I didn't want to go to Blackwell in the first place. There, is that what you wanted to hear?" Bonnie spoke, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

"Thought so. You didn't seem like the Blackwell type."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't seem very much to be the business sort of person. You look more of a girl who's into… math or science junk."

How would she-... How would she know that!?

Marceline looked Bonnie up and down to which Bonnie turned away, not wanting to look back into that piercing stare. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"... Fine, yes. I'm more of a science person than a business person. I would've much rather gone somewhere that had more emphasis on neurology or medicine than numbers and money."

"So why'd you go then?" Marceline asked, beginning to look mildly interested.

"Because…" Bonnie had to close her eyes, biting her tongue a little at her next words. "That's what my parents wanted for me, before they passed that is… - the trust fund was set up for Blackwell. They thought that I would see more success in business rather than researching god knows what." A feeling of sorrow stabbed Bonnie in the chest at the very mention of her mother and father.

"I see." Marceline stopped twiddling her hair, her finger still looped with a few strands of it. "We can't get everything we want," she said, resting a hand under her chin with a bored look.

"You're… not going to ask?" Bonnie asked.

"About what?"

"My parents. Usually, whenever I mention it, people always ask what happened to them."

"Jeez, I could ask... but come on. Even I know some things are better left unsaid," Marceline replied, rolling her eyes. "I know what it feels like when people ask stupid shit," she said, this time with a softer tone.

Bonnie quirked her head to the side, an old habit when something odd peaked her interest. It was as if Marceline was being... sympathetic. But that couldn't be the case, could it? Were Abadeers even capable of such feeling?

"Alright next question," Marceline said, resuming her hair twirling, "... you don't have to answer this one. So I'm giving you a choice here."

What sort of question needs a choice of needing an answer or not?

"Back at the interview, when Simon - the shrink next to me - was doing that word-for-word biz with you… he gave you the word 'memories'."

Oh no.

"Why was 'lost' the first thing that came to mind?" Marceline asked.

Damn it.

This was probably the one thing Bonnie didn't want to talk about with anyone other than those really close to her. Mostly because the people she divulged her past to just took it the wrong way. Amnesia? That was just a trope used in badly-written sitcoms or superhero skits. It wasn't real. People only claim to have amnesia when they're going through a rough patch in life, looking for an excuse for others to pity them. It's fake.

But not for Bonnie.

She needed not be reminded that the condition was, in fact, real.

Very real.

Others just treated Bonnie differently once they'd found out. That she was different, an outcast, a reject labeled as mentally unfit.

Her silence had told Marceline more than enough as the vice-president stood, a hand placed on her hip. "Fine. You don't have to say anything. I was just wondering was all." She began walking towards the kitchen.

"I have amnesia," Bonnie whispered, to which she immediately cupped a hand over her mouth.

Stupid! Why did I say that!?

For a split second, Bonnie had let her guard down, and that was all it took for her to blurt out the summary of her childhood. Why? She would never talk about this with someone she barely knew, so why did it feel like telling the girl in front of her felt so… okay?

Marceline stopped mid-stride. She turned to look Bonnie dead in the eyes, the ex-intern expecting a swift ridicule to come from the woman's lips.

But nothing came.

Bonnie could've sworn that from the slight arch in the other girl's brow could've meant she was even feeling... sad.

"Oh, makes sense," Marceline said, the sad look on her face gone in an instant. "How'd that happen?" Bonnie was just taken by surprise at the girl's totally nonchalant reaction.

"I… don't know the specifics. The earliest thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed." What are you saying!? You don't have to tell her this! But, Bonnie had an overcoming urge to keep on talking - and she still had no idea why. "The doctors said I'd suffered a concussion. It was only when I asked them what my name was did they realize something was wrong."

Marceline sat back down, now looking genuinely interested in what Bonnie had to say. "What'd they say?" she asked gently.

"After a bunch of brain scans, they said it was post-traumatic amnesia and not some sort of short-term thing." Bonnie unconsciously brought a hand to the back of her head, unweaving her hair so that she could place a finger on the healed scar that she'd gotten from so long ago. "I had a pretty big gash on the back of my head, although they don't know what caused it. One of the nurses said a man in a suit had dropped me off at the emergency ward that night before disappearing."

And I still have no idea who that was…

Marceline clenched her jaw as she shifted uncomfortably on the couch, whether it was from the hardness of the chaise or the personal details she was listening to, Bonnie did not know. "So… how old were you when it happened?"

"Twelve. I forgot everything about myself before then. What my name was, where I lived, where I went to school, what year it was..."

Who my parents were...

Who my friends were… if I even had any.

"... all gone."

Bonnie had to hide her frown, tucking her head as she squeezed her eyes shut, the threat of a stray tear falling from the edge of one of her eyes. She wouldn't be able to handle the embarrassment of bawling her eyes out in front of her boss. All she had after that day was Sam, although he too was a complete stranger then.

"Hmm, is that why you were such a nerd at Blackwell? Because all that junk you learned had more space to fill in that head of yours?" Marceline asked, the left side of her lip tugged upwards.

Bonnie's frown slowly turned into a smile, a warm feeling bubbled in her chest as she brought a hand to her mouth as she tried to smother a nervous laugh. A few seconds later, Bonnie had to wipe an eye with the back of her hand, her skin becoming moist not with the tears of dejection, but with tears of skittish laughter. Marceline seemed to be proud of her little joke as well as her smile remained.

"You're the first," Bonnie said, still stifling a giggle.

"The first to what?" Marceline asked.

"The first not to tell me that I'm just faking it for attention, or to suddenly become over pitying. I told my friends at Blackwell once - well, people who I thought were my friends - and they just never spoke to me again. They all just looked at me differently since."

"Sounds like you had some pretty shitty friends," Marceline said, shrugging before standing again. It was a rough way of putting it, but Bonnie knew that Marceline was right. "Want anything to drink? I don't have much besides water and strawberry juice," she said, walking back to the kitchen.

Strawberry juice? That's a new one.

Bonnie shook her head at the girl's offer before sharing another smile with her boss. At this moment, a thought engrossed Bonnie's mind. The girl in front of her wasn't the oppressive tyrant Finn and Jake had made her out to be. Then again, the brothers' information came purely from rumors and gossip. Out of all people, Bonnie should know gossip and rumors never made good sources.

She was just a normal girl like Bonnie. She just had a different lifestyle, a different upbringing, a different perspective. Mayhaps in another universe, the two could've been close friends…

The clinking of glass could be heard from the kitchen, presumably Marceline pouring herself a beverage. Bonnie stood to walk over to the rope that hung from the vast black curtain. She used her knuckles to knock on the dark cloth, the soft thud of glass confirmed her initial thoughts - on the other side there was a large window. Excitedly, Bonnie grasped the yellow rope that would undoubtedly draw the curtains apart, revealing a picturesque view of Bathurst's skyline.

Why would she keep this closed?

"Hey, what are you-"

Bonnie had only just heard Marceline as she pulled the golden rope with a soft tug. In moments, the midnight drapes on the wall had furled to the opposite corners, the iron rings holding the curtain clattering loudly, revealing what Bonnie had originally hoped to see when she had stepped foot onto Nighto's 149th floor.

Wow…

On the horizon, Bonnie could see the warm painted seabed of the setting sun, her skin became warm at the star's touch. Solar amber limbs trickled from the sky into the loft, a subdued yellow glow mixed with the whiteness of the interior's halogen lights. The scene was something that people from the ground would have to travel to the very edges of Bathurst to only get a glimpse of.

The view painted a mood that was - Bonnie dared to think - romantic.

Alas, the mood didn't fit her company. Speaking of whom, Bonnie had turned, hoping to ask Marceline why she would even think of keeping such a dazzling view obscured.

However, the vice-president was nowhere to be seen, despite the fact that she was standing in the kitchen only a few seconds ago.

"Marceline...?" Bonnie called out.

Bonnie's ears picked up the sound of sharp shallow breaths emanating from the kitchen. She was cautious, taking slow steps towards it. When she rounded the enormous white pillar that held the balcony up, her foot had almost collided with the blue of Marceline's jeans. The girl was sitting with her back glued against the kitchen island, a bead of sweat on her forehead, a hand holding her cheek. Shards of a drinking glass lay scattered around; a red liquid was splashed across the kitchen's marble tiles to which Bonnie hoped to assume was the strawberry juice Marceline had mentioned.

"Jesus! Are you okay?" Bonnie asked, perturbed by the scene.

"Close it," Marceline murmured, her breathing still shallow.

"Huh?"

"Rule number one. Do as I say. Close the curtain."

She's surrounded by broken glass and all she can think about is those stupid rules!?

"But… why? You're probably the only one in Bathurst who gets an epic view like-"

"I said close it!" Marceline exclaimed, causing Bonnie to jump back.

The redhead swallowed, a lump had formed in her throat. Bonnie didn't understand. Was it something she'd said? Was it because she opened the curtain without permission? But Bonnie didn't feel anger or frustration coming from Marceline. It was something about the way she'd yelled. It wasn't out of anger. Her voice had a tint of… fear.

the heck!? All I did was open a curtain!

Why would that make her scared? It was when Bonnie shifted her eyes to the girl's cheek did something register within her. Something was wrong. Under the woman's hand, Bonnie could see that the vice-president's cheek had turned from its usual paleness to a dark red pigment. A classic sign of...

Oh crud. How could I not have noticed...?

Wasting no time, Bonnie rushed back to the curtain, almost tripping herself over as she tugged on the rope with more force than before, unfurling the black sheets which quickly cut off the city skyline and - more importantly -... the sun's rays. With the task done, Bonnie hurried back to Marceline, kneeling down beside her as the two stared at each other in silence, the fear gone from Marceline's face as she winced in pain, rubbing her cheek with her palm.

"I didn't know, I'm sorry," Bonnie apologized, wanting to help but unsure of what to do.

"Didn't know what!? That you can't touch other people's stuff without saying anything!?" Marceline spat.

"That you had photodermatitis. I should've known."

"Photoderma-what-now?"

"Photodermatitis - an allergy to the sun." It made so much sense. Every single time Bonnie met with Marceline, it was always night. That first time they met on the fourth floor, the interview being scheduled so late, and the woman's sleep pattern. All pointed to photodermatitis. Judging by how fast Marceline's skin changed, Bonnie could assume that her boss had a very acute case of it as well. "I'm so sorry."

If she got fired right at this moment, Bonnie wouldn't consider it unjust. After all, she did just give Marceline a bright red spot on the cheek that probably wouldn't fade in a while.

There was silence for a minute. It was Marceline's exhale that broke the quiet.

"It's fine," she said.

Bonnie lifted her head, her expression crossed between confusion and relief. "You're… not going to-"

"Fire you? No. I don't want to interview another bunch of Trumps talking about how much money they make just so I have to replace you." Marceline stood, surveying the mess on the floor, her hand still cupped to the side of her face. "Just… do one thing for me?"

"Anything, yes."

"Don't touch my shit without my say?"

"Yes, of course, I was just… I'm sorry."

"Great. Let's make that rule three."

Marceline flouted a half-smile of acknowledgment, making her way towards a glass door on the west-most side of the loft which Bonnie presumed was the bathroom. Guilt gnawed at her conscience as she watched Marceline walk with a hand still pressed to her cheek.

"I'm going to deal with this," Marceline said, pointing with her free hand to her face and then to the mess on the kitchen floor. "This might take a while. So… I think it's best if you just wait outside. Unpack your junk. I'll be out when I'm done."

Bonnie nodded, quickly making her way back to the front door before turning back around before leaving the loft, wanting to apologize one more time for her lack of thought for her cursed desire to see what was behind that curtain. But, Marceline had already disappeared into the bathroom, to which Bonnie frowned at herself once again, making her way back into the small office that marked the entrance to the vice-president's loft.

She let out a deep sigh.

An allergy to the sun.

God, she should've known.

It was so obvious.


That was way too fucking close...

It was a miracle that Bonnie hadn't noticed Marceline dash through the air when the curtains were drawn, her feet having never touched the ground. Her inhuman reaction time allowed her to make it behind the kitchen island and to the safety of its shade.

Alas, the exposed skin on her cheek had been kissed by the sun's light for the minutest of moments, making its mark.

Marceline splashed cold water from the tap's basin onto her face, the red patch that was there only a second ago already begun to turn back to its usual color. She let out a small gasp as she touched it again.

Hate it when this happens...

It had been a while since she last got burned. It was always a weird feeling for a few months, as if the nerves under the burned skin had become hyper-sensitized.

She couldn't imagine what it would feel like if one of her hands were exposed...

All of a sudden, Marceline's phone buzzed in her pocket, the pentatonic scale being her usual ringtone. She pulled out to check the caller's ID.

It was Simon.

She answered it, bringing her phone up to the ear opposite her reddish cheek.

"Evening, Marceline!" Simon greeted. "Honestly, I'm surprised you're awake at all. Usually I'd get ignored at this time…"

"Simon, something just hap-"

"Now I know you're excited to work with Ms. Beesley..."

"That's the thing. She was just-"

"But there're a couple things I have to inform you first," Simon continued, completely ignoring the girl's words. Marceline just rolled her eyes, surrendering to the fact that when Simon wanted to say something, he would always go first. "I'm sure you're aware that when working with Ms. Beesley, you wouldn't want to give away any hints towards your erm… condition."

Whelp. Too late for that.

"Uh… yeah. About that."

"Hmm? Something wrong?"

"She was actually here a minute ago. She got here way earlier than I thought so I let her into the loft. Just to kill some time. Long story short; she opened the curtains and I got a nice little gift from Mr. Sun on my cheek here."

There was silence on the other end for what felt like a full minute or so. Marceline had to pull the phone away from her ear to check the screen, making sure Simon hadn't hung up.

"Simon? You still there?" Marceline asked.

"Yes, I am," he replied, his voice lower than usual. "That was a particularly unsafe thing to do, Marceline."

"Relax, I got a little burned. So what? It'll get better in like a few hours."

"No. Not dangerous for you. Dangerous for the girl. If she had found out about your… condition, do you have any idea how fast your father would-"

"Stop. I don't want to hear it. Don't you think I know this already?"

"Of course you do. That's why it was a well-thought out plan for you to welcome her into your home with open arms, correct?"

"Save your sarcasm, Simon. She didn't even think for one second that I'm a vampire. She thinks I have… uh… erm… dammit. What the hell did she say? Photo-dermia or some shit?"

"Photodermatitis?"

"That's the one."

"Oh, then that's a relief. It's a good thing she's still pinned you for a human. But please, do try and be a little bit more careful next time, would you?"

"Yessss, Simonnnn," Marceline said mockingly.

"Hmm, I'm curious," Simon continued. "When Ms. Beesley was in the loft, did she take a look at the piano?"

"What? No. She didn't even see my recording room."

"Well, that's unfortunate. I hypothesized that perhaps one a performance of yours could trigger some sort of episodic memory retrieval within Ms. Beesley."

"Um… English, please?"

"If she listened to you playing, she might be able to remember something about her past. Sort of like how milder memory loss patients can remember things from specific cues like a smell or the faces of loved ones."

Marceline scratched her chin for a second. "No. I doubt she'd remember anything. She's already listened to me play through Mercy's radio when I took her home a couple nights ago. She turned the thing on when I left one of my CDs in it."

I should really find a better place to leave those.

"Mercy?" Simon asked.

"My car."

"Oh yes, that's right. So, no signs of remembrance when she heard you play?"

"Nothing. She didn't say anything. Except…" That she thought whoever was playing was really good… "Never mind. I spoke to her already. She says she remembers nothing before that day."

"Hmm… interesting. Looks like the amnesia is a much deeper variation than those from the case studies I've read..." Simon said, pondering a thought. "Well, enough of that. There's something else I must inform you."

"What?"

"I'm sure you're aware that the annual Bathurst Gala is approaching."

"Yeah? So? Dad's going to handle that crap. I've never bothered with it."

"That's the problem. I received a call from Sophia the other day - who I told that Ms. Beesley's still under Garb's jurisdiction, just to keep things on the lay low - and she regretted to inform me that your father wouldn't be able to represent Nighto for this year's Gala due to business."

What.

"I'm sure you understand what this means," Simon went on.

Wait.

No.

He can't seriously mean-

"He doesn't seriously expect me to represent the company, does he!?" Marceline yelled into her phone.

Simon chuckled on the other end, putting Marceline a little over the edge. "Yes, that's what he wants, apparently. He says that now would be a good time for you to show him how committed you are to company dealings, which includes competing at this year's gala."

"This is bullshit! I don't know how to play that… that… stupid game!"

"Ahh, but not to worry," Simon said happily. "You have an assistant - and a smart one at that - who can teach you everything about the game! It is a game of math and statistics, after all."

Marceline huffed a snarl. "You're having way too much fun with this, Simon."

"I have no idea what you mean," Simon said sarcastically, and Marceline could just imagine the beaming grin on the balding man's face. "I must be off now, patients to attend to and what not. Good luck, and remember, Ms. Beesley can be of tremendous help to you."

"But I-"

A long dial tone was the only thing Marceline could hear from the phone's speaker as Simon had hung up. Every fiber within Marceline just wanted to hurl her phone at the shower's glass panel, infuriated with the fact that her father expected her to represent the company at the this year's annual gala.

There was no way she could win that game. She'd tried many times to learn how to play, but to no avail. She just didn't have the know-how or the cunning. So how the hell was she supposed to win? There was no doubt in Marceline's mind that if she didn't win, Hunson would be back from Dubai faster than she could say 'I am so fucked'.

She remembered that one time she'd accidentally put an extra zero in the company's financial reports last year. Her father had come back from the Bahamas to purely give a week-long lecture on the importance of cross-checking. What a crap Summer that was.

The last thing Marceline needed was for him to come back and discover that not only had she been conversing with Bonnie, but the two were actually working with one another now.

The vice-president let out a long frustrated moan, slamming a fist down onto the ceramic bench in front of her, nearly cracking the basin. She had to win this year's gala. She had to. No way was she dealing with her father if he were to come back.

However, if she wanted a chance, she needed someone to teach her the game.

Luckily for Marceline, Simon was right about one thing.

There was someone she knew who could help...

... and they were standing right outside her loft.


A/N: Well, that was longer than I thought. Anyone hazard a guess to the gala's game? :P

Thanks to DiddlyPanda for the beta. Reviews and crits are always appreciated!