Priestess Aishisu: I got reviewed? I was surprised too. Most people don't seem to like Numbuh 86 that much. But maybe the pairing isn't as unpopular as I thought! On the other hand, it was only one person...ah, well.

Kawaii34girl: Aw. I like ur idea of Francine's home life. Yeah. GO 1/86! Me and 3 friends got the idea for this couple on a crazy RP thread at an AWESOME KND forum, and we've been waiting like crazy for somone to do it in a fic

I can't wait for an up-date

Kawaii34Girl
...because 3/4 r cute.

Priestess Aishisu: Thanks. I'm updating now, right? By the way, I think ¾ is cute too! Could you tell your three friends I wrote this? I would like to be reviewed more.

David woke up too early. It wasn't properly light yet. His heart immediately started thudding. He didn't understand why he felt so frightened. Then he remembered.

"Fanny!" he whispered, opening the door to Francine's room and entering. "Fanny, please wake up. It's morning. Nearly. Do you think that Mom's back yet?"

"You go check," Francine replied from under the covers.

David was afraid to check. Afraid that she might be in a state. Afraid that she might have somebody with her. Afraid that she might have not returned at all.

"You check, Fanny," he begged. "You're the oldest."

"I'm sick of being the oldest," she hissed into the pillow. "I'm sick of being the one who has to try the hardest all the time. I'm sick sick sick of it." Her accented voice was thick, as if she was crying.

"All right, all right, I'll check," muttered David, backing out of the room. His heart was like a little fist in his chest, punching and punching. "Don't be stupid," he whispered in Francine's voice. "She'll be back. She'll be in bed fast asleep. Just check."

He crept towards Marigold's room and paused in front of her open door. Had it been open or shut last night? He couldn't remember. He could see the edge of the bed but no mound under it, nothing sticking out from beneath the sheet.

"She'll be curled up in a ball with her legs tucked up. That's why you can't see her," he whispered, still mimicking Francine. "She always sleeps like that. Go and check."

In spite of this, David remained frozen in space for more than a minute. Then he whispered her name. When there was no reply, he stepped into her room. It was empty. He could tell that it was empty with his first glance. Nevertheless, he pulled the covers back. He even lifted the pillow, as if she might be curled so small she could be hiding underneath. He searched under the bed and felt for her with his hands. Nothing. David rolled little dust bunnies with his fingertips, wondering what on earth he could do next.

He searched the bathroom and found nothing whatsoever. He then entered the kitchen to see if she could be there, conjuring up the craziest image of Marigold making toast hours early for breakfast. I'm sure it will come as no surprise that the kitchen was empty.

He returned to Francine's room. She was still lying under the covers but David could tell by the sound of her breathing that she was wide awake and listening.

"She isn't here," David said quietly. Francine sat up strait, her sharp eyes wide. David heard her swallow. He could almost hear the buzz of her thoughts.

"Check the bathroom."

"I did. I searched the entire house. She isn't there."

"What time is it?"

"Half past five."

"Oh." Francine sounded frightened now. "Well." She swallowed, but her throat felt dry. She licked her lips. They also felt dry. "Maybe...Maybe she isn't planning on getting back until breakfast."

"Fanny...what if she doesn't get back at all?"

"She will."

"But what if something bad happens to her?"

"She's the one who does the bad things," Francine replied, sounding angry now, but she ruffled David's light brown hair like Marigold ould sometimes. "She'll be all right. She probably just met some guy."

"But she wouldn't stay out all night long."

"She has though, hasn't she?" Francine replied, getting out of bed. "Get back to sleep. I won't be able to, so I'll just study. I want to finish this project as soon as I can. I have the stupidest partner..." she scowled and shook her head. "Sleep," she ordered.

"She is all right, isn't she?" asked David, already exiting.

"She's all wrong, wrong, wrong," snapped Francine, opening one of her books. "But she'll be back any minute now, you'll see. You get back to bed and then you'll wake up and the first thing you'll hear is Marigold singing one of her stupid songs, right?"

It started getting lighter, and Francine frowned apprehensively. Marigold still wasn't back. She glanced down at her book. Her first two periods were Humanities, and with her luck she would have to sit right next to Nigel Uno. There was a special project where you pair up with the person next to you and study some mental illness. The one they had was called 'manic depression.' Whatever that was.

Something creaked and she jumped. But then she heard the boiler in the kitchen. It was just the hot water system turning itself on. 6:15. Her bus would come in thirty minutes, but she couldn't leave David.

She searched the entire house, even though she knew she wouldn't find anybody. She then gave up and decided to take a bath.

The warm water was heaven against her chilled body, and she was quite a while—especially since she spent a while to wash her hair. When she exited, rubbing herself with a towel, she glimpsed her reflection in the mirrors.

She looked quite different from when she had been ten. She was taller, and had grown willowy and quite beautiful. Her skin was clear white and her hair reached her waist. And of course she had grown in...places that females did. She touched her hip with puzzlement.

Every time she saw her hip, she was puzzled. There was a tattoo there, a graceful sinuous Celtic 86. She didn't remember getting it, and had no idea why she would want the number 86 tattooed on her. Marigold didn't know about it, and neither did David. No one did but her—she didn't exactly display her hip to the public.

Francine sighed and shrugged. She didn't have time to worry about this. She put on a green tee and an orange skirt, brushing her hair and tucking it behind her ears. She had just put on her brown loafers when she realized that David would be scared. Ripping a piece of paper from her notebook, she wrote 'I'm at school. Be back soon. Don't tell anybody about Mom.'

Then she ran outside.

Nigel didn't say a word when Francine sat down, he didn't even glance up. His head was bent and he glared at the desk, his lovely cerulean eyes visible since his sunglasses had cracked when she pushed him. Fine with her. If he wanted to ignore her, she wasn't complaining.

They had to go to the library again. Francine and Nigel both read their books and took notes and still didn't speak. Francine drew a picture of Marigold's marigold tattoo, with its full head and pointed leaves and swirling stem. She couldn't focus on the picture. She kept thinking about the flat and how it might be empty when she got home.

Suddenly Nigel lifted his head and hissed "What is the matter with you?" just loudly enough for her to hear and no one else. Francine's head snapped up.

"What's that supposed to mean, you stupid boy?" she hissed, giving him her fiercest glare.

It didn't work. His eyes narrowed angrily and he continued, "Why are you such a bitch? I never did anything to you! And it isn't just me! I swear you have something against the entire world! What did anybody ever do to you? It isn't as if your life is unhappy, I mean you have like the coolest mom in the world—"

Francine clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms until they drew blood. She pinched her eyes shut and snarled, "Shut up, shut up, shut up." Tears squeezed from under her eyelids and she heard Nigel gasp.

"Are you crying?!" he cried in disbelief.

"Shut up!" she shouted, drawing stares. "Just shut up! I hate you!" The bell for the end of class rang, and Francine jumped to her feet and ran out of class.

Francine sighed in a mixture of pain and sadness as she shut her locker, and groaned when she saw Nigel was standing there, watching her intensely. "Are you ever going to leave me alone?"

He didn't reply, but lifted his hand. She flinched slightly, but to her surprise he didn't hit her. Instead, he caught a tear running down her cheek with his finger and held it up so she could see. "You were crying," he said softly, but he didn't sound angry. In fact, he sounded worried. His eyes were earnest and sincere. "Why?"

Francine opened her mouth, to yell or lie, but to her surprise what came out was the truth. "It's my mom. Yesterday was her birthday and she kept crying and acting weird, and she then got another tattoo. Then she got drunk and went out partying all night. She didn't come home yesterday and I'm scared." She started shuddering. "Listen, I have to get to Science class. Bye."

She turned and ran away from him for the second time, unable to forget the expression on his face.

She was back. Francine smelled her as soon as they entered, and she was sure David did as well. Marigold's sweet strong musky scent. Even if she were wandering around the house stark naked Francine was sure she would still spray herself from head to toe with her special perfume. And she noticed another smell as well. The kitchen was exuding the strangest homely mouth-watering smell.

David sprinted into the kitchen. Sure enough, Marigold was standing at the table. She was smiling, kneading dough. David was so happy to see her this didn't even strike her as unusual.

They threw their arms around each other. Marigold's slim arms were strong, even though she kept her hands stuck out away from him. She was wearing part of the dough like gloves.

"Oh, Mom," David murmured, laying his head on her bare shoulder and weeping quietly. The delicate marigold tattoo peeped out from the strap of her tank top, elegantly outlined in black.

"Hey, you're watering my flower!" Marigold took a towel between her doughy fingers and dabbed at his face. "Don't cry, little Dave. What's the matter with you?"

"What do you think the matter is with him?" snarled Francine, standing in the kitchen door. "He was scared silly because you stayed out all night partying."

"Still, she's back now," interjected David quickly, mentally begging Francine not to ruin it.

Francine was staring at Marigold, jaw set and eyes narrowed. "Where did all that cooking stuff come from?" she asked, pointing at the baking trays and mixing bowls and rolling pins. The entire kitchen was littered with bags of flour and icing sugar and lots of little glinting bottles, like some magical cake factory.

"Oh, I just wanted to make you kids some cookies," Marigold replied airily, already kneading again. "There, I think that's absolutely right now. The first batch I made went lumpy so I had to chuck them out. And the second batch were just a teeny bit burnt. They have to be perfect. Nothing but the best for my wonderful children."

Francine's eyes were dark, but Marigold didn't seem to notice. "I'm making you both angel cookies," she explained, rolling out the dough and sculpting it into shape. Her slender fingers were long and skillful, working so quickly she seemed to be conjuring up angels out of thin air. "What do you want your angel to be like?"

"I'm not a little kid. How can you do this?" Francine burst out. "You go off, you stay out all night, you don't even make it home for breakfast, you practically crucify Dave all day long at school. And then you bob up again without even an apology, let alone a word of explanation. And you act like you're Mega-Mother of the Year making these lousy cookies. Well, count me out. You can have my cookie. And I hope it chokes you."

Francine's head was bent, her hair hiding her eyes as she read. The symptoms reminded her eerily of Marigold. Wouldn't it be funny if she were a manic depressive? At this point, it wouldn't surprise her.

"Why are you doing homework on the rail of your porch?"

Francine's head snapped around and she glared at Nigel. "Am I ever going to get rid of you? At this rate we'll be roommates in college if you ever graduate."

"Hah-hah, very funny," he replied in his British accented voice, but he didn't sound angry. His concerned expression made her want to punch him in the face. "Is your mom home?"

"Yes," replied Francine, turning away from him, her voice a hiss. "She's in the kitchen making a million pounds of cookies and not even seeming to remember staying out all night. She's insane."

"Is she?" Nigel asked, sounding truly curious. He sat on the rail next to her, and she glared at him. It was a fierce glare, but somehow he knew it was fake.

"Go away," he hissed.

"Make me," he retorted, unafraid.

Francine sighed, again staring down at her book. Her fists clenched, her nails digging into the wounds from that morning until fresh blood dribbled from the cuts. "What do you want?"

"Stop that," he said, grabbing her wrists and trying to pull her fingers from her palm. Suddenly their palms were aligned, and they were staring into each other's eyes and neither uttered a word.

Francine stared at him questioningly, then suddenly realized to her horror that she was subconsciously moving forward and that he was moving forward as well.

Then without warning they were kissing, their lips pressed together. Both their minds screamed at them to pull away, but their bodies and hearts had other ideas.

When they finally pulled away, both were blushing and breathing heavily. "I–I have to go," Francine stuttered finally, her usually pale cheeks bright scarlet.

"M–Me too. I–I have homework."

They both sprinted into their houses quickly, both finally understanding the meaning of an 'emotional rollercoaster.'