Disclaimer: Threshold is not mine. Life just isn't that kind.
In Search of Respite
"I thought I covered every imaginable scenario in my Threshold plan," Molly reflected, covering her eyes for a moment as though to hide from the reality of what was to come. "Little did I know I needed to prepare to put up four men in my own house."
Baylock sighed heavily. "I didn't want to do this to you," he said sternly.
"It's not too late to rescind the order," she pounced on that opening. If there was one thing Molly Caffrey loved to do, it was to live in hope.
Sadly, her hopes were dashed as he shook his head and continued, "I didn't want to quote your own words back at you, but it looks like I may just have to, in order to persuade you that this is important. One of the things you were most adamant about when we first activated your plan- you said to me that part of crisis management involved looking after the welfare of the team, else you wound up with a plan that would fall apart quicker than you could make a new one. Do you remember saying that?"
"Yes," she said reluctantly, knowing how this would end, but trying anyway. "However, I didn't mean for you to take that as invitation to-"
"I'm sure you strongly believe in doing what is in your team's best interests. This is it," Baylock asserted. "Take the time off, that's all I'm asking you to do, Molly."
"Of course you would back me into a corner by using my own words against me," she said ruefully, conceding defeat. She would just have to accept the inevitable, and really, Molly struggled to convince herself, it was not such a terrible situation. True, these men were hardly those she would have normally chosen to spend vacation time with, nor would her residence have been the ideal location, but they had achieved some measure of bonding during their time together. Surely they could co-exist in a more personal atmosphere without too much commotion…
That's right, Molly, she told herself wryly. Live in hope.
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"What's with the new house?" Ramsey peered out the window of the car, studying Molly's house intently as Cavennaugh pulled into the driveway. The stocky dwarf had donned what he lovingly thought of as his gangster hoodie and precisely scuffed jeans for the occasion. He had also brought a wardrobe large enough to last him a month- after all, if he was going to be around Molly Caffrey day in and day out, especially considering that they were going to be in such enclosed quarters, he had to look his very best. There was no escape for her over the next few days…he smirked as he entertained several enjoyable fantasies.
Referring to the time he had invaded her bedroom after Gunneson's attack, Molly said, "I didn't feel quite comfortable knowing that you knew where to find me at home," with the hint of a bite in her tone.
"Well, it appears that aim has been rendered moot," Fenway observed, as they piled out of the car. "He's here now."
Taking a look at the dwarf's ecstatic expression, Lucas murmured, "You can say that again. Now he actually gets to live there…"
"So I didn't need to offer you the two doors option, Ramsey?" said Cavennaugh. "I guess if I had just mentioned a 'sleepover', as you put it," he slid a sly glance over to Molly before continuing, "I wouldn't have had any trouble convincing you to be a part of the team."
"What two doors?" asked Lucas in confusion.
"Nothing important…but whoa, Cavennaugh, you might want to add this to your list of perks of being on the job next time you want to convince someone to leave their nice, cushy lifestyle in order to join a battle for the survival of mankind," Ramsey said.
Molly slammed the door deliberately. "This is not a perk," she said through gritted teeth, making the effort to modulate her voice into pleasant tones. Now that they were finally at her house, she had begun to feel a little strained, the pressure of being judged weighing upon her. She needed time and planning to go into preparing for something, and having the rest of the team's presence in her home without being notified in time to organize herself left Molly rather edgy. Ideally, had they ever been invited to her house, she would have had ample time to ensure that every last item was in place, and not an object was out of order- for now, she was going to have to put up with visitors even though she had not been able to organize everything to her satisfaction. "Now, guys, why don't you go on and bring the luggage in?" she strode for the door. Maybe while they bickered outside, she could hastily arrange the living room into some semblance of tidiness.
"Wait for me," Ramsey called after her as he hurried along the path in pursuit.
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"Rule number one," Molly said, standing at the mantelpiece while adjusting the time on the clock, glancing at the oversized watch that dwarfed her wrist to gauge its accuracy. "My house, my rules."
"Oh, come on," said Ramsey. "Whatever happened to 'mi casa, su casa'?" he glanced over at Cavennaugh. "In simpler terms, it means 'my house is your house' to those lesser educated types."
"Education counts for little when it comes to one-on-one combat," Cavennaugh said in a threatening tone. "All your fancy language skills would be good for is begging the enemy to spare your life."
"Guys," Molly broke in, redirecting their attention back to her. "Ramsey," she said more specifically, adopting the slow, careful tone of voice one might employ with a mentally challenged audience, "If you were paying attention, you would know that my house is not your house. That's why I get to make the rules. Number two, you do not enter my room or the en suite- there is another shower and toilet at your end of the house, use those facilites, leave me my privacy."
"There's four of us, Molly," Cavennaugh pointed out.
"In that case, I suggest you draw up a schedule to avoid conflict over who uses it when. No one enters my room- Ramsey?" she eyed him suspiciously. "This is one of the two hundred dialects you understand, so I don't expect you to make any mistakes. Now, rule number three, you use something, you clean up after yourself; if you move something, you move it back- if you break it, you don't want to know what happens then," Molly ended on a dire note.
"Any other rules?" Fenway enquired, obviously not shaken.
Regretfully, she had to admit not. It was unlike her not to have a strategy for any situation, and this left her off balance as she fretted over the contingencies she had not yet planned for. Milk, did they have enough milk…? And while she was on the topic, the kitchen windows had not been wiped and cleaned since she'd moved in… "You'll learn them as needed," she said distractedly. "Go get settled in, guys."
The layout of the house allowed her some seclusion from the others. As one entered her home, the master bedroom with its own bathroom was off to the right. Directly ahead from the entrance was the living room, and a door led off it to the kitchen and another lounge area beyond in the center of the house. This fortunately enabled Molly to shut herself off if she so desired; simply closing that connecting door would leave her with the front living room and her bedroom to relax in. Too bad she had never seen the need for locks to be installed on the doors, she thought ruefully. Continuing the tour would reveal the laundry tucked away to the side, and another door sealed off the additional rooms and facilities at the far side of the house.
She headed for the kitchen, briefly anxious about its state. Thankfully, though, the dishes had been stacked away in the cupboards, the counters were wiped clean and the cutlery was spotless. Molly sighed in relief, glad that she had always been one to wash up after herself, rather than leave dishes to pile up til vermin made an appearance.
A question interrupted her unpleasant hypothetical scenario with her slightly overactive imagination depicting an invasion of rats and other unhygienic creatures. "Who did all this?" Cavennaugh had followed her in, and looked curiously at the artwork displayed on the fridge.
"My two nieces," Molly said with a fond smile as she took in the sight of colourfully rendered cartoon characters captured on paper and the few cards she had also chosen to put up. The Valentine's Day card with its comical message never failed to amuse her- the scamps declared their undying love for her every year with increasingly melodramatic and inspired prose. "Those are their pictures," she nodded at two magnetic photo frames with miniature pictures of two young girls cheekily posing for the camera.
He frowned. "But your file-"
"Yes, Cavennaugh, technically, they're not my biological nieces, but my cousin and I have always been close. Kate and Lucy call me 'aunt', what more do you want?"
"I am starving," Ramsey burst into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge. Ignoring their study of its display, he yanked open the door to peruse the inner contents- and choked. "What are you doing to yourself, Caffrey?" he demanded in outrage, pulling out one of the neatly stacked, bland-looking containers. "Turkey and artichoke medley?" he examined another, "Chicken cordon bleu, wild rice, broccoli? No one said anything about an enforced diet while we were here!"
"Thinking with your stomach leads to a lifestyle of poor nutrition, which causes clogged arteries and an overburdened heart, weakening your body to the point where you risk cardio-vascular diseases," Fenway said dispassionately.
"I saw you munching on that bag of pretzels," he accused. "And I read that cheery optimistic men are less likely to suffer from heart disease than miserable, wretched old guys." He stared pointedly at Fenway.
"I will certainly enjoy making the Y-incision into your body, pulling out your internal organs and cataloguing the extent of the damage wrought by your excesses before you departed this life," the doctor returned calmly.
"What if someone helped him along before those excesses caught up with him?" Cavennaugh mused out loud.
"That is sick, Fenway," he voiced his disgust over that side remark. "Save the imagery for when I'm not searching for food, would you? Though I'm not sure I have an appetite anymore, between you and Molly's health craze. I don't recognize any of the food groups here…" he regarded the container once more.
"What I find interesting is the fact that they all happen to be labelled," Fenway said, raising an eyebrow in Molly's direction.
"What's all labelled?" Lucas enquired, rejoining the group. "Hey, why would anyone do that?" he asked as he spotted the container still in Ramsey's hand.
Molly eyed the young man carefully, and he raised his hands in a gesture of appeal. "I didn't mean anything by it, I just thought it seemed a little- you know, OCD."
Fenway and Ramsey snickered at that, while Cavennaugh suppressed a smirk as he waited to see Molly's response to the innocent comment.
"OCD?" she repeated, with a sceptical pucker of her eyebrow. "As in-"
"Obsessive compulsive disorder," Fenway elaborated helpfully. "A mental state characterized by an excessive level of fixation on minor details or actions, sometimes expressed by repetitive behaviour, such as compulsive cleaning or arranging of objects…"
"Okay, enough of that already," she said, cutting him off. "I do not suffer from OCD. I like to be orderly and methodical about things. Organized, that's all."
Cavennaugh strolled over to a cupboard and opened it up. "I see," he said bluntly, and pulled the doors open wider to display the row of cups and glasses arranged according to height, consistently spaced, and the cups turned so that the handle was out at the same angle.
Ramsey began to open another cupboard but she shut it firmly as she moved to Cavennaugh's side, grabbing a mug down and setting it on the counter as she began boiling the water. "Anyone want a hot drink?" Molly asked pleasantly as she not so subtly edged him out of the way, drawing attention from the evidence of her compulsive neatening. "I have coffee, tea and hot chocolate…"
