"Do you think we actually have telepathy?"
Bubbles's question cut into Buttercup's dark thoughts. Buttercup had been leading the way back home, but slowly, wondering how on Earth they were going to tell the Professor… that Blossom wanted to stay with Mojo, that she seemed to think she wasn't going to live much longer…
Getting no immediate answer from her sister, Bubbles continued. "I mean, maybe we should test it… right now, up in the air, with no distractions…"
Buttercup sighed. "Fine."
"Are you going to insist that we don't have telepathy until we prove it, or have you given up?" asked Bubbles, cracking a small smile.
"Well, all my denial has been false up 'til now, so why should I even bother?" An unguarded smile appeared on Buttercup's face as well. "Besides, I actually have sometimes felt like I can hear your thoughts."
"Alright, then," said Bubbles cheerfully. "Let's try it!"
The two girls were silent for a few moments.
"I don't hear anything," said Buttercup.
"I guess we don't," said Bubbles, frowning. "Blossom said that with her and Mojo, it was like a radio station that she couldn't tune out—"
"But wait," Buttercup interrupted. "Remember what the Professor said? Blossom got stuck between us. That means that, if we have telepathy, it probably won't be as strong as Blossom's and Mojo's."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Blossom made it sound like she couldn't control it. But maybe we can. Maybe we have to purposely send thoughts to each other. Like email, or something."
Bubbles shrugged. "We could try again…"
"Alright," said Buttercup. "I'm going to think of something totally random and off-the-wall, and think it at you, and you say aloud what it is."
Bubbles nodded. "Okay."
Buttercup closed her eyes, trying to think of the most random, crazy thing she could—something that Bubbles could never guess. That meant that it couldn't be something that either she or Bubbles particularly loved, nor something that they really hated, because due to reverse psychology, she'd probably expect something like that too.
So then, she just shrugged, and thought, "directing" the thought to Bubbles, Thomas Jefferson.
Bubbles gasped. "I heard it!" she cried. "In my head—I heard—well, not exactly heard—but you thought 'Thomas Jefferson' and I understood!"
"Your turn! I wanna see if I can hear it too!" cried Buttercup, although she already had a feeling that the answer was most likely "yes".
Bubbles squinted her eyes shut, deep in thought. Buttercup snorted to herself. As if that would help her think—wait a minute, she had just done that while trying to think of "Thomas Jefferson". Okay, so never mind.
John Adams.
"Whoa!" cried Buttercup. "That was—weird! It was like I heard you say 'John Adams', and yet I didn't hear anything." She raised an eyebrow. "John Adams? That's not very creative. You just picked another president."
"But it worked!" cried Bubbles. "We have…"
"…telepathy," Buttercup finished.
Blossom's right, thought Bubbles. This will really help with crimefighting. No one will know how we're planning on attacking!
We'd better tell the Professor, thought Buttercup. Come on, we're nearly home.
Kicking it into overdrive, the girls made it back home in less than two seconds. "Professor?" Buttercup called as she opened the door and hovered inside, Bubbles close behind.
The Professor, who had been sitting numbly on the couch, jumped to his feet as soon as the girls came in. "Girls! Did you…" His face fell. "Was Blossom…"
Dammit. The Professor's expression of growing despair was paining Buttercup almost as much as Bubbles's peppers had. It was obvious that he had been hoping the girls would bring Blossom back home.
"Professor, you were absolutely right," Buttercup sighed. "Blossom was at Mojo's."
The Professor sank back down on the couch, looking about twenty years older. Buttercup gulped at the sight. "Is she alright?" he asked weakly.
"She's happy—happier than she usually is, anyway," said Bubbles quietly, looking down at the ground.
"Has Mojo hurt her?"
Bubbles and Buttercup looked at each other nervously. Should we tell him? Bubbles asked.
I'll leave that answer up to you, Bubbles, thought Buttercup.
"Yeah, a little," Bubbles finally whispered.
"But Blossom says that's alright," said Buttercup quickly. "She and Mojo share the same mind, and they can feel each other's pain too, so when he hurts Blossom he hurts himself… I guess that makes Blossom feel that they're even," she finished with a weak shrug.
"And she… wants to stay?" the Professor asked.
"Yeah… she says she's learning new things," said Buttercup. "And you know how important learning is to her."
"Besides," said Bubbles, "Blossom's in l—" She cut herself off in horror.
"Bubbles!" hissed Buttercup.
"What?" asked the Professor frantically.
Bubbles sighed. "Professor, Blossom's in love with Mojo!"
Buttercup felt a sickening feeling in her stomach as the Professor processed that new bit of information. He looked horrified. Shocked. Saddened. And, strangely, almost accepting.
"I guess I should have seen that coming," he murmured. "They have that mental connection… and besides, for some reason, evil holds a strange allure to teenagers, especially knowledge-hungry ones like Blossom." He looked at Bubbles and Buttercup helplessly. "Now I know how those parents feel when their child runs off with the bad kid. I never thought it would happen to me… well, if it did, I would have thought…" He fell silent.
"You would have thought I'd be the rebel running off with the bad kid," Buttercup finished, her voice emotionless.
The Professor said nothing, simply burying his face in his hands.
"It's okay, Professor," said Bubbles, sitting next to her father and hugging him gently. "It's okay. She's okay. She said she might come back home someday soon, as soon as she's learned enough. It's okay, Professor."
Thank God for Bubbles, Buttercup marveled to herself. Sweet, caring Bubbles could comfort anyone.
"I feel like such an inadequate parent…"
"No, you're not, Dad," said Bubbles, hugging the Professor tightly. "You're a great parent."
"Yeah… you're our parent," said Buttercup slowly. "Bubbles and I couldn't get Blossom to come back…"
The Professor and Bubbles looked up at her, confused.
"…but maybe you could, Professor," finished Buttercup. "She'd listen to you. She considers you authority."
"Yeah," said Bubbles in realization. "If you went and talked to her and told her to come home, then I'm sure she would!"
There was silence as the Professor looked between Bubbles and Buttercup, deep in thought… but then, his eyes closed in sadness.
"No, girls. I couldn't do that."
"Why the hell not?" cried Buttercup. "She'd listen to you! Besides, she needs to be here—"
"Only Blossom knows what's best for her right now. She's mature, she's responsible, and I can't make decisions for her anymore… this is her choice, not mine," he finished, his voice finally breaking.
Bubbles burst into tears at this, hugging the Professor even tighter. Buttercup swallowed at the sight, feeling her face burn with unshed tears herself. Sweet, sensitive Bubbles still couldn't grasp the idea of living without her dear sister. And the Professor? Buttercup felt the most sorry for him. How hard was it to accept that your child is a grown-up and let her make choices for herself, despite the fact that you know that what she's doing is wrong? Especially considering that Blossom…
…thought she was going to die soon…
Buttercup bit her lip. Bubbles, are you going to tell him about… well, how she thinks that she's not going to live much longer?
No, thought Bubbles fiercely. The Professor's upset enough as it is.
I guess he'll find out eventually, thought Buttercup sadly.
Bubbles said nor thought nothing to that, but she did shoot a glare at Buttercup.
Buttercup couldn't help but smirk. Now look at who's in denial.
O.o.O
Blossom hated crying, and she hated how much crying she had done during the past few months, but she forced the tears out anyway. Holding them in was like stuffing too much in an egg roll—it would eventually burst and make a soggy, ugly mess everywhere. Crying forced her to admit that she wasn't in control of the situation, forced her to admit that she was upset, but at least that was better than exploding from all the emotions.
But, oh God, it hurt to cry. It hurt to force those tears out of her eyes; it hurt to admit that her plans were not working out like they should have.
Perhaps she shouldhave been angry at Mojo for plotting those things behind her back this entire time, but all she could do was berate herself. How absolutely stupid of her! She thought she could trust him—but he had been the one who had shattered her trust in the first place! Of course he would have been planning for Blossom's arrival all these years…
She had always known Mojo was insane, but actually experiencing just how messed up he was had been terrifying. She had felt his crazed anger, his irrational conclusions… but, and perhaps what scared Blossom the most, she had realized that he had never lied to her these past few days. Not let her know certain things, yes. But everything that he said to her had been true, and, underneath the underhanded manipulation of Blossom, he still did love her and want to see her happy, for her sake as much as his.
Blossom couldn't really stop loving him for that. He was experiencing the exact same conflicting emotions that she had had for ten years.
Those emotions were clawing at her brain, and it was all Blossom could do to keep that barrier between their minds up. It was like making herself hold her breath, and it was almost as hard to keep up for extended periods of time. She had to continuously focus on keeping their minds separate from each other, otherwise her mind would automatically snap back to being one with Mojo's again—as it should have been from the beginning.
She had been in her room for hours, crying, pacing, and wondering if she should stay or not. But in the end, there really wasn't much of a choice to make—she had to finish what she'd begun.
She flew out of her room and to the living room, looking for Mojo, still focusing on keeping her mind separate from his. She wanted to be able to talk to him the way she chose, not accompanied by a tumble of unguarded emotions.
He was there, looking out of the oval windows. It was nighttime and snow was falling outside. That was a bit of a surprise for Blossom. Had she really been in her room that long?
She had flown in quietly, and thus Mojo had no clue that she was even there, which was certainly a first. Instead of speaking, Blossom took advantage of the moment, and simply watched Mojo looking out over Townsville. It was haunting, and Blossom felt herself shiver.
"Mojo," she finally said softly, as to not startle him.
"AAAAHHH!" Mojo screamed in a rather high-pitched voice, jumping back about a foot and nearly tripping and falling over his cape. Taking in a few deep breaths to calm himself, he spun around and glared at Blossom. "Don't do that!"
Blossom smiled, holding in her laughter. "Sorry. Would you have preferred if I yelled?"
"Have you been in your room this entire time?" Mojo asked.
"Have you been staring out the window this entire time?" Blossom asked.
Mojo said nothing to that, instead turning back around to the window, in a slow, pained way. It hit Blossom just how much Mojo had really aged. She had probably been far too generous when she told her sisters that they had a year to live. At the rate they were going, with the yelling and the fighting—
Was she killing him?
Blossom hovered over to Mojo's side and gazed out the window. "I've never been able to trust anyone in my life, besides my family," she said, her voice as emotionless as she could make it. "But when I thought I knew your every thought, I trusted you. But you were still not telling me the entire truth. I should have learned ten years ago, when you broke my trust the first time."
Mojo said nothing.
"I'm going to give you one more chance," said Blossom, deciding to continue despite no response from Mojo. "But if I find out that you're holding things from me again, then I will leave—and I won't let you threaten me into staying."
"Oh, so you're the victim here?" asked Mojo. His tone wasn't accusing; it was merely contemplative. "Sure, so I had been hoping that you would help me with my own goals, but isn't that exactly what you have done by coming to me? You are utilizing me as a means to reach an end, which is just what I had hoped to do. I am helping you obtain what it is you desire. But you will not return the favor."
"No, I won't."
Mojo looked up at Blossom, as she was still hovering above him. All traces of anger in his face were gone—he now looked tired, sad, and worn-down. Blossom's fear vanished.
"You do not realize how lucky you have it," said Mojo softly.
"No… I probably don't," admitted Blossom.
"You have an amazing gift, Blossom—the ability to fly. Most people on this planet would love to possess the gift of flight. But there are few people who have actually had that ability, then lost it, as I have."
Blossom nodded. "I remember," she said. Ah yes, that time where Mojo had guilt-tripped the Professor into giving him superpowers, so as to better take over the world. He hadn't changed much, she reflected to herself.
"I remember how wondrous it was, to soar through the air," Mojo continued, looking out the window again. "But you—you have always been able to fly. It is something you take for granted. It… it must be wonderful."
Blossom hovered over Mojo for a few moments.
Then, she moved to the window, opened it, and held out her hand to him.
Mojo's eyes grew wide, but they quickly darkened with cynicism. "How do I know you won't drop me?"
Blossom sighed, although it was almost with relief, and "released" her barrier between their minds. I won't drop you, she thought. I just want to give you what you desire, because that's what you've been doing for me these past few days, and I haven't been very appreciative.
Their reconnection brought a flood of relief over Mojo. Do you realize how silent my mind was without you there? After six years, I had gotten quite used to having your thoughts alongside my own, and the silence without you was maddening!
I didn't even think about that, marveled Blossom. Then again, you're mad anyway…
Mojo smirked. Very funny. He took Blossom's outreached hand. Now, do not drop me, as that would be a very long fall and cause me great bodily harm, which would hurt me and very likely kill me—
I said I wouldn't. Blossom took his other hand and pulled him under her arm tightly, floated out the window, closed it behind her, and took off into the night sky.
She had never, ever flown quite like this before.
It wasn't that she flew any different from how she usually did. She flew at a moderately quick pace, zipping through the air above Townsville in about thirty seconds, which was a pretty reasonable speed. She even wasn't flying to a new location—she was heading off to the mountains of Alaska, where she had flown two years ago in heartbreak and frustration.
But Mojo had never done these things, and every sweeping sensation that he felt, Blossom felt too.
How small the people of Townsville looked from this height!
How magically the snowflakes fluttered past them as they flew!
How beautiful nature appeared below them, dotted with trees and laced with rivers!
You're right, thought Blossom to herself. I DO take flying for granted.
O.o.O
"Funny that boulder's still there—and it still looks pretty much like it did two years ago. Erosion hasn't really touched it."
"There is little human activity up here," Mojo pointed out. "The erosion of the boulder of which you speak would likely be slower than boulders in more heavily-populated areas."
Blossom gazed over the ice-capped mountains, the view just the same—only darker—as it had been two years ago, when she had screamed from atop the very mountain that she and Mojo were on now. "When you have perfect memory, you notice when even the smallest things change," she said softly. "So it's always a surprise when things… remain the same, even after a long time."
"Poignant," said Mojo simply, shivering to himself.
Blossom mentally berated herself. Oh, duh. She sometimes forgot that she was more resilient to extreme climate conditions than others due to her superpowers. She was cold too, of course, but it wasn't anything unbearable…
…but Mojo was clearly freezing his tush off.
She flew behind him and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. Body heat, she thought softly.
The effect was instantaneous. Sure, Mojo was still pretty darn cold. But Blossom's hug was making his whole body tingle with warmth… whether that was from her body heat, or just the fact that she was holding him, he wasn't sure, but whatever the case was, it was working.
I'm sorry I forgot, thought Blossom. I should have given you time to grab a coat.
That would have been helpful, thought Mojo, a bit sarcastically. In truth, however, he couldn't hold back the thought that was bubbling in his mind that bearing the cold had been worth it to be able to see the world like that, to fly through the air, to be held like this…
You big softie, thought Blossom with a smile, pulling Mojo closer to her.
"I am not a softie!" Mojo cried aloud. "How dare you insinuate such a thing! I am the most feared evil being this side of evil! My picture is by the word 'evil' in the dictionary! I have given evil its present meaning!"
But you're still a softie, Blossom thought. An evil softie, but a softie nonetheless…
The two remained silent for a few moments, letting their unworded thoughts pass through their connected minds without any hindrance.
We should probably go home now, Blossom finally thought.
O.o.O
Blossom was unable to sleep that night. Well, scratch that—half of her was asleep. The Mojo half. The Blossom half, however, was tossing and turning in the guest-bedroom bed, wondering why—
Why do I feel so alone right now? she thought.
She was warm, she was comfortable, she was tired—falling asleep under those circumstances should have been easy. Blossom rarely had troubles sleeping. She loved sleeping—or more specifically, dreaming. Her dreams were fragmented and vague, and they were the only things Blossom was able to forget, the only memories she had that were incomplete.
"This is pathetic," she whispered to herself, already knowing what she was going to do. Oh, how pitiful she had become—she couldn't even fight against herself anymore. She crawled out of bed and floated out of her room, too tired to convince herself to stay where she was.
As quietly as she could manage, she creaked open the door to Mojo's room and hovered inside. Mojo was asleep—lucky bastard—and curled up under his covers.
He looked so… not exactly weak, Blossom thought, not exactly helpless… well, the way a little puppy might look. She knew how deceiving he was looking right now, for she knew perfectly well how powerful he really still was… but she ignored that right then. Enough of her life had been spent fearing Mojo, so she might as well take advantage of this quiet moment…
Mojo opened one eye slowly.
Blossom felt her cheeks redden, to her dismay. You're probably wondering why I'm here…
No, I'm not… I can read your thoughts, you know. He smiled sleepily. Poor little Blossom, she can't sleep by herself in her big, scary room, and so she needs the big, scary monkey with her—
It sounds ridiculous to me too, thought Blossom. And what sounds even more ridiculous is that I…
She couldn't even think the words. Her stubborn mind was still refusing to accept that, right now, despite everything he had ever done to her, she just wanted him to hold her, and love her, the way that people in love were supposed to act with each other.
I am FAR too tired to… oh fine, get in.
I just want you to touch me, that's all, thought Blossom, gratefully climbing in to bed next to Mojo. Then maybe I'll be able to sleep soundly…
This is pathetic, thought Mojo dryly, slowly reaching out and touching Blossom's cheek. Here I am, Mojo Jojo, your most feared enemy from many years ago, now reduced to accommodate and provide for your every silly whim, as if you have me wrapped around your little finger—if you had fingers, that is…
I know how pathetic it is, Blossom responded. It would be pathetic anyway, even if I needed someone other than you.
You mean, someone who has no desire to harm you? Mojo's hands slid down Blossom face and around her neck. I could easily strangle you, right here, right now. His grip tightened.
Blossom didn't flinch. But you won't.
I WANT to.
But you won't.
Mojo relaxed his grip, repositioning his arms so that they were wrapped around her shoulders. Blossom, as if in response to this, gently stroked Mojo's face with her hand. Their sleepy eyes locked for a few moments.
When Blossom had been much younger, when she had read those fairy tales about handsome Prince Charmings coming to the rescue of their fair ladies, she had always fantasized about what it would be like to have a romantic relationship like that. Even when she was older, she would watch chick flicks and romantic movies, and dream—although quietly, unlike Bubbles—of the day when she would find someone who loved her so perfectly and wholly. That was, of course, always with the assumption that she would somehow be able to put her feelings for Mojo aside, perhaps forever… but until a couple of years ago, some foolish, optimistic streak in her believed that some day, her prince would come.
Things didn't always work out the way she planned, however. Usually it frustrated her—and how her romantic life was going now was so different than what she had hoped (but it was, truthfully, the only way she could have ever seen it happening) was more than enough to enrage her—but in a sense, parts of it were what she had hoped for…
Despite all the fights, accusations, and violence, there really was love.
It was the love of an insane, brilliant, demented, evil psychopath, yes… but… would Blossom have wanted any other kind of love?
The two of them, sleep finally overtaking them, sank down into the pillows, still gently holding each other.
"Thanks," Blossom murmured aloud, before drifting off into a peaceful slumber.