Disclaimer: The Loud House and associated characters belong to Nickelodeon and Chris Savino
marz-senpai: Keep your pants on. I can only write so fast. ^^
asperman1: Possibly. Only time will tell.
U. N. Owen: You're not the first to make that guess. I got another by PM yesterday. You guys are reading way too much into this. Relax and enjoy the story. It'll all make sense later. Don't worry about the eventual sex scene. It'll be classy and with less detail.
RCJ02: That's assuming time travel is involved. Are you confused yet?
The Destiny Stone
By Lola Presents
Chapter 4
Lincoln awoke the following day to being gently rocked. His head was heavy, and his shoulder hurt from the modest bedding. Groaning as he rose, he rubbed the crust from his eyes and adjusted to the morning light. Then, yawning intensely, he raised his arms above his head, a loud pop emanating from his back. Finally, he peered over at the little girl sitting beside him on her knees.
Today, she wore brown corduroy trousers and an aging white blouse. Two small lunch bags sat before her, and as she smiled back at Lincoln, her face seemed more robust. Of course, she had a nice large poster bed to sleep in, compared to his wooden floor, with a single blanket for comfort. Yet, her lividity spoke of a different kind of rest.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Marge cooed, handing him one of the brown paper bags. "I brought us breakfast," she announced gleefully. "I hope you slept well."
"Hey, thanks!" Lincoln chirped, opening his, pulling out a sectioned Tupperware container holding some scrambled eggs, two pieces of bacon, and some buttered toast. "I slept okay, I guess," he said, moving his shoulder in short circles, loosening the tension. "The floor isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but I thought of you all night."
Marge blushed as she pulled out her thermos, filled with orange juice. "I thought about you, too," she admitted. "And, I was wondering..."
"Hm?" prompted Lincoln with a mouthful of eggs and bacon.
"Well..." muttered the hesitant girl. "Since we're boyfriend-girlfriend now, I thought we could give each other cute nicknames."
Lincoln got taken slightly off guard, and it took him a moment to fully recall their kiss and declarations of love the night before, and he hesitated. Not only was she three years younger than him, but he didn't want to break her heart if he ever found a way home.
Yet, her kindness and charity gave rise to even stronger emotions. Besides, she was the only girl to express an interest in him, other than Ronnie Anne, who made it clear that she didn't want to pursue a relationship.
How could he resist?
"Sure," he chirped, staring into her large brown eyes. "What did you have in mind?"
Grinning broadly, the girl blinked at him excitedly. "Since Albert seems so formal, and I want your nickname to be personal, I thought I'd call you Chip."
"Why Chip?" asked Lincoln, his stomach gradually filling.
"You know," Marge prompted, pointing at her mouth. "Because of your tooth?"
"Ah..." breathed the boy, having forgotten entirely about his least favorite feature.
"Alright, then," sighed Lincoln, gazing at his new girlfriend. "I think..." he said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "I think I'll call you Bug."
"Bug?" quipped Marge, a little disappointed. "But everyone already calls me an insect..." she added, sighing heavily.
"Maybe," Lincoln responded, smiling earnestly at her. "But there's a difference between being an insect and someone's love bug."
Marge raised her head, staring at Lincoln for a moment, her heart filled with emotion, threatening to burst at any time. Then, taking off her glasses, she began to weep tears of joy. "Thanks, Chip," she cried. "For being here."
"My pleasure, Bug," he chirped, smiling at her as he finished his breakfast. "Now, then," he led once he'd folded the paper bag for later use. "I had a thought last night before I went to sleep. We should go back to town and look for that curio shop. I need some answers."
Marge nodded. "Also," she interjected. "I talked to my dad last night about maybe housing you. At least until you figure things out."
"You did? Lincoln asked, quite surprised. "Won't he be upset?"
Marge shrugged. "Only if he caught you there when you weren't supposed to be. But if he invites you, that's different."
"But..." said Lincoln worriedly. "If we're dating, wouldn't that complicate things?"
"Sh!" whispered Marge, putting her finger across her lips. "He doesn't need to know that part!"
"Heh, yeah," chuckled Lincoln. "I suppose he doesn't."
"Anyway, I told him that I'd bring you around later so he could meet you," she told him as she finished her meal and tucked her bag away. "All I told him is that you were homeless. I thought I'd let you come up with your own story."
Lincoln nodded. "Alrighty, then," he led. "Seeing as we're all done, how about we head into town first?"
"Sure, but not before I do this," Marge chirped, leaning forward and kissing him again.
The young couple sat, kissing in the shade offered by the little treehouse as a gentle wind blew through the trees' branches, bringing life to the leaves. When they finally parted, they smiled and blushed at each other. And after a quick follow-up kiss, Lincoln stood and began his descent.
"Come on, Bug," he cheered. "Daylight's burning!"
"Hey!" exclaimed Marge. "That's what my dad always says!"
"I like him already," informed Lincoln, set on making the most of his stay. "He sounds a lot like..." Lincoln announced before going silent, hanging from the ladder. "Like..."
"I'm sorry?" inquired Marge, looking down at him worriedly. "Are you alright?"
"I don't know..." muttered Lincoln curiously. "I can't remember. I was thinking of someone, a family member, and then it was just gone..."
"I was afraid of this," sighed Marge as she finished climbing down the ladder once Lincoln had dropped to the ground. "The longer you stay here, the more you'll forget about your other life. Please, you have to try harder! Think!"
"Well..." sighed Lincoln, looking at his little girlfriend, not entirely sure he wanted to remember. "I get the oddest feeling that he was someone I used to know, someone who isn't around anymore. And, all I can think about is orange suspenders for some reason."
"Orange suspenders?" gasped Marge, covering her mother.
"What?" inquired Lincoln at her response. "Does that mean something to you? Please, if it does, I have to know!"
Marge shook her head and dropped her head. "No," she said, not wanting to alarm Lincoln. "It's just..." she muttered. "Chip, my dad wears orange suspenders. I'm sure it's nothing, though. Lots of people wear suspenders."
"Maybe," sighed Lincoln, fondly taking her hand in his, not sure what to make of the information or her reaction to it. "We'll see when I meet him later. For now, let's head into town. I need to have a word with that shopkeeper."
Marge nodded and followed her love, hand in hand, as they braved the overgrown trails, making their way to the street, and heading into town. Marge fell silent, lost in her troubled thoughts. If Lincoln got the answers he needed, he might leave.
Conversely, if he didn't go, he'd forget his family. Her young heart was in turmoil, and it was killing her. Fortunately, when they reached civilization, her attention focused on other things, and Marge relaxed for the moment.
"So, where was this place?" Marge asked as their arms swung gently between them.
"Well, I had gone shopping for my mom's fortieth birthday," Lincoln began, pointing down the south side of the street. "I'd hit every shop along the way, and at the very end, there was this little store sandwiched between two consignment shops."
"I see," responded Marge. "Well, I don't remember anything like that, so let's take a look at all of them to be sure. It might've moved since, well, now."
After two hours of scouring both sides of Main street, they found nothing. The only evidence that remained of the shop was an empty alley between the last two shops on the side Lincoln had visited.
"I don't get it," the boy said, rubbing his head as he stared down the brick path filled with trashcans, litter, and a few stray cats. "It was right here. I know it!"
"Well, that's also thirty years from now," Marge reminded him. "I'm sorry it wasn't here, Chip. Maybe we can get your answers elsewhere?"
Lincoln furrowed his brow and grimaced as he studied the cement drive that made its way between the buildings. "No, Bug. I don't think so," he told her. "This looks like an access drive. There's no way the local stores would block entrance to their loading docks. This doesn't make any sense at all," he muttered, sitting down on the cement and leaning against the brick wall.
"I know this seems out of place," Marge whispered, kneeling before him and resting her hand on his knee. "But, please, tell me about your family. Tell me their names. I have this gut feeling that you must continue to remember."
"Let's see," sighed Lincoln, resting his head against the brick. "There's mom and dad," he said, "then there are my five older sisters, Lori, Leni, Luna, Luan, and Lynn," he continued, "and my five younger sisters, Lucy, Lana, Lola, Lisa, and..."
"And?" prompted Marge, bulging her eyes at him. "Come on! Think! How old is she? Describe her!"
Lincoln shut his eyes and concentrated, yet nothing came to mind. "Damn it!" he finally exploded, slamming his fists against the rough cement. "I can't remember!" he cried, tapping the sides of his head with his balled fists. "What is this happening?"
"Oh, Chip," cooed Marge, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry..."
Across the street, an older man with shaggy white hair and a dark green trench coat stared at the young couple intently as he puffed on his long pipe. Then, after the children consoled each other and rose to leave, he stepped behind the nearest shop and disappeared.
"What are you going to do now, Chip?" tentatively asked Marge as they returned to the treehouse.
"I don't know," sighed Lincoln. "I've already forgotten two people. How much longer until I've forgotten everyone?" he offered. "Then, again, I'm torn."
"What do you mean?" barked Marge. "Don't you want to see your family again? It's clear you miss them terribly."
"Sure, but..." he muttered, resting against the large tree that held his little house. Then, staring at Marge, his eyes softened and began to mist. "I'd miss you, Bug. I love you."
Marge held his hands in her own and closed her eyes tightly, fighting back the urge to weep prematurely. "I love you too, Chip," she purred. "But you don't belong here," she informed him. "You belong with them."
"How do you know that?" asked Lincoln with confusion. "How do you know that me finding you isn't what my mom wanted? Hell, maybe she never wanted me at all, so the universe put me somewhere else? There's no way we could know."
"Chip!" scolded Marge, staring at him intensely. "Don't ever say anything like that again. I'm sure your mother loves you more than anything, and if she knows you're gone, she's probably crying right now!"
Lincoln nodded, ashamed of himself. "You're right," he admitted, still shaking. "I'm sorry. All this is very confusing, and I don't know what to make of it all."
"Me either," cried Marge as she pulled him into a warm embrace and held him firmly.
As they stood there, comforting each other, the sound of snapping twigs and crunching acorns reached their ears and grew louder with every passing moment. When their brains registered the noises, they parted quickly and stared as the three boys from yesterday came into view, stepping out of the woods.
"This is our property!" shouted Marge. "Leave now, or I'll get my dad!"
"Awe..." purred Ethan, frowning at Marge. "Is the little insect going to scamper off to her little daddy? What's he going to do? Yell at us and wave his dumb cane around?"
"SHUT UP!" screamed Marge, balling her fists by her side. "He got injured fighting for your right to stand there. Show some respect, you little bastard!"
Lincoln stepped in between them and stood firm. "You should leave," he suggested calmly, though not unfocused. "I already gave you one warning. You'll not get another."
Suddenly, all three ruffians bust out laughing and pointing at Lincoln as if the world's funniest joke had gotten told. "What?" guffawed Aiden. "You want some more?"
"Let's teach this brat a lesson," suggested Wyatt as he stepped forward and swung at Lincoln, who side-stepped, grabbed the boy's arm, and pulled him off balance, using his leg to trip him.
"Why you little..." barked Aiden as he took Wyatt's place, faking left and then taking a jab at Lincoln's jaw.
Parrying the blow with the blunt side of his left arm, Lincoln punched the boy in the mouth, and he fell to the ground, clutching his face, whimpering like a baby.
Finally, Lincoln calmly turned and faced his final opponent, Ethan, their ring leader. "Are you going to do the smart thing and walk away, or are you just as dumb as they are?" he asked.
"You know..." Ethan said sternly, walking up to Lincoln and prodding his chest with his pointer finger. "One day, you're not going to be around to protect this little roach. And when that day comes, she'll regret ever having known you."
"What are you talking about?" inquired Lincoln, mystified by the boy's insolence.
"You like her, don't you?" gritted Ethan through his teeth. "What if I come back one day and ram a baseball bat up her twat? Huh? What if I ruin her for you? We were fine just taking her money, but you had to go and get in the way."
"Hey, Ethan..." called Marge, and as the annoyed child turned to face her, the girl's fist graced his nose, full force, breaking it.
"Ow!" cried the boy as he dropped to the ground, bleeding into his hands. "You son of a bitch!"
"Come on, guys..." called Aiden, in a hurry to leave. "This isn't worth it anymore. Let's get out of here!"
And, as all three boys retreated into the woods, like the strays they were, Lincoln smiled at Marge. "You did good," he said. "I don't think they'll bother you anymore, now that you stood up for yourself."
"I hope so," sighed Marge, staring at her fist in disbelief. Then, looking at Lincoln with awe, "but that was amazing. I'm glad your sister taught you how to fight."
"Meh," chuckled Lincoln, proud but amused. "It wasn't that difficult. They're only immature ten-year-olds. I've got three years and several inches on them. Besides, they're nowhere near puberty yet, and their muscles are highly undeveloped."
"Well," chirped Marge, adrenalin still running through her veins. "Let's go meet my dad. What do you say?"
"Sounds good to me, Bug," the boy chirped. "Let's go."
As the two walked, hand in hand, through the gnarly trails leading back to her house, they chatted excitedly, reliving their recent experience. However, they made sure to separate before entering her yard. It was going to be difficult enough convincing her father to let him stay with them as is. If there were any hint of romantic involvement, especially with Lincoln being three years older than Marge, Lincoln might be the one bleeding on the ground.
"Dad!" called Marge once she'd opened and walked through their front door, only to find him napping in a recliner, with his newspaper draped over his face. "I'm home with my friend. Wake up! I want you to meet him."
"Huh?" sputtered her father as he slapped at the newspaper that covered him. Finally giving up trying to remove it neatly, he balled it up and tossed it aside, raising the seat to its normal position. "Hey there," the man said, standing before Lincoln, offering his thick hand. "My name's Albert," he announced. "What's yours?"
"Hi there," replied Lincoln, not recognizing the man in front of him, despite his white shirt, orange suspenders, mustache, or white hair. "My name's Albert too," he told the man, "but Bug here calls me Chip."
"Bug, huh?" the man said, chuckling at his daughter's nickname. "She looks like one with those glasses, doesn't she?"
"Dad!" the girl complained. "Those are our nicknames. You aren't allowed to use it, okay? Stick with Marge."
"Wait..." gasped Lincoln. "Marge isn't your real name?"
"Of course not, silly," she chuckled. "When I first met you, I wasn't sure if you had good intentions, so I gave you my nickname instead."
"Haha, no, son," laughed the man, holding his gut. "Her real name is..."
"NO, DAD!" screeched Marge. "Please don't! It's so weird and embarrassing! I don't even want to hear that name again, especially after learning how I got it!"
"Yeah, yeah..." muttered her father. "Whatever you want, dear. Now," he paused, focusing on Lincoln. "What's your story? Ain't you got any folks?"
"I don't know," Lincoln said, not entirely stretching the truth. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. All I know is that I woke up here three days ago. I have no clue where I am or what I'm supposed to do."
"I see," observed the man as he inspected the boys healing wounds. "Well, it wouldn't hurt to put you up for a while, I suppose. At least until your wounds heal," he said, rubbing his chin. "I reckon you must've had a run-in with trouble. Maybe you lost your memory or something to boot. Anywho, I'll expect you to do some chores around here to earn your keep, understand?"
"Yes, sir!" chirped Lincoln, shaking the man's hand again. "I won't let you down. Thank you so much!"
"Thank you, daddy!" cried Marge, clasping her hands in front of her.
"Come on, Chip, was it?" her father said, leading Lincoln by the shoulder. "Let me show you to your room. Marge, make yourself busy with lunch, dear."
"Yes, sir," chirped the girl as she bounded off toward the kitchen.
Getting a better look at Marge's house, it seemed a lot had changed over the years. The master bedroom his parents shared wasn't part of the house initially. In its stead, a roomy den presented itself, with a short fence-like retaining wall separating it from the living room.
Of course, he was already aware of his room's history, but as the man led him up the stairs and down the hall to where Luna and Luan slept, he caught a glimpse of the smaller of the three rooms along the back of the house, where Lucy and Lynn stayed. Apparently, it was intended to be a study and lacked a closet.
After closing the door behind them and sitting on the single guest bed, Marge's father looked warmly but sternly at Lincoln. "Listen, Albert," he said. "If that's your real name. I lost my wife a long time ago, and though I'm no longer a spring chicken, I can see what's in front of my eyes. So you best keep your hands to yourself. It's not that I don't understand your predicament because I do. But if you hurt my little girl, I'll throw you out in a heartbeat. Do you understand?"
Swallowing, Lincoln nodded curtly. "Yes, sir," he conceded. "I do. I appreciate what you're doing for me, and I promise not to let anything happen to her," he informed the man. Then, furrowing his brows and looking down for a moment, he considered something. And, reconnecting with the man's gaze, he continued. "She means the world to me, sir. She's all I have, and I love her."
