He thinks he could get used to being a passenger princess.
Since Penguin's car was automatic, she could hold his hand the whole way without letting go. Her thumb rubbed lazy circles over his knuckles, over and over again, like she was trying to memorize the feel of them. Sometimes he'd shift his grip, sliding his thumb against the back of her hand instead, just to feel her skin warm under his touch. She swung their hands along to the music, completely unbothered by how loud it was — right at that perfect volume where it didn't drown everything out but still rattled the speakers.
Apparently, too much noise made her nervous while driving. Which made sense, Larry guessed. Not everyone could handle chaos the way he could.
Still, the nerves were very apparent when she kept missing the right turns. He had to steer her in the right direction more than once, because Travis's directions were garbage, and she kept trusting them like he knew what he was talking about. At one point, she groaned so loud it nearly cut through the music, slumping dramatically against her seat at a red light.
"You're never navigating again," she declared.
"Wasn't my fault," he shot back, watching her brows twitch as she gritted her teeth.
He thought it was funny. She did not.
They ended up spending an extra fifteen minutes just trying to find the damn diner. When they finally spotted it, she made this tiny little noise, something between a relieved sigh and a choked sob, like she would've actually cried if she wasn't trying to keep her sight clear for driving.
The second she pulled into the lot, they both slumped in their seats.
"Food…" she moaned, dropping her forehead onto the wheel.
He let out a low groan in agreement, stomach twisting like it had been personally victimized by the delay. The moment the car was in park, they practically scrambled out like two people who hadn't eaten in years, ready to obliterate whatever poor meal landed in front of them.
Those few seconds she spent digging for her wallet in the backseat were torture. He felt like his soul was leaving his body in search of food, floating off toward the diner without him. He was starving. The instant she slammed the car door shut, he buried his hand in the fabric of her hoodie and dragged her along behind him.
She let out a few startled noises in protest, but she didn't fight him much — just made a valiant effort to keep up, half-tripping as she clung onto his arm. The second they hit the stairs leading up to the entrance, she picked up the pace on her own, practically stumbling through the door with him.
Warmth hit them immediately, the smell of frying grease and something sweet lingering in the air. He barely had time to take it in before a voice rang out from the host stand.
"Welcome! Table for two?"
Larry, still mostly focused on food, opened his mouth to confirm, but Penguin beat him to it.
"Yes, please! Thank you," she said, voice smooth, polite, like they hadn't just been starving to death a second ago.
He blinked, barely keeping up as she flashed the hostess a small, perfectly normal smile. She might've looked like hell from the drive and the hunger — her hoodie wrinkled, a little paler than usual — but somehow, she had her shit together. Meanwhile, he was still five seconds from gnawing his own hand off.
…Ugh, don't think about that, not now. He's trying to keep his appetite.
They followed the hostess through the diner, sliding into their seats the second she gestured to their booth. Penguin all but melted into the vinyl, sighing as she settled in.
He leaned forward, eyeing her as she reached for the menu, eyeing her slightly sunken eyes and her paler-than-normal lips. "You good?"
She hummed, already scanning the laminated pages. "Yeah, my blood sugar's probably low, but it's not that bad yet, so."
Larry stared.
"What."
She looked up at him, blinking. "…What?"
"You—? What?" He waved vaguely at her, like that would somehow help him process. "You have low blood sugar?"
"Well, I mean, I think so?" she said slowly, picking at the edge of the menu as she skimmed it. "One time, I forgot to eat and then started doing yard work, and I got really dizzy and nauseous. I think I almost passed out, but I don't know if it counts. Mama had to shove a starburst in my mouth while she made me something to eat so I wouldn't have to go to the hospital and get an IV."
He stared again. She looked up at him.
They just stared at each other.
"I am learning so much about you today," he said finally. "Like, more than I have in all the time we've spent working together."
She let out a little snort, and before he could help it, he was already smiling.
"'M sorry," she laughed, reaching out to grab one of his hands. She started playing with his fingers, bending them slightly as she talked. "Maybe you can tell me a bit more about you, hm? Most of the time, we're either working on the project or sleeping, so we… haven't really gotten much time to share."
She was right. They hadn't really shared much about each other. That first week, they'd talked a lot — about music, games, their teacher's weird obsession with ducks — but once the project started, their time together had been mostly spent doing something. Between working and napping there wasn't much time for little things like this.
Before he could actually come up with something to share though, the waitress appeared beside their table.
"Hi, I'll be your server today. Are you guys ready to order, or do you need more time to look at the menu?" she recited with a smile, flipping open her notepad and looking them over.
Larry glanced up, shutting his menu with a nod. "Yeah, we're ready to order. I'll get the bacon cheeseburger, no tomatoes, and fries. And a medium coke."
She nodded, writing it down before she turned toward Penguin. "And for the lady?"
His brain paused for a second.
Yeah. She was a lady.
Not that it was a surprise or anything, but something about hearing it from someone else made it settle weirdly nice in his head. Like, yeah, she's a lady, and she's here with him, and if he said any of that out loud, he might actually have to walk straight into the lake and never come back.
As she recites her order to the waitress, he can't help but just… look at her. Take her in again. Take in the slope of her nose, all of her little moles scattered around her cheeks, her cheeks themselves, her pretty lips, the light in her eyes…
A lady.
A lovely lady.
His lovely lady.
The thought sends a rush of happiness down his spine to curl nicely in his empty stomach, filling him just a little. The idea of it, of her, settles so easily in his chest that it's almost ridiculous. Like it's something he's already known. A little seed planted and growing steadily, just waiting for the right moment to break through the surface.
It's stupid how much he wants that. Stupid how much he wants to call her his and have her call him hers. Wants to lean across the table and say something dumb, something way too soft, just to see her smile at him like that. Wants to know, really know, what it feels like to hold her without needing to justify it to himself. To kiss her.
To have her as more than just almost.
But for now, he'll take this. He'll take her hand idly playing with his fingers, the warmth of her across the table, the way her voice lifts at the end of her order like a little question. He'll take every little piece she gives him, and he'll hope — quietly, selfishly, hopefully — that someday he'll get all of her.
Someday.
Maybe when either one of them gets brave.
It's embarrassing to come back to himself from being lost in her and realize he's quite literally resting his chin on his hand, staring at her like some lovesick idiot — because yeah, that's exactly what he is, fucking sue him. And of course, because life loves to humble him, when he blinks back to reality, he meets the waitress's eyes and catches the amused little knowing look she's giving him.
Shit.
He swallows and straightens up, willing himself to act normal. But when he flicks his eyes back to Penguin, she's already looking at him. Like, watching him. Like, watching him watch her.
Double shit.
His whole body tenses, and it's like she feels the little spark too because they both immediately break eye contact. Their hands slip apart like they weren't even holding hands, like she hadn't been playing with his fingers, like he wasn't just thinking about her being his fucking lady.
The waitress lets out a tiny huff of laughter as she tucks her notepad back into her apron, and he finally notices the giddy sparkle in her eye. Like she's witnessing something straight out of a goddamn movie.
He clenches his jaw, dragging a hand down his face. 'Yeah, yeah, rub it in, lady.'
But under all that embarrassment, there's something else. A quiet little thrill that settles warm and low in his chest. Because if a total stranger can pick up on the way he looks at Penguin…
Then maybe, just maybe, she will too.
Not like he's subtle about it, anyway.
As the waitress retreats — probably to start giggling and gossiping with the kitchen — they're left alone. The diner isn't busy, and their side is practically empty, making it feel like it's just the two of them.
"So," he says, breaking the silence, hoping to move past the slight embarrassment still lingering in his chest. He meets her gaze. "You wanted me to share about myself?"
She lets out a small laugh, nodding as she leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Propping her chin on her hands, she curls her fingers against her soft cheeks. "Yeah. 'M starting to feel a little bad about how much I talk and how little I actually know about you. Besides, like… the basics."
"There's nothing to feel bad about. I like learnin' about you," he says immediately.
She blushes. Grins. Tries to hide both her face and her happiness from him. Cute.
"Uhm, let's see…" He taps his fingers against the table, one or two of his rings clacking against the worn formica as he thinks. What to share, what to share… "Well, you already know the basics. I love metal, and painting is my passion… Yknow I like playing video games, I think we've talked about the ones we like before, right?"
She bobs her head in a little nod, making a little noise as if to spur him on, so he continues.
"I, uh—" He scratches at the back of his neck before resting his elbow on the table again, trying really hard to ignore how focused she is on him. Like he's the most interesting thing in the damn world. It makes his stomach flip — he has to keep talking, or he might actually melt into the booth.
"I guess you might not know I'm kinda into comics?" he says, voice coming out a little awkward. He clears his throat and presses on. "Like, superhero shit, mostly. I used to read a ton when I was a kid, but I still keep up with some now."
Her fingers toy with the edge of a napkin, but her eyes don't leave him. "Superheroes?"
"Yeah," he says, pulling off one of his rings and dragging it against the tabletop in a slow circle. "Batman's my favorite. Dude's got the whole brooding, living-in-a-creepy-old-house thing going for him. Kinda respect it."
That gets a small, knowing smile out of her, and something about it makes his brain go static. Like she's cataloging this piece of him, tucking it somewhere safe. God.
Before he can spiral too much, the waitress sets their drinks down. Penguin is quick to thank her, tugging hers closer and taking a sip. It gives him exactly three seconds to breathe, three whole seconds where he can pretend his heart isn't tripping over itself, before she's looking at him like that again.
She swallows, then rests her chin in her hand like she hadn't just made his stomach do a full goddamn flip by just looking at him. "I haven't really read comics," she admits. "I've tried, but my eyes just kinda glaze over for some reason. I dunno if it's the way the pages are laid out or if I get distracted by the art, but I can't do it." She huffs a little laugh, like she's embarrassed by the fact. "I can read a whole novel in like a couple hours, though, if that says anything about me."
He snorts, tilting his head. "So, what, you can burn through an entire novel in a night, but comics are too much for you?"
She groans dramatically, rolling her eyes but grinning. "It's different! Books are just words — no distractions, no weird panel layouts, no speech bubbles fighting for my attention."
"So you like stories, just not ones with pictures?" He props his chin in his palm, watching as she squints at him, debating if he's making fun of her.
"I like pictures," she says slowly, pointing at him like she's warning him not to twist her words. "I just can't read with them."
He hums, running a thumb over the condensation on his glass. "What about movies, then?"
She perks up, nodding her head quickly as she chirps, "I like movies!" Then, almost immediately, she follows up, "What about you? What kinda movies do you— oh, thank you!"
She cuts herself off as the waitress returns, setting their plates down in front of them. Larry barely remembers to mumble out his own thanks before immediately picking up his burger, practically feeling his soul return to his body at the sight of actual food. Penguin, apparently feeling just as blessed by the meal in front of her, doesn't pick the conversation back up right away. Instead, she grabs her own food and lets out a pleased little sigh as she takes her first bite, looking downright blissful.
For a few minutes, all that exists is their food.
This was the best fucking bacon cheeseburger he'd ever had. Objectively, it probably wasn't anything special, just decent diner food, but right now? Right now, it was a masterpiece. It was everything he'd ever wanted. Maybe it was the hunger talking, maybe it was the way the grease and melted cheese mixed just right, maybe it was the fact that he was sharing a meal with her, but damn, it was great.
The only regret he had was that he finished it way too fast. He should've taken his time, savored every bite, but his stomach had made the executive decision to inhale it. At least he still had fries, and if he was still starving after that… well, they could always order more.
…Though she was the one with the money right now, so he should probably ask first.
Once the worst of his hunger was gone and his brain started working again, he leaned back in the booth, sipping his drink as he finally let himself exist outside of food.
Penguin, still picking at the last of her fries, was the first to break the silence. "So," she started, looking up at him with that same damn interested expression that had his heart on a leash. "Movies?"
He shrugged, tilting his cup back for another sip before setting it down with a small clink. "Yeah, I like movies," he said, playing it casual even as he felt another little rush of warmth from her interest. "Big fan of horror."
He caught the way her face twitched — just the smallest little wince, like she'd tasted something bitter.
That had him raising an eyebrow. "What, you don't like horror?"
Her eyes darted to the side before she let out a weak, awkward laugh. "Ah— uh. I've actually never… watched any?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Wait, seriously?"
She nodded, looking properly embarrassed now as she rubbed at the back of her neck. "Yeah. I just— look, I get paranoid super easy, okay? I don't need any more weird shadows in my peripheral or phantom noises when I'm trying to sleep at night, thank you."
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Damn, dude." He was going to tease her for it, really lay into the fact that she was missing out, but something about the way she admitted it made him pause.
Like, it wasn't just 'Oh, horror movies aren't my thing,' it was 'I don't want that in my head at all.' Like she actually worried about seeing something in the dark.
The thought settled weirdly in his chest. If she was scared of imaginary ghosts, what would she do if she knew about the real ones?
His fingers tapped against his cup, gaze flicking down to the table for a second. Yeah. That was a thought.
He's seen some shit, sure. The whole bologna thing, mostly. And Megan. He still checks in on her when he can, making sure she isn't lonely. Sal's talked to way more ghosts than he has, but that doesn't mean he hasn't seen things too. And it's not just ghosts, either. It's… all of it. The stuff they're digging into. The things lurking under Nockfell.
Penguin doesn't know any of that. She doesn't need to know any of that. Nobody but Sal, Todd, and Ash know what's really going on, and the more people involved, the worse it gets.
And he can't just casually drop that into conversation over burgers and fries.
So instead, he huffed, leaning back against the booth. "Alright, noted. No horror movies for you."
"Please," she laughed, popping her knuckles nervously. "Just thinking about them gets me twitchy. I can't imagine you telling me a movie is perfectly safe just for me to have a heart attack on the theater seats…"
"Oh, so you're thinking of me taking you to the movies?" He grinned as her eyes widened in horror.
A second later, her balled-up napkin smacked him in the chest. "Moving on!" she squeaked, cheeks burning as he chuckled.
"Damn, at least let me ask what movie we're seeing first—"
She cut him off with a dramatic groan, slumping against the table like he was personally torturing her. "Moving on," she repeated, shooting him a weak glare that only made him laugh harder. "I ah, I wanted to ask about music. Like, I know you like metal — most obvious thing about you — but did you discover it yourself? Did someone else show it to you? My mama and pa' were the ones who listened to rock all the time when I was little, so did you have something similar?"
"I got it from my dad," he said automatically, then hesitated.
For a split second, it felt wrong to say it so casually.
His dad wasn't exactly a normal topic of conversation. If he ever came up at all, it was in passing, a fact mentioned and then moved on from. The way his mom tensed at the mention of him, the way it used to make his stomach turn, how it still made something heavy settle in his chest even after all these years — none of that had ever lent itself to casual conversation.
And yet, right now, saying it didn't feel like a wound being poked.
Maybe it was because this wasn't about why he left or the way things kept falling apart after, this was just the simple fact that his dad liked metal, and now he did too. That was all.
He could say that without it meaning anything more. Without it having to hurt.
...It was a weird thought. He wasn't quite sure what to feel about it.
His fingers found his rings, twisting one absently as he tested the words again, quieter this time. "Yeah. I got it from him."
Penguin didn't say anything, only watched him.
He knew he'd told her before that it was just him and his mom. His dad had never come up. But the way she was looking at him now — gentle, patient, like she was just waiting to hear what he wanted to say at his own pace — wasn't what he expected. There was no pity in her eyes, no awkwardness like she didn't know what to do with the information. She wasn't jumping to apologize for bringing it up, wasn't saying 'Oh, I didn't know' or 'That must've been hard' or anything like that.
It was nice.
He exhaled, settling into it. "He used to take me to concerts," he started, voice low. "We'd stand in line to get in, his hand on my shoulder to keep me close. I was a curious kid, and if he wasn't holding onto me, I would've disappeared into the crowd following the most interesting person I saw." He huffed a quiet laugh. "I'm still very much a curious guy."
Penguin cracked a smile and, without a word, reached over to take his hand again. He let her. Having her play with his fingers, tracing the ridges of his rings and bending his knuckles, was grounding — soothing in a way that made it easier to keep talking.
"When the music started, he'd pick me up," he murmured. "Put me on his shoulders so I could see over the crowd. I must've been, like… five? Maybe six? Still small enough that he could do it without a problem."
His fingers twitched around Penguin's as the memories flooded back, so much clearer now that he'd let himself open the door to them.
The heat of bodies pressed together, the electric energy buzzing in the air. The bass so loud it rattled in his chest, like his heartbeat had fused with the music. The stage lights cutting through the dark, making it look like another world — one he got to be a part of just by being there.
He could still feel the way his dad's shoulders shook when he laughed, tipping his head back to shout, "You having fun, buddy?" over the music. The way Larry would yell back, "Yeah!" and throw his arms up, even though the crowd was loud enough that his dad probably wouldn't hear him.
And damn — damn, he'd loved it. He'd loved all of it.
"I felt like I was on top of the world up there," he admitted. "Like the whole show was happening just for me."
It was a stupid thing to get choked up over, but the lump was there in his throat all the same. He hadn't let himself think about this in years.
"Seems like you miss it," she murmured, voice as soft as her touch against his hand. She didn't specify what — the concerts or his dad — but he didn't mind the vagueness. It made it easier to answer.
"Yeah," he admitted, huffing out a quiet laugh and sniffing a little.
She winced like she'd physically hurt him, reaching for the napkin dispenser and sliding it toward him. "'M sorry… I didn't mean to, uh, make you cry."
He let out another breath of a laugh, shaking his head as he took a napkin and dabbed at his nose. "It's alright," he reassured her, then made a show of groaning as he slumped back against the booth. "God, look at you, making me cry at a diner."
"'M sorry!" she repeated, giggling now, and fuck he liked that sound.
He cracked a smile, scrunching the napkin in his hand as he pointed at her. "You owe me a milkshake."
She scoffs, rolling her eyes as she leans back in the booth. "You just want something sweet, and you know I'm the one paying."
"Damn right." He grins, balling up the napkin and tossing it onto his empty plate. "Come on, you were the one who made me cry."
She groans like she's truly suffering, but she's already turning to flag down the waitress. He just leans back, smug. When the waitress comes by, Penguin orders them each a milkshake — cookies and cream for her, chocolate for him. "And put it on her tab," Larry adds, jerking a thumb at her.
The waitress snorts, nodding as she walks off.
Penguin huffs at him, crossing her arms. "Just for that, I should order you something weird so you actually suffer."
"You wouldn't."
"I would."
He just shakes his head, smugness unfazed. "Too late. Order's in."
She grumbles about how unfair that is, but the amusement twitching at the corner of her mouth betrays her. He grins, stretching his arms behind his head as they settle into a comfortable quiet, waiting for their drinks.
And then — milkshakes, delivered.
Penguin hums in satisfaction as she drags hers closer, swirling the straw between her fingers before taking a sip. He does the same, the first hit of chocolate making him sigh.
Then, after a couple sips, curiosity gets the better of him. "What'd you get again? Cookies and cream?"
She nods, mouth still around her straw.
He glances at her drink, then back at her. "Mind if I—"
Before he can finish asking, she just slides her cup across the table toward him.
Larry blinks.
Her straw is still in the cup. She didn't even hesitate.
He stares at it for a second too long, his brain scrambling to process the situation. Because she just— what? That's her straw. That's, like, indirect kissing. Does she not— does she realize—?!
His fingers twitch on the table. His heart does something stupid. And before he can fully make a decision, she reaches over and grabs his drink, taking a casual sip like it's nothing.
He almost chokes on air.
She doesn't notice. Doesn't react. Just sips his damn milkshake like they've done this a million times before. And he— he's just sitting there, staring at the cup in front of him like it personally offended him, because now he has to make a choice.
Make it weird, or roll with it.
He swallows, flexing his fingers before finally reaching out. He grips the cup, steels himself, and — yeah, okay, fine — he takes a sip.
Does it taste any different than normal cookies and cream? No. Does his brain act like he's just done something monumental? Absolutely.
He sets the cup down, slowly, deliberately, before daring to glance back up at her.
She finally looks up from her drink — and pauses when she sees his face.
Her brows furrow. "…Was it that bad?"
He jolts, nearly knocking the milkshake over as he scrambles to school his expression. "What? No! I mean— yeah. I mean— no, your milkshake's fine, I was just—"
She tilts her head, waiting.
He flounders. "I was just— thinking!"
"…About?"
He panics. "Taxes."
Penguin squints at him, clearly not buying it, but after a beat, she just shakes her head and goes back to sipping his drink.
Larry, meanwhile, takes another slow sip of hers, trying very hard not to think about it too much.
Then she pulls away from his straw, licking her lips, and nearly gives him a second heart attack. Before he can even recover, she reaches over, sliding his drink back to him with one hand and making grabby hands with the other. "Swap."
He hands hers back without hesitation — relieved, for all of two seconds, before it actually registers.
She just drank from his.
His straw still glistens a little, and he is right back where he started.
Give him a break, man.