A rather loud bleating next to Mason's ear was what woke him the next morning; it startled him into falling over and made Mabel fall onto his hip in a lump. She got comfortable quick, her deafening snores soon re-filling the quiet living room-at the very ass-crack of dawn.
He looked around for the source of his new alarm clock, and was met with a goat, who was now calmly eating an... old trench coat that had just been on the couch. NotHIng sTrAngE HeRe!
God, he was starting to think in meme too. He needed therapy.
Well, more than usual.
Oh well, time to kill himself with hot fermented bean juice!
As he made up his mind to get coffee, he very carefully oriented himself so that Mabel wasn't laying on his hip bone, but the small of his back, and quietly pulled himself onto his hands and knees, maneuvering his sister so she sat in nearly the same position she'd been sleeping in before they'd woken up. From there, he raised up onto his knees only; using his now free hands, he supported Mabel's shoulders and head as he turned to face her.
Finally, he was in a position where he could lift her!
He hooked his arm under her legs, and the other onto her side, and hefted. Carrying her over to the couch, he set her down and tucked her in with the blanket that had been wrapped around the twins (when had that happened? They hadn't packed blankets?). He huffed in fond exasperation when she automatically grabbed for his hand, even though she was sound asleep. He sat next to the couch for a minute or two, playing with her fingers until she seemed to settle down again.
He made his way to the dinky kitchen and dug through the fridge, finding a carton of expired milk (already chunky), some moldy ham, and... a half decent carton of eggs with a non-expired expiration date, in fact. And found some decent creamer.
Doing the same to the cupboards, he found a box of pop-tarts, some live mice in traps, a large plastic container of some kind of chocolate cereal, three dead cacti, and an orange, intact.
Taking his prizes and leaving the trash, he put the pop tarts and orange onto the counter, then he carried the creamer to the holy bean machine, where he proceeded to sit for three minutes to try and get it to work. It finally started up at 7:12:03, not a moment sooner, and he eagerly loaded up some instant coffee and water, waiting for the blessed drink to make itself. As he waited, he located the toaster, and stuck poptarts in all four slots.
He pressed down the lever for the toaster and went to sit next to the coffee machine again, grabbing the orange and starting to peel it as he watched the holy drink pour into the coffeepot. He munched on the orange, waiting in comfortable silence and taking in his surroundings.
The kitchen he was in was nothing special, just wooden walls, one painted white with nice patterns and the other three left blank. The floors were a whitewashed grey color, though he had to admit it was a nice color nonetheless. The curtain fringe above the windows (strangely missing the curtains) was a faded ugly green, but that allowed for lots of light to stream through, illuminating the early-morning dust mites and adding to the serenity of the place. The counters were laminate, and the cabinets were a similar brown to the walls. The table he sat at was little more than a card table and some actual chairs, although why he couldn't fathom, and the fridge looked like it was about to keel over and die.
There was also a bone-dry rib cage on a wooden table pushed against the opposite wall of the fridge, but Mason was trying his best to ignore it.
The coffee machine beeped, and he was brought back to the here and now, leaving his orange peels on the table in favor of grabbing out a mug he had found from his escapades earlier, as well as a paper plate for his poptarts. He poured himself a large cup of joe, and poured the last of the creamer into it, humming and sipping as he waited for his food to pop up. It was starting to smell decently nice in the kitchen, too, instead of slightly rotting wood.
The poptarts popped, and he grabbed those out too, not minding the little burn he got on his pinkie (gotta put solvent on it, Mabel wouldn't be happy...) and eats his breakfast in peace. That is, he would have, if some people could be quiet in the goddamn morning!
Someone old, presumably their great uncle, yelled from the living room, "WHO in the FLAMING PITS OF HELL is this little girl on my COUCH?!"
Mabel, predictably, did not wake up to that, so Mason decided to go back to the living room with his coffee and poptarts.
"We're your grand nephew and niece. We came last night. I'm Mason, that's Mabel." he introduced from behind his great uncle, leaning against the doorframe.
"Bloody Mary, there's another one!" The old man was in his fifties or sixties at least, wearing nothing but a tank top and boxers.
"Nice to see you too, Great Uncle Stanford." The tone Mason used wasn't exactly... cold, per se, but it wasn't very warm. "I'd tone down the swearing if I were you, you'll get an earful from Mabel about how you shouldn't swear around kids and stuff. Annoying as fuck."
He readjusted his cap, and he saw how Stanford rested his eyes on Mason's birthmark. "Staring's rude." he snipped.
"Call me Stan."
"What?"
"Great Uncle Stanford's a mouthful. Call me Stan."
Mason shrugged. "Alright, Stan." He pushed past Stan to his sister, waving the two remaining poptarts under her nose.
Her nose wrinkled, sniffed, and then she let out a yawn and peeked open an eye.
"Poptarts, smores. Your favorite," he promised, gently shaking her shoulder a bit. Satisfied she had woken up, he placed the poptarts on the table nearest her head and sipped some more of his coffee, moving to their stuff and digging through his backpack for his clothes. He grabbed out a pink print t-shirt with the words 'Pop Culture Reference' in black on it, a blue flannel shirt, a black zip hoodie, and a new pair of socks.
Putting his stuff back next to his messenger bag, he gathered up his clothes, ignored Stan; who was still just standing awkwardly; and went upstairs to change.
As he'd thought, he'd left his 'favorite' knife in the pocket of the black hoodie, but he saved that for later. Instead, he quickly changed clothes, pulling on the shirt, then the flannel, then the hoodie, making sure to cover up his arms even though it was the beginning of summer, and then his underwear, pants, and socks. He searched the pockets of his now discarded green hoodie from the day before, and transferred all the knives from there to onto his body again. He tucked his 'favorite' knife into the left pocket of his jeans, and then strapped the hunting knife to his belt, his two butterflies to his pockets, his switchblade to his right-hand jean pocket, and his red swiss into his flannel breast pocket. After he was done, he inspected himself in the mirror.
Same legs, same arms, same relentlessly freckled face, same too-long brown hair (he really needs to get it cut soon, it's impeding his vision) same brown trucker cap, same 'innocent' appearance. Same dead brown eyes. Satisfied he didn't look terrible, he fixed his hat one more time and went back downstairs, finding Mabel up and awake, munching on the last of the second poptart with Stan sipping coffee in the armchair, watching Ducktective. He zipped his dirty clothes into his backpack and slung his messenger bag back over his shoulder, joining his sister on the couch and grabbing his coffee off the coffee table.
They sit like that in peace, content.