How to get a job in Five Days
Acepilot
AN - Based on Jonathan's "The Next Generation" fanart. Part of Phil and Kimi's story. With his permission and my muse's consent, I might write another one if some of you like this one. If you haven't seen the art yet, I urge you to check it out. It's at Luke's AGU boards.
Disclaimer - the characters are property of KlaskyCsupo. The original concept on which this is based is Jonathan Sario's. My adaptation of his work.
Sunday morning.
Is there more perfect a morning?
I slap my buzzing alarm off and curl up under the sheets. It's Sunday. You know what's great about Sunday? No-one is in any rush to get coffee, or cakes, or whatever. No smoothies or cappuccinos to make. I could open at one in the afternoon and no-one would know the difference. So I can set my alarm for seven in the morning and oversleep with no sense of guilt whatsoever.
And just as I'm dozing off, I feel the weight of the bed shift with an incredible thud.
"Rise and shine! I made you breakfast!"
And last night comes rushing back.
I was surprised to see him, I've got to admit. I wasn't unhappy at all. At last, a part of my old life had returned. Chuckie, Tommy, Lil, Angelica - they were all so far away, but at last, someone was back. Phil. Joking, fun Phil. But it wasn't that simple. Of course not. When he turned up at the Java Lava with an overnight bag and a dismal story to tell, I'd been there and listened, and wondered what happened. How it had all gone wrong for him. He couldn't tell his parents. I don't blame him. So I offered him a spot on my couch for the night.
He's on my couch no longer.
"I couldn't remember how you liked your eggs, so I made scrambled and poached and fried and - hey, you like tomatoes, right? They had a great special on them at the market - "
"Phil? What are you doing?" I finally ask, fuzzily, rubbing sleep out of my eyes as I struggle to sit up.
"Giving you breakfast," he tells me, as if it should have been obvious. "Anyway, so I got mushrooms and tomatoes and some bacon, I was going to get ham but it looked a bit sus -"
"Phil, why did you make me breakfast?" I ask, trying to glare at him but I'm either failing from the sleep in my eyes or he's oblivious. Most likely a little of column A and a little of column B.
"Because your car doesn't have anything wrong with it and I wanted to do something to help," he tells me. "Now, I didn't know if you were still drinking coffee or you were back on tea, you had both, so I made you some herbal tea and some Earl Grey and a cup of instant coffee and a pot of percolated coffee, so take your pick and I'll drink what you don't - "
"Phil, how long have you been up?"
"I never slept," he corrects me, and then continues on his monologue without missing a beat. "Now, the dry cleaner's down the road said they'd be done with your stuff in about another..." he checks his watch, "wow! Ten minutes. So I'm going to have to get going soon. I don't know what time you wanted to open the Java Lava today, so I thought I'd just get out of your hair as early as possible, so I'll just finish up then I'll...uh...well, I'll go do something while you get ready for work and everything. Um...here's some toast, and a bowl of Corn Flakes, in case you felt like cereal, in which case I'll eat the mushrooms and stuff. Or you know, they make a great lunch. Speaking of lunch, I can get you some and take it to you this afternoon at the Java Lava -"
Before I can cut him off, a loud "ding" comes from the kitchen, and he smacks himself on the head.
"The bread! Did you know you have a breadmaker? It was under a bunch of stuff and really dusty. Anyway, I'll go get it out and everything, and go pick up the dry cleaning. Enjoy your breakfast!"
And he's gone as fast as he came.
And so I sit in my bedroom surrounded by a meal fit to feed an army left with nothing but a memory of a fast-speaking man and his all to chirpy attitude for this hour of the morning.
I slump back on my bed.
So it begins.
Wednesday
I yawn wearily and pull on my dressing gown, wandering out into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, I discover a complete lack of Phil but the smell of cooking and a still-warm plate of pancakes in the oven, with the table set complete with honey, sugar, jam, lemon juice and any other conceivable condiment that I might like on my pancakes.
There's a note on the table, but I ignore it for the moment, sitting down and flicking on the TV, hoping to catch the headlines before I go to work. I take a big hunk out of the short stack he left me, watching the sports wind down on the news and the newsreader smile hopelessly cheerily at me.
"Thank you for joining us for the ten-thirty news this Wednesday, the -"
The ten-thirty news?
Kimmi -
Thought you could use a sleep in. Don't worry, I'll be there by six.
Phil
I'm gonna kill him.
"Philip DeVille what the hell do you think you're doing!"
His eyes go wide and all the blood seems to drain from his face. He holds my furious gaze with his trembling one for a second, before turning back to the customer he was serving with a squeaky voice and saying, "Enjoy your frappadappacino, ma'am. Have a nice day."
I storm over to the counter as the woman walks out with her coffee to go and have to refrain from grabbing him by the collar. "You turned off my alarm! You made me late for work!"
"Yes, but I made you pancakes," he defends himself.
"You ever try anything like that again and I'll put your butt in traction!"
He backs off slightly and smiles at me very, very nervously. "So...you don't want me to help anymore?"
I sigh and feel my anger ease away in the light of his utter patheticness. "No, I could use the help. But if you ever do it like that again -"
"I'm in trouble, I know."
Friday afternoons are lazy. I could have told you that. I could have told anyone that. I'm sitting behind the counter reading a magazine disinterestedly as the sun filters in through the windows, just making it feel oh-so-right to enjoy the feeling of tiredness creeping over me.
Squeak-squeak-squeak
"If you don't stop that, I'm going to break your nose," I tell him.
"I'm bored," Phil points out unnecessarily, whooshing past me on a wheeled chair with a vrrrr... sound.
"Then do something," I tell him.
"There's nothing to do," he reminds me, spinning with the characteristic squeak-squeak-squeak of a chair that needs oiling.
"Go for a walk," I suggest.
"Done that. Three dozen times today alone."
"Unload the beans," I offer.
"Already done." He contemplates for a second. "Twice."
"Well no-one ever said this was interesting," I told him.
"Play a game with me," he asks, looking up at me with puppy dog eyes.
"No," I deny him, flatly. "Not a chance."
He stops talking, stops squeaking, stops vrrring for a second, and I hold a hopeful breath, too fearful to look up.
When a copy of East of the Sun and West of the Moon slides down the counter.
"Read me a story!" he pleads.
"No, Phil."
His lower lip trembles and tears form in his eyes. "Mummy, I want a story!"
He holds that look for about thirty seconds, before he collapses into fits of laughter, not even pausing when he falls of his chair and lands heavily on the floor.
I shake my head in exasperation, but I have to resist the urge to chuckle.
"I'm going out the back to do some bookwork," I tell him. "Keep an eye on the store."
He jumps to his feet and salutes. "The Java Lava is safe with me, mon'Cherie."
I quirk an eyebrow. "Right..."
Squeak. Squeak-squeak.
Vrrrr.
Vrrrr squeak-squeak-vrr-squeak.
Vrrr-squeak-vrr-squeak.
Vrr-squeak-squeak-vrrrrrrrr-clink-squeak-vrrrr
Hang on. Clink?
I cast a glance to the porthole in the door but can't see anything out of the ordinary through it, so I shrug quietly and go back to work.
But then, once more, I hear a clink work it's way into the assortment of noises Phil is making.
And a coffee mug sails past the porthole.
Phil DeVille is kicking himself around the Java Lava on a wheeled chair while juggling coffee mugs - my coffee mugs - with his hands and feet. Even as I watch he adds a canister of whipped cream to the mix.
If not for the fact that he's juggling my coffee mugs, it's actually quite impressive.
"Phil," I ask carefully, trying not to startle him.
To my heart-rate's endless dislike, he turns his head to face me. "Yeah?"
"Where did you learn to do that?"
He chuckles and turns back to watch the flying mugs. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me," I challenge him, leaning against the doorjamb.
"I got taught by some circus folk I hooked up with for a while on the road."
Hmm. "You were right."
"You didn't believe me when I told you?" he double-checked.
"Yep."
He nods and starts whistling the clown's theme.
"Alright," I tell him. "Alright."
"Alright what?" he asks, still juggling.
"You get standard wage plus tips, you're out of my apartment and you better be here by six every morning."
He catches two mugs in each hand and neatly fields the canister of whipped cream with his elbow, flipping it so he can grab it with his left arm.
"You won't regret it," he tells me, putting everything back on the counter. "So, what first, boss?"
"First, we get you a haircut."
the "mummy tell me a story" line was what my dad actually did the first time he met his new wife at a hospital in a children's ward. i liked the last line, i don't know why. review, please!