Author's Note:

From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 86: "I got you a present."

"Comfortable?" F.P. asked, on his couch next to Alice, but not yet relaxed back into it.

She shifted, a critical expression on her face, then shot him a look complete with raised eyebrow.

"Relatively."

F.P. grinned and sank into the corner, arm along the couch's back.

"Great. I got you a present."

"F.P…."

As quickly as he could, F.P. glanced away from Alice's face. It was where she would broadcast her disapproval, her concern, maybe even her distaste and, truth be told, their relationship was still feeling a little too fragile for him to see that today―even though it wasn't his birthday. It was hers. He wriggled his fingers into the front pocket of his best pair of jeans, retrieving the surprise and presenting it to her in his open palm.

Her eyes went from the gift to his face. Admittedly, it was a little underwhelming at first sight. F.P. knew that and was prepared to be patient.

"You got me a present? More like found." Alice took his wrist to examine the crumpled thing he held up for her, as if she was afraid he would fling it at her or try to stuff it down the neck of her shirt if she didn't keep him in check with a tight grip. "What did you do, dig up a lunch box time capsule?"

He laughed, his own gaze dropping to the soft folded paper. It might be called worse for wear, in the sense that the corpse parts ol' Frankenstein used to build his monster had been worse for wear.

"Close," F.P. owned. "I discovered it in the pocket of those leather pants I used to wear."

"I loved those pants," they said in unison, spoken nostalgically on his part, with maybe a touch of lust on hers. Or he just had hopeful ears.

"So…" Her face swooped around the sad-looking present, the way somebody might examine a glass-encased museum display. "…what is it? An old gum wrapper? An IOU note you forgot to mail to the costume designer of The Outsiders for stealing their wardrobe?"

"Ouch," F.P. said, still grinning. In fact, he was almost bouncing in his seat, had the tired cushion allowed it. "Why don't you just open it and find out?"

"If this is anthrax―"

"Then at least you'll die by my side. Think of the Smiths."

Alice glared at him, but plucked the paper from his palm. He watched eagerly as she smoothed back the worn fold lines, revealing… not much more than a couple of smudges: black and red. F.P. wanted to jog her memory, but she seemed to be getting there on her own, head tipping to the side as nostalgia grabbed her hard by the tear ducts.

"It's your phone number," he finally blurted, when she just kept looking at it with that mushy expression on her face. "The first time you ever gave it to me."

She laughed in what sounded suspiciously like wonder―this unflappable journalist who could not be surprised.

"And you said, 'What do I need this for? I already know where you live,'" Alice reminded him. She laid the precious scrap on her knee and leaned her head back, staring into his eyes as her head pressed his arm. "I was so frustrated. You just… didn't get it." She laughed.

"Well, normally your flirting looked more like asking me if I'd be your target while you practiced throwing a knife, or stealing beers from the Wyrm and blaming me when someone noticed they were missing, or―"

Alice put a finger to his lips.

"Why do you still have this?"

She held up the number, thumb half-covering the crimson mark left so long ago by her printed kiss. That shade on her lips had had the ability to make F.P. act like even more of a fool for her, if he remembered correctly.

He shrugged. Easy question.

"I always had it."

"Always as in…"

"As in from the second you gave it to me 'til when I dug it out of those old pants three days ago. I kept it in that pocket. Unless," he amended, "I had it in my hand because I was calling you. Though, I think I had your number memorized after the third time I called."

Alice's face was warping and scrunching inward. Shit, he hadn't meant to draw tears from her on her birthday.

"Hey," he prompted anxiously, scooting forward on his cushion to grab hold of her knee. "What's wrong?"

Alice sniffled and gave him those old Alice eyes that said she needed him, she wanted him, and that somehow, due to some miracle, because of delusion or the alignment of the planets or a fluke in the course of their lives thanks to the interference of time travelers from the future, he was exactly what she wanted and needed.

"I almost feel bad about joking that you were trying to poison me," she said thickly, eyes shiny like the presents of jewellery he could no more afford to buy her now than when he'd been sixteen.

F.P. barked out a loud laugh and tugged her face into his chest.

"Happy Birthday, sweetheart," he mumbled into her hair.

"Thanks," Alice mumbled in response, hands wedging between his back and the couch so she could hug him. "I got exactly what I wanted."