A/N: HEY ALL
So, this is the single longest thing I have ever written. 3000 WORDS OH GOD. Also I may have personified Canada in the form of Minerva.
Anyway, there's really only three things I have to clarify here: "Barry Kane" is Barricade, duh; "Jennifer Oates" is Jolt (from my other story ECHO); and "Sam Ripley" is, of course, the humanised version of the Decepticon Strika. From TFA. She is hilarious. Team Chaar 5ever.
*THOMAS TOM TOM WRITERING PLC DOES NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE ACTIVITIES FEATURED IN THIS WORK OF FICTION AND ALSO WOULD LIKE TO STATE THAT WE HAVE RECENTLY BOTH BUILT A SHIP WHICH CAN SAIL TO THE MOON AND BOUGHT HASBRO*
"You Are Now An Expert", in which Barry is basically a demigod
The train zipped noiselessly along the tracks.
Paul Rowley headbutted the small plastic tray table directly in front of him with a long, drawn out groan. Paul Rowley was not in the best of spirits.
"She's trying to kill me." he said into the plastic tray table to no-one in particular.
The person seated next to Paul, a young man named Barry Kane with spiky black hair, licked his thumb and turned the page of the magazine – Fascist Dictator Monthly – which he was studying intently. Barry Kane was one of Paul Rowley's two close friends – the other being Jack Jasper, who was seated just to the right of Barry – and Barry Kane was currently not listening to a word Paul was saying.
"Uh-huh." Barry said distractedly in Paul's general direction.
Jack said nothing, because he was asleep.
Paul turned his head (still on the table) and regarded his awake friend critically. "Look, Barry. Look." he said, a tissue-paper-thin veneer of politeness concealing a deep, deep well of hatred. Barry's yellowy-brown eyes flicked up and he peered over his rectangular glasses down the train at the girl who was apparently attempting to kill his friend. She was, for some reason, not attempting to kill his friend, and was just sitting with two other girls talking. Barry's eyes flicked back down to his magazine in disappointment. He really would have enjoyed watching a girl try to kill Paul; mainly because Paul was six feet tall and trained in some obscure martial art which involved lots of doing backflips or something while throwing ninja stars (this was, of course, how Barry pictured it; which was inevitably completely and utterly wrong.).
Paul looked from his friend to the girl and back again. "Are you telling me you don't see the manner in which Eilidh is killing me?"
Barry glanced upwards again. "No." he said flatly.
"Look again."
Barry expressed his disdain for this idea by exhaling frustratedly, but humoured his poor lovestruck idiot of a friend – who had had two small streaks of red dyed into his perpetually windswept hair at this girl's advice, and if that wasn't sad Barry didn't know what was – and looked again.
It was a pleasantly warm day in September, and as such certain items of clothing – for example, scarves – were not appropriate. This fact did not seem to apply to Eilidh, as she was wearing, by an astounding coincidence, a very red and very long scarf. However; as obviously one could not possibly wear a scarf around one's neck on a day as pleasantly warm as this day was, Eilidh was wearing the scarf wrapped around her upper torso. This had the effect of; firstly, allowing one to note the fact that Eilidh did indeed have a neck, because one could not usually ascertain this fact as the scarf was habitually around said neck, obscuring it from vision; and, secondly, pushing Eilidh's (surprisingly substantial for a young woman of her size, while he was on the subject) breasts up and together, which, while attractive, was not exactly Barry's cup of tea, thank you very much. However, he did like her white jacket, which contrasted very nicely with the red jeans and black strappy boots she was wearing.
Barry was just considering why his inner monologue was a stylist from Kensington despite he himself being born and raised in Boston when Paul tapped him on the shoulder.
"See?" he asked.
"Nope. Not really." Barry replied unemotionally.
"She knows I like her, and is using that attraction as a weapon. It's deplorable." Paul explained.
"Number one; you are entirely wrong. The girl has no idea. Number two; you've a serious, serious problem, Mac. This obsession with women wearin' push-up scarves is ruining your life." Barry said sadly, returning to his magazine.
"Says the person who remains convinced that Sam Ripley is the pinnacle of the female form." Paul retorted sulkily.
"Hey! I asked her out once. And besides, buff chicks are hot. Plus, that weirdly German/Russian accent, I mean phwoar." Barry asserted, laying his copy of Fascist Dictator Monthly on the plastic tray table.
Paul obviously wasn't listening at this point, and was staring somewhere into the middle distance distractedly. Barry craned his neck around to try and follow his more uptight friend's eyes, and discovered that true to expectations, Paul was looking at the girl with the dyed crimson hair. "She's gotten a white highlight." he said faintly. "I told her to do that."
Barry shook his head in despair. "My God, Paul. You're such a stalker." he observed, leaning back in his chair. "Hell, you even dyed your hair because she told you to."
"I do not stalk Eilidh." Paul, suddenly listening again, replied with as much of his rapidly shredding dignity as possible. "And it wasn't because she told me to. I...um...Well, I just felt like a change."
"Disregarding your second statement because, uh, it's a lie, and concentratin' on the first here. Where's she live?"
"23 Kalis Place." Paul answered automatically.
"Phone number?"
"Seven-seven-one-two-six-five-nine-six-eight-three-two-one."
"Email address?"
"E dot Dalton three nine at hotmail dot com."
"Yep. You," Barry said, picking his magazine back up and settling back down to read the 'Mr. September' section – on King Leopold of Belgium, "are a stalker."
"Wha- Hold on, she gave me all those things. I didn't follow her around until I found out." Paul defended himself.
"Technically, you swapped addresses, phone numbers, and emails, because you were assigned to a social studies project together. But the fact that that social studies project was in first form, and you are now in fifth form, and you freakin' memorized everything, which is freakin' creepy,is what I'm gettin' at. Also the fact that you ditched me for her and left me to do a project with Cindy freakin' Strennan, who literally shanked me three times over the course of that project. I'm still a bit pissed about that too."
"Cindy didn't shank you."
"I'm sorry, who has the three stab wounds in his chest and thirty-five stitches? OH WAIT, IT'S ME."
"Fine. She shanked you."
"Thank you." Barry nodded nicely. "So remind me again why, ya know, your stalk target's right over there and you're not romancin' it up?" he asked - all casual, like he didn't have a year's pay invested in the answer. (God damn Jack and his scary observant bets. Good thing he was asleep right now, or Barry would already be about £500 in debt.)
"Um, a) she's not my stalk target and b) because I have no idea how to romance. And, as you so rightly say, I am freakin' creepy and she'll hate me."Paul replied.
Barry suddenly saw a great opportunity for both his own amusement and his own financial gain. "Well. You're only creepy when you're writing in that damn notebook."
"I can't help it, it's therapeutic. Hold on, what - that's creepy?!"
"God dammit, Paul. Do you know anything whatsoever about women?" Barry asked, preparing to initiate his dastardly ploy.
"I think the point of being male is that no, I don't." Paul said mildly. This would normally have been funny, but Barry was deeply entrenched in the middle of a serious misdirection campaign and had no time for humour.
"You're an idiot. Listen here, pal." Barry began, putting his copy of Fascist Dictator Monthly to one side and speaking far too quickly for Paul to keep up with while making some strange movements with his hands and eyebrows across the train. "Women are a type of rare dragon. They should be approached with caution; if possible, bring a sword. Their vision is based on movement. They can run faster up stairs than down. They can move at speeds of up to 20 kilometres an hour through water. They communicate by rubbing together very, very quickly. From this we can conclude that women are extremely complex creatures. If, when asked what you like in a woman, your answer is '30 brake horsepower', 'A magnifying glass', or 'Toast, please!', then it is possible you have fundamentally misunderstood the meaning of the word 'woman' and indeed every aspect of our conversation so far. You are now an expert."
With that, he stood up. Paul also (rather stupidly) stood up, still attempting to work out just what the hell Barry had just said. Barry then pushed Paul as hard as he could in the general direction of Eilidh Dalton, because he was, as the saying goes, a complete douchebag.
The train zipped noiselessly along the tracks.
Eilidh Dalton hid behind a newspaper she totally didn't steal from the person behind her and mumbled angrily under her breath.
"Hey, Red! Come on, let me see your hair! Tu fais un promise!" wheedled another girl sitting across from her, whose name was Minerva Quebec. The girl beside Minerva, whose name was Jennifer Oates, nodded vigorously and made a lot of excited hand signals.
Eilidh sighed and lowered the newspaper, revealing the new streak of white down the middle of her hair. Jennifer looked sceptically at the highlight, and gestured to her own electric blue bob, as if to say, "Mine's better." Minerva, on the other hand, pulled Eilidh's highlight out and inspected it critically.
"So you had this done, ah, when?" she asked, comparing a lock of her own brown-with-pink-bits hair to Eilidh's.
"Yesterday. Why?"
"Nothing. C'est trés jolie. Suits you. But, to move onto a much more important topic, Barrie and Jacques are sitting about three rows behind us, and they have brought Paul with them." Minerva said, winking at Eilidh.
Another important fact to note about Minerva was that she was French Canadian, never really bothered to learn English completely properly, and as such often spoke the Queen's English in a slightly skewed manner. Oh. And she was a tad obsessive about Eilidh's love life.
Eilidh neglected to mention that she had noticed the three (okay, just Paul) and had been fleetingly glancing (okay, flat-out staring) at Paul's reflection in her window for about half an hour now.
Jennifer rolled her eyes and signed a blah, blah, blah movement. Minerva huffed. "Oui, oui. Just because you've got un petit copain does not mean we can forget about Red's incredibly odd attraction to the robot."
"He is not a robot! And I'm not oddly attracted to him!" Eilidh shot back, which in hindsight may have been a bad idea, especially as she completely failed to stop her cheeks from going a rather becoming shade of pink.
"Desóle, Red, but, alas, this boy you are so – what is the word? - hung up on is vraiment sensass."
"Uh, not hung up on him, and he isn't crazy." Eilidh replied hotly, her cheeks going from lightly-dusted-with-pink to model-wearing-too-much-makeup.
Jennifer suddenly signed for time out, pointed at Eilidh, pointed at Paul, then signed "Oh Paul, hold me like you hold your weird and creepy notebook!" before faking a dramatic sigh and collapsing back into her chair giggling silently.
Eilidh glared at the mute girl (currently killing herself laughing along with the Franco-Canadian), cheeks going almost as red as her hair, and refused to say anything. Except to maybe stutter something along the lines of "the notebook isn't creepy" which did her no favours whatsoever.
"Oh, oui, Red. The notebook is mysterious and alluring, bien sur." Minerva laughed, putting on a horrendous imitation of Eilidh's Manchester accent.
"I do not sound like that."
Jennifer nodded seriously while signing "Yes, you do."
"She's right. You do." Minerva agreed. "But we cannot fix that. Now, tell Tanté Minerva why you like this robotic boy."
Eilidh rolled her eyes and sighed. "Fine, as long as you never ever call yourself Tanté Minerva ever again."
"Oui, whatever. Talk."
"Well," Eilidh started, "he's not a robot, for one. He's really kind and understanding, and he listens to me, and he's really clever, and, well, he's not bad looking – okay, he's gorgeous – and – hey, he dyed his hair! I told him to do that..."
Eilidh continued dreamily listing various things about Paul that she liked. Jennifer turned to Minerva. "We've lost her." she signed flatly.
"Yah, she's gone." Minerva replied. "He's already got her and the idiot doesn't even know it."
Jennifer looked over her shoulder and made a few motions with her hands across the train, then smirked and turned back to Minerva. "He'll know it in a second." Minerva looked from Jennifer to Eilidh with curiosity.
Eilidh was still listing things (she was on "I mean, have you even heard him talk? It's like the vocal equivalent of tea with honey in it. Seriously, getting faint just thinking about it." by this point) when Jennifer snapped her out of her trance by throwing her inhaler very hard at Eilidh's forehead. The blue plastic inhaler bounced off the girl's head and Jennifer caught it on the rebound.
Eilidh rubbed her head. "Ow. What was that for, Jenny?"
"You were dreamily listing everything about Paul. I thought I was going to die from sweetness overdose." Jennifer signed. "But seriously, can you get me my bag? I need to text Sam something."
Eilidh stood up and pulled Jennifer's bag out of the overhead storage. She handed it to the mute girl, who had for some reason stood up as well.
"Thanks." Jennifer signed, taking the bag and dropping it in Eilidh's chair.
"Wait a minute-" Eilidh started, before Jennifer span her around and pushed her as hard as possible in the general direction of Paul Rowley.
The first thing Paul registered after he was underhandedly pushed by Barry was that he had to stop immediately. So he did, planting a foot and halting himself with little to no fuss whatsoever. Eilidh, on the other hand, had little to no control over herself and went straight over Paul's foot, which resulted in her falling over and Paul automatically catching her with one arm around her waist, spinning around due to her momentum, and then stopping the spin by catching onto one of the metal poles in the train.
The second thing Paul registered was that he was now holding Eilidh as if they'd just finished dancing the waltz or something; and that Barry had produced a guitar out of nowhere and was performing McFly's "Love Is Easy" quietly in the background.
Oh, and the whole train was looking at them. That part temporarily escaped Paul, on account of the Eilidh pressed up against him. Which was understandable.
Eilidh opened her eyes (she'd closed them as soon as she tripped), and looked straight into Paul's concerned blue eyes.
She blinked twice. Still there. So she wasn't dreaming, at leas—OH GOD SHE WASN'T DREAMING THIS WAS REALLY HAPPENING OH GOD. Wow, she felt really, really dizzy.
"Um." Paul started intelligently. "Are you all right, Eilidh?"
"Oh, I'm, um, I'm fine." Eilidh replied, suddenly becoming a million percent more aware that Paul had an arm around her waist and it was amazing and now her cheeks were going pink again.
Paul noticed that. "Oh. You're embarrassed. I'm sorry." he said, and moved to let Eilidh go.
"Oh, no no no of course not – well, maybe a bit, but it's not your fault, Paul." Eilidh rambled, locking her arm around Paul's neck unconsciously.
"Yes it is. I caught you and now it looks like we just finished doing the waltz on a train, like in one of those incredibly unrealistic romance films." Paul pointed out.
Eilidh laughed despite her embarrassment. "Yes, but I'm the one who tripped."
"Over me."
"Because I couldn't stop and you could."
"I still caught you badly."
"At least you caught me. Uh, thanks."
"My, um, my pleasure."
Eilidh felt very, very dizzy at this point, and had to sit down. Paul sat down next to her and looked at her a little oddly. "Are you sure you're okay? I think you might've hit your head."
Eilidh thought about this, but reasoned if she'd hit her head she would remember it. "No, I just...well...that was...I don't know."
"You are very eloquent today." Paul commented.
"Stop distracting me with your stupidly attractive eyes, then." Eilidh mumbled to herself.
"What?"
"Nothing! Nothing. Nothing at all." Eilidh said far too quickly.
"Okay..." Paul replied.
Eilidh sighed, feeling very, very dizzy (maybe she had hit her head?) and looked across at Paul, who was still looking at her with concern. "Really, Paul. I'm fine. Just a bit dizzy."
Yeah, and I think I love you, she added in her head. The sudden look of disbelief on Paul's face led her to believe she might have said that part out loud.
She had said that part out loud, and Paul literally had no idea what to do in this situation. So he just stared.
Barry, scenting a stupid amount of betting money, began a chant of "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" which very quickly spread around the train (which was full of high-school students, so no surprises there). He was not expecting Paul to actually take this as a legitimate idea.
Neither was Eilidh, but she'd be damned if she was going to stop any of this, because for a supposed robot, he was freaking amazing at kissing. Paul pulled back and waited for a second. "Did I do that right?" He asked.
Eilidh replied by pushing him into the train window and kissing him again.
Barry sighed good-naturedly while his friend had a ridiculously heated make-out session on the window of a train. Damn, but that Eilidh was assertive. Whoa.
Oh well, Barry decided. Mission accomplished. Now, there was just one unfinished piece of business which required his expert understanding of women...
"Hey, Sam!"
"Ja? Vhat is it zat you vant, Barry?"
"You free Saturday?"