Warnings: AU, Very slight slash (Stone Cold Steve Austin/CM Punk), Mentions of Child Abuse, Profanity, Age difference. Eventual Warnings: Smut.
All of Saturday Steve fussed, his fussing continuing into Sunday. He's not the best or most talented nurse, but looking after Phil had been curiously easy. They'd spent Saturday in front of the TV, Phil drifting in and out of sleep, and Steve watching him. He's never paid more attention to a sleeping person before, not even his wife had been monitored so closely, and there's a little part of Steve that was confused by the concern. It'd been easy to shrug that part off, and instead focus on keeping Phil fed and watered, worrying about how to break his fever. Phil's his charge, he's Steve's responsibility, that's why he's concerned, that's why he'd ended up sitting on the couch with Phil cradled against his chest, Steve's hand running over the close crop of bleached hair, trying to calm the shivers running through Phil's thin body. All of Sunday, during the brief moments he was awake, Phil seemed disconnected, his eyes half-lidded, his skin clammy and pale. It worried Steve, as he'd sat cradling Phil's sleeping body, trying to work out how to make him better, but nothing would come to him. In the afternoon, once he'd fed Phil, he'd grabbed a book about how to look after invalids, and sat reading it, Phil's head resting in his lap. It was strange, but at the time pleasant, and Steve hadn't wanted to think on that too much, because he's sure there's nothing there. Comforting was nice, because he's Steve's responsibility, that's all.
When Monday comes Phil's not any better, and Steve decides that school is out of the question. There's no way that Phil's going to be able to pay attention in lessons, he's barely able to keep his eyes open long enough to eat. So Steve calls the school, and assures them that once Phil's better he'll return to class. Monday bleeds into Tuesday, and Tuesday to Wednesday, and there's still no sign of improvement. Worry is turning to outright panic, and Steve calls the doctor, all but demanding the man comes to check Phil out in person. The man assures Steve it's just a flu, that there's not much of anything to be done, but keeping Phil warm, and making sure he drinks plenty of fluids.
Thursday sees the first sign of real improvement. Phil sitting up, paying attention, even if his eyes are rimmed in red, and his nose stuffy and swollen, he's more awake than he has been in a while.
"Steve?" It's almost a shock to hear Phil's voice, hoarse and croaky from all the coughing he's been doing. Steve glances up from where he's sitting on his armchair, and Phil stares at him in mild confusion.
"You finally back with us?" Steve's over to the couch where Phil's been since Saturday, crouching down to look Phil in the eye. Phil blinks at him slowly, and Steve smiles brightly, hopefully.
"I... What day is it?" Phil looks confused, and Steve laughs at him, rubbing a hand over the close crop of Phil's hair.
"Thursday, Punkster." Phil's face seems to pale even further, and Steve smiles at him, not quite willing to withdraw his hand just yet, leaving it resting on Phil's forehead. His skin feels cooler, which is something at least.
"Thursday? Fuck..." Phil rubs his eyes, and Steve steps back, flopping into his armchair. "I missed most of school." Phil sighs, and grabs a tissue from the box on the table.
"You can catch up next week. Someone's gonna drop your homework off tomorrow afternoon. You up to eating?" Steve stands, he feels wired, like there's too much energy in him, and he's not entirely sure why. He can see that Phil's feeling better, but there's a part of Steve that's worried that Phil will relapse, or simply fall back asleep. Over the last few days, there have been moments like this, moments when Phil's seemed better, but it's always short lived, usually only lasting long enough for him to go to the bathroom, then stumble back to the couch and promptly pass out once more. Yet, it seems like Phil's come through his illness. This is the longest, and most coherent he's been in days.
"Food would be nice." He smiles slightly, and Steve wanders through to the kitchen, heating up another serving of the chicken soup the Owl had dropped off on Tuesday when she'd shown up, worried over her student not showing up for his lesson.
"You should get back in your nest, Punkster." Steve tells him, when Phil appears in the kitchen, getting a glass of water to sip at slowly.
"I'm feeling better..." Phil shrugs, standing by Steve, staring at the soup on the hob. "You made soup?" He sounds surprised, and Steve laughs, shaking his head.
"The Owl dropped some off for you." Steve smiles over at Phil, and without really thinking pulls him into a one-armed hug. "I'm glad you're feeling better. You had me worried, little one." There's a strange part of Steve that wants to press a kiss to Phil's hair, a strange part of him that wants to pull him in closer, to hold him tight if only to reassure himself that Phil's okay, he's getting better, if not fully recovered from this illness.
"Sorry... I..." Phil pulls away, an odd little look on his face, his ears tinged red. "I didn't say anything weird when I was sick did I?" Phil looks desperately uncomfortable, and Steve shakes his head. Phil'd not said much of anything when he was sick, a lot of pitiful groaning, and several attempts to kick his way out of the blanket nest, which was what had led to Steve slipping into it behind him in the first place. Phil had lain tranquil and content in Steve's arms; out of them, his sleep had been disrupted and chaotic, and Steve knew enough to know that sleeping would help in the recovery process.
"Weird?" Steve turns to Phil, and then grabs a bowl from the cupboard. "You were pretty out of it... Asleep mostly." Phil looks ridiculously fragile standing in the kitchen, almost curled in on himself, dressed in nothing more than some pyjamas that hang off his thin body, and a pair of socks. Steve thinks he's going to have to try harder in fattening Phil up. His height means there should be more weight on his frame, as it is, he looks lanky, his face thin and pale, it all conspires to make his eyes look far too big, far too unavoidable. Phil yawns, his hand over his mouth, and Steve laughs at him. "You're still tired?" Phil nods, and takes at seat at the kitchen table. He looks tired, like he might fall asleep again at any second.
"Uh-huh... I've no idea how though... I feel like I've done nothing but sleep for days." Phil smiles, rubbing the back of his head, then at his eyes.
"Being sick is tiring, Punkster." Steve sets the soup down in front of him. "I'd rather you ate this in bed, but you're here now, so eat up, then it's back to the nest with you." Steve ruffles his hair, and gets a bowl of soup for himself. The Owl had promised she'd be stopping by with some groceries tonight, and Steve's banking on the old woman also bringing some more soup with her.
"Steve..." Phil glances up when he's halfway through his soup, a pensive expression filling his eyes. "Valentine's day... I... I shouldn't have-"
"Don't." Steve smiles at him. He's had a long time to think about that kiss. A long time of lying with Phil cradled against him, and Steve's come to the conclusion that it was simply a situation he handled horribly. Phil's an affectionate little thing, he needs physical reassurance, he needs human contact, and that he's comfortable enough with Steve to seek it out, and to offer it is the best validation of the good work Steve's doing for him. Once he recovers from the horrors his parents have inflicted on him, Phil's going to make someone an incredibly sweet and loving boyfriend. Until then Steve's going to have to make sure he doesn't ruin Phil's sweetly affectionate nature by reading far too much into it. "I was an ass to you, and I'm sorry." Steve rests his hand on the table, palm up, and smiles over at the confused expression on Phil's face. "You're... No. You did nothing wrong, and I'm sorry." Steve smiles, and Phil stares at him, his eyes wide, but he does rest his hand on Steve's, his fingers curling around Steve's hand, as Steve's close over his.
That weekend, Jim comes over with takeaway, and if he notices anything off about how things are with Steve and Phil, he doesn't say anything. Steve doesn't think there's anything wrong between them anymore, but he might be wrong. It might be that this is one of those lulls before something else happens, and everything gets derailed once more. Phil seems okay though, he's returned to his normal self, calm, happy, relaxed, prone to blushing at random moments. It's sweet, and Steve's not too sure what to make of his conviction that Phil is sweet. He's a good kid, that much is clear to Steve, but there's something that's burning in the back of Steve's mind, and he can't quite work out what it is. It's a something that won't forget the way Phil's lips had brushed over his own, so soft, so tentative, so afraid of being in the wrong, and then Steve had confirmed that he was, and Steve hates himself for doing that to Phil. There's one thing that's changed because of Phil's illness, and that is that he won't touch Steve. There's no physical contact between them unless Steve initiates it, and he's not sure why it's bothering him so much. He understands that Phil is probably worried that if he touches Steve there'll be a repeat of the two weeks where they avoided each other. There's a distance between them, and Steve's sure he doesn't like it. It's not that Phil's ever been clingy, or even that he was particularly big on touching Steve in the first place, it's just there's something not quite right with Phil, and it bothers him. If Steve's learned anything about his little charge, it's that he's a tactile creature, touch is important to Phil, and that he's reigning himself in, even in that one small way is irritating Steve. It'll take time to get Phil to relax fully once more; Steve knows that, he just wishes he'd not scared Phil off in the first place.
The second week of March sees Phil ridiculously busy with school, when he comes he homes he looks half-dead, and Steve finds himself hovering nervously behind him as he makes dinner. There's a terrible, fearful part of Steve that's convinced that Phil's going to collapse at any minute, and he wants to be there to catch him if he does. Over the course of the week Phil seems to get healthier, if not any more awake. He keeps slinking off to bed early, and Steve finds himself having early nights too. It's kind of lonely sitting up on his own with only the TV for company. He's gotten far too used to, and far too comfortable with Phil's presence. It's March already; Phil will be going back to Chicago in a few short months. The thought of the Ranch being devoid of his charge fills Steve with a grim sense of dread. He may have to simply give Hershey to Phil when he leaves, because Steve's certain the dog would never get over the loss of her friend. He's certain he'll miss Phil when he leaves, but there's a chance that if Steve does a good job, Phil will decide to stay. The Ranch is his home, Steve's told him this so many times, and he hopes the kiss hasn't ruined that for Phil. If there was anything left over from Valentine's and the silence that followed it, there's no sign, and Steve supposes he should let it go. Phil's moved passed it, and Steve is trying. It's an odd fixation, but it's there in the back of his mind. Phil's lips against his, Phil's sleeping and sick body in his arms won't leave him in peace. In over a year Steve's not held anyone the way he held Phil, in over a year he's avoided human contact, but now with Phil around, the need to feel connected to a person, to touch them to reassure himself they're there is strong, and Steve can't fully explain it. Phi's not going anywhere, he's there until June at least, and Steve needs to stop worrying, but Phil doesn't seem to mind the occasional scruffles to his cropped hair, or the odd pat on the back. It's strange, Steve had thought that Phil was the one who needed physical signs of affection, but it seems that maybe Steve was wrong, and it's him that needs them more, only his charge seems reluctant to offer them to Steve.
"Morning." The third Saturday of March sees Steve wandering down to the normalcy of the weekend. Phil in the kitchen, the fresh scent of a new batch of cookies, traditional choc-chip, and breakfast in the air, Hershey in her bed, watching Phil closely. Steve pauses by in the doorway and stares. This is what he considers normal. This little scene is what Steve is used to seeing more often than not, and inside his gut something warm settles. "You're staring at me." Phil says suddenly, and Steve laughs, going over to start a pot of coffee.
"Was just thinking. Nothing to worry about, Punkster." Steve smiles over at Phil. There's a soft blush on his cheeks, and an unfamiliar happy little smile on his lips. "What we having for breakfast then?" Steve comes over eyeing the pot on the stove. It looks like it's probably scrambled eggs, which is fine by Steve. He likes the way Phil makes it, all light and fluffy, not hard and rubbery as Steve's wife always made them.
"Eggs." Phil's voice is oddly soft, his actions as he whisks the eggs stiff jerky, like he's feeling too many contradictory things at once, and his body can't decide how to express them.
"You okay this morning?" Steve moves a little closer, worry that Phil's getting sick again coming over him.
"No!" Phil's tone is oddly high-pitched as he takes the pot off the heat, and starts buttering toast. "I mean, I'm fine." Phil smiles over at Steve, an oddly manic smile, his eyes wide and almost glazed.
"You sure?" Steve's hand is on Phil's forehead before he can open his mouth. The skin beneath his hand is a little warm, but that's more than likely from cooking. "You don't feel hot... Take care of yourself, Punkster." Steve presses a quick kiss to Phil's forehead, and turns to the coffee pot. "I worry about you, you know that, right?" Steve turns to look at Phil, but there's a lost look on his face, his lips turned up in a tiny smile, and he's clearly not paying any attention. "C'mon, feed me." Steve nudges Phil's shoulder carefully as he carries the coffee pot to the table.
"Yeah..." Phil carries two plates of food over, and takes his seat, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "So what's the plan for this weekend? I mean, I've got homework to get done today, and your letter pile is huge, but tomorrow... What're we gonna do?"
"The veg garden out back... We need to get started on it." Steve takes a bite of his breakfast, and Phil nods vaguely, his eyes narrowed. "You any ideas on what you wanna grow? It'll be you that'll be using it all, so your opinion is the only one that matters." Steve smiles, and that light blush creeps over Phil's cheeks and ears once more.
"I guess I'll start looking into it..." Phil mutters, resuming eating with gusto.
"You can think about whilst we dig it up this afternoon, and we'll head into town tomorrow, buy us some seeds." Phil nods at Steve's words. It's a simple plan for the weekend, but one that Steve knows will end up being enjoyable, if only because they'll be in each other's company, and that's always a far better way to spend time than being alone. He was away from his little charge, and it'd been the worst, now all Steve wants is to make sure he's there for him, that he's available whenever Phil might have need of him.
The weekend goes as planned, and over the course of the week, after school he and Phil plant up the vegetable garden. Steve carefully explaining how to tend each of the plants, and Phil making notes in a little book. The responsibility for the vegetables Steve makes clear is Phil's, and rather like with Cranberry, Phil seems to be taking it very seriously. His notes are meticulous, he even pins a little diagram of the vegetable plot to the backdoor, so he knows where each crop is, and when they're likely to start sprouting.
The next Saturday sees the weather taking a bleak turn, and Phil frets over his seeds. He spends half the day staring out the wind at the rain lashing down on the dirt. No matter how much, or how often Steve tried to reassure him that his seeds would be fine, Phil seems unwilling to give up his concerned vigil. In the end Steve had gone down to the barn, and jury-rigged some old sheet plastic into a cover for the veg patch, staking it to the ground under the anxious, and overly worried eye of Phil. He'd wanted to help, but Steve had refused to allow him out in the storm. He's not long over his flu, and there's no way Steve's letting him risk his health for the sake of some seeds.
"C'mere." Phil wraps a towel around Steve as soon as he's back inside, and Steve shakes his head at the fussing he's getting. "Go shower... I'm making you something warm to drink, and don't even think of arguing with me." Phil shoos Steve out of the kitchen, and Steve can't help but laugh at him.
"You're quite the mother hen when you're riled up, Punkster." Steve chuckles, and then pauses at the stricken look on Phil's face. For a few seconds Steve's no idea what he's said to make that expression come over Phil, but then it occurs to him. "I fed them, and they'll be fine inside for the day, so don't you dare think of going out there." Steve warns him sharply, and Phil looks up at him guiltily.
"They'll be worried though... I always bring them some hot mash on the weekend." Phil chews his bottom lip, staring out of the window at the raging storm, wincing slightly when there's another streak of lightening and a rumble of thunder.
"You feed the chickens hot mash?" Steve laughs, rubbing at his head with the towel. He can feel a chill beginning to creep in, and he thinks Phil might have had a point when he'd ordered him to go shower. "You spoil ever single animal on this Ranch." Steve laughs, and Phil ducks his head, a deep blush on his cheeks.
"It's nice for them to have a change." He shrugs, and Steve shakes his head, leaving for the little bathroom attached to his bedroom. A nice hot shower, some clean clothes, something warm to drink, and some TV sounds like the best way to spend the rest of this miserable day to him.
That night the power cut out a little after dark, and Phil had gone to bed pretty early, citing the theory that if he slept early, he'd get up early to go check on his chickens, so long as it'd stopped raging outside. Steve had chuckled at him, but hadn't argued, as it seemed pointless. Sleeping is about the best thing to do when the power's out, so Steve had headed to bed too.
He's woken by a weight beside him, a barely there, barely noticeable weight that Steve assumes is Hershey. The dog is freaked out by thunder, and always comes to snuggle with him when there's a storm during the night. It's comforting that she still thinks of Steve as being able to keep her safe in the face of the loud rumbles from the sky. He'd expected her to seek solace and protection from Phil, but she's come to Steve, and that's more than a little gratifying. He blindly reaches over to pet the dog, and freezes. His hand isn't touching soft fun, instead it's resting on a fabric covered slender back. He turns to look at what, and who's in bed with him, and something solidifies in Steve's stomach. Phil's curled up on his side, his back to Steve, Hershey snuggled up in front of him, with every rumble of thunder Phil's body seems to wince, curling up tighter. During the day, he'd seemed okay with the thunder, a few odd winces here and there, but nothing major. At night though, it seems like a different matter, even in his sleep he seems afraid of the crashes and flashes.
"Hey..." Steve mumbles quietly, none too sure what to do in this situation. "Punkster?" As Phil's asleep, Steve doesn't want to wake him. Sleep is something teenagers need plenty of, and Phil never seems to sleep well or long enough, but a particularly loud crack has Phil whimpering, and Steve without thinking moves closer, slipping an arm under Phil's waist. "Shh... You're safe here. You know you're safe with me." It's strange, far too strange holding the boy close like this, but its okay, at least Steve thinks it's okay, because Phil needs this, he needs to be reassured that he's safe, that nothing, no one, is going to hurt him. In Steve's arms, he's safe as safe can be. Steve falls asleep murmuring soft nonsense to Phil, his arms wrapped around Phil's body, holding him tightly.
When the morning comes, Steve pretends to be still asleep as Phil sneaks out of his bed, quietly making his way down stairs, Hershey hot on his heels. All Steve does is turn to lie on his back, and , stare up at the ceiling, wondering why his bed feels so very big, and so very empty. He's slept alone for over a year now, but he's missed having someone in it with him, that much is painfully obvious to him now. He's always liked sharing a bed, always liked having someone else's warmth beside him, but when his wife died, he'd resigned himself to sleeping alone. Last night was the first time in so very long that there was someone in Steve's arms, and there's a ridiculous part of him that wants to call Phil back. It's stupid though, and not what Steve really wants anyway. He misses having someone to hold, but a lanky sixteen-year-old boy isn't the person Steve wants to be cuddling. He might have to talk to the Owl, and see if there are any other single daughters for him to try his hand at dating.
Sunday they spend picking over the Ranch, tending to the damage caused by the storm, Phil worrying over his seeds the whole time, much to Steve's amusement. He's certain that when they sprout Phil's going to be the proudest plant parent in the World, and Steve's going to die from laughing at him. He can see Phil taking pictures to send back to Chicago of each new leaf each one of his plants manages to grow. Phil's incredibly fond of the oddest things on the Ranch. Once Steve had spotted him taking a picture of some bug wandering along a wire of the fence, all the while Phil had been talking to that little insect, advising it to slow down so he could get a good shot. He supposes it's the artist in Phil, seeing the beauty in things Steve sees as ordinary or mundane, or it might just be that Phil's a city kid, and what's normal to Steve is still utterly foreign to Phil. Either way, it's an oddly endearing little quirk of Phil's personality.
The next week is normal, gloriously sedately normal, but in the back of Steve's mind, there's a worry. It's a stupid worry, but it's one he has all the same. He's worried Phil will bring up Saturday night, why Steve can't really say, but it plays on his mind every so often. More and more, he finds himself staring at Phil, puzzling over the contradictions of him. On the outside, Phil is pretty tough, to people he doesn't know Phil's not outright rude, but standoffish at least, but once you know him, once you're let even a little bit closer, he's so very sweet. It's a pitiful adjective for him really, but Phil is a sweet person, his heart as big as it is kind. Steve's certain he's never seen a kid decide to go to the trouble of making hot mash for the hens simply because they deserve a change, he's never seen a kid worry over seeds the way Phil did, he's never seen a kid steal Hershey's heart so completely, and be as utterly adoring of her in return. Phil's a sweet person, and a perfect addition to the Ranch. The other thing that's been playing on Steve's mind is how long Phil has left here. Time is ticking away, and soon he'll be gone. The longer he's here, the more painful his absence will be. Steve's going to miss his contradictory little chef when he leaves, and that's all there is to it. There's a tiny part of Steve that hopes when the year is up, that Phil will decide to stay. He seems to love the Ranch, he adores Hershey, and on Saturday night, he sought comfort and solace from Steve. This is his home, if he wants to stay, Steve will keep him for as long as he likes, even if he does bring up the fact Steve held him in his sleep on Saturday night.
Long, slender fingers skim over Steve's chest, pinching a nipple delicately. His hands run down a smooth back to a trim waist, the hips of the person in bed with him are narrow, not the curves Steve's used to. It's different, but different is okay, different is interesting, new. There's a soft moan as Steve's hand skims over the slight swell of their ass, squeezing the firm flesh, then lips are pressed against Steve's, soft thin lips that are nothing like the lips of his wife. There's no chemical strawberry taste to them, just a slight hint of mint-flavoured gum clinging to them. This kiss is tentative, soft, nervous. It's like the kiss of someone inexperienced and worried about messing up, which is ridiculous because this kiss is perfect. It's the kiss Steve knew it would be, and to have it, to finally have it, is everything he'd hoped for. The room is dark, even behind his closed eyes he can tell its dark. When that perfect kiss is broken, thin fingers trail over Steve's face, and he opens his eyes to look at who he'd just kissed. He stares into a set of eyes, painfully familiar eyes. The wide, deep, impossibly green eyes of his Punkster.
Steve jolts awake, and glares down at his erection. A dream. It was nothing more than a dream, but the subject of that dream fills Steve with a growing sickness. He'd dreamed of Phil, of sweet, damaged, little Phil. This makes him feel no better than the scum who'd abused him. Phil's a child. He's Steve's charge. He's not a sexual object, and Steve's subconscious has no right to paint him as one. Yet it had. That dream has left him harder than he's been in a long time, his heart racing still, and all that because of a dream of kissing a child, of kissing Phil. Downstairs Steve can hear Phil making breakfast. It's Saturday, so he'll be up extra early to make cookies, and because it's so early, the noises he makes are soft, but in the deathly silence of house, and Steve's mind, they're deafening. He dreamt of Phil. He dreamt of kissing him, of touching him, of doing things that are wholly inappropriate as his guardian. Steve stares at the ceiling, and wills the feeling of filth from him. He's too invested, he can't help that though, Phil needs him, and in turn, Steve needs Phil. He understands it's a two way street. Phil's presence has given Steve a focus, something to keep getting up in the morning for. He's fixated on Phil, and that's not healthy, that has to be the cause of that dream, it has to be. Phil's a child, a boy. He's everything that his wife wasn't, at least in a physical sense, because in terms of personality they're pretty similar. That's not the line of thought Steve should be following though, it's can't be, because Phil's a child. Phil's Steve's charge. The longer Steve thinks on this dream, the more he feels like he's going to be sick. He ends up with his head down the toilet, vomiting. The dream plaguing him. In it, Phil had felt so real, so warm, so human, so close to perfect. Only he can't be perfect, the dream is nothing more than a dream, it has to be, because Phil is Phil, and Steve is Steve, and the thought, the very idea of touching Phil like that has Steve retching up more bile.
"Steve?" There's a soft knock on the bedroom door jab, and Steve closes his eyes, willing Phil to go away. His voice is so soft, so worried, and Steve's sitting buck naked, head first in the toilet. "You decent and or okay?" Hershey comes padding into the little en suite bathroom, and nudges Steve's arm, whining as though she was asking the same question as Phil.
"No, and yes." Steve mutters, sitting back, stroking the dog's head. "I'll be down in a bit. Just not feeling too great this morning."
"Okay... You want me to make you something light for breakfast?" Phil chuckles, and Steve closes his eyes. In his mind, all he can see is the way Phil had looked at him in that dream, the desire in those big deep eyes as they stared up at him. Steve forces himself to his feet, and shoos Hershey from the bathroom.
"Whatever you'd made is fine, don't worry." Steve calls as he switches on the shower. He's still hard, his damn fool cock is still hard, and even though he's spent the last ten minutes puking up bile, he can taste dream Phil on his lips. That dream had to be a message from his subconscious. A sign that he's ready to get back on the horse and try dating again, that has to be it; it's the only thing that makes sense. When he's downstairs, he'll see if Phil fancies taking a trip to see the Owl. She has to have some more friends with single daughters. Once he finds a woman to replace his wife, he'll feel better, he won't dream of touching Phil, he's sure of it.
"Hey!" Phil grins at him when Steve finally emerges downstairs, a smile on his face, and flour splashed all over his shirt. "I tried a new cookie recipe. You wanna try one now or after breakfast." He comes closer, and Steve looks away, bile rising up his throat. He smells exactly like that dream, his smile is as soft and pretty as it had been in Steve's sleep, and Phil's eyes, his damnedly unavoidable eyes. His eyes are always what catches Steve's attention. Those eyes had haunted him from the very first picture he'd seen of Phil Brooks, and now as he stands under them, so many months later, they haunt him still.
"After..." Steve closes his eyes, scrubbing at the lids with his knuckles. He needs to shake the images from that dream. He has to. "Hey, Punkster?" Phil turns to look at Steve once more, a happy, if slightly confused, smile on his face. "You wanna head into town today? I wanna talk to the Owl."
Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:
AshJoivillette, pleb, Brokenspell77, littleone1389, and Shiki94.
I'm sorry... This is all I can say for this chapter... I've been fighting with it since I wrote February, and I've gotten it to where I'm okay with it, but I'm not... I don't know quite how to describe the process of writing this chapter... It wasn't fun, I think that's about all I can say, and not being fun defeats the purpose of writing doesn't it? But, it's finished now, and hopefully, it's okay! I seriously hope it's okay...
If you find something that's off, please let me know!
I'm stressing out over this, I swear, it's ridiculous how annoying I'm being over this chapter at poor defenseless people who have no idea what the hell I'm up to on my own whilst they're off celebrating in different cities... So, to spare the defenceless further rants on QQ, please review!