Blossom of the Powerpuff Girls sits in the back of the commuter plane, nose-deep in an eight-hundred-paged fantasy novel she's known from the first chapter she'll be two-starring. Her seatmate, a scrawny man who has played nu-metal through blaring headphones for the other passengers to hear and stole her complementary dry-roasted peanuts thinking she wouldn't notice (she does) and/or wouldn't care (she slightly does), digs his nails into the polyurethane of their shared armrest.
It's a downpour outside the tiny window to her left, making turbulence not the best, and complaints about nausea fill the compact cabin. The itsy-bitsy plane does feel like being on a bumblebee drowning, Blossom doesn't fault their reproach. Their pilot, Ted, has come on twice to apologize for their rough travels.
Turning another page, Blossom considers her sense of alarm. But what good is it to lose her composure? She trusts this teeny-weeny plane against the tempest. She trusts Ted.
Also, there's the slight morbid reality of knowing she's the only person on this flight who does fly.
But really, it's her trust. Seriously.
And she's proven right, when Ted gets them to a safe landing an hour later, wheels clattering against the runway. Those around her burst into applause, something Blossom didn't know happened outside of movies. The man beside her clutches a hand to his chest, glancing over at her for comfort, to establish this shared experience.
Blossom continues reading rather than giving Mr. Peanut-Stealer the attention he needs.
Deplaning is slow. Retrieving her Bric's Positano from the baggage carousel is slower. Windows are misted, sky a deep gray disguising as nightfall. An infant's cry fills Aureate's regional airport to overtake anything said by the crackling intercom. A couple buys matching overpriced ponchos. It reeks of dampened tarmac as taxis line the rain-soaked arrival curve.
Blossom, feeling ill-dressed for the weather in her linen sundress and what has to be the flimsiest sandals crafted by man, shifts her phone from airplane mode, collecting a bar and then two. She has four texts from Noelle, seven missed calls, and twenty-three work emails (of which, twenty-one are marked by the highest of importance!).
Rain never lights, plopping loudly into the pavement Blossom waits near. She's mid-writing her third email reply, only for a horn to blast in the parking lot. Others around her look curiously across the way, but Blossom doesn't have to look up to know. She remains in place, waiting. The black Honda Civic stays, wipers blinking furiously in this standoff.
With a light sigh, she's lifting her sage green suitcase from the ground, breaking into a cautious jog in spite of the slick wet. She reaches the car, cool interior light on and faintly making out the radio's femme rock as her sister rolls the window halfway down.
Buttercup of the Powerpuff Girls can be described as striking. Black hair that waves into a curl, olive skin, electric green eyes, these unruly eyebrows. She's all sharp angles, shoulders broad with a muscle-bound back, mayhem stacked into a five-four body. She was a junior champion in tennis, singles and doubles, with agility and ball awareness that's still talked about by pros a decade later. She's now an instructor of the scariest age range of rising stars, thirteen to eighteen. Never afraid of confrontation, she is also the best person to have your back; it'd taken Blossom plenty of years to realize this about her sister.
"How's it going?"
Blossom says, "I thought Bubbles was picking me up."
"Change of plans," she shrugs. "Nice to see you, too."
"And you rather not use the arrival lane—"
"Braking is a bitch, okay?" In her daily uniform of all-black athleisure, she shifts in her seat, popping the trunk open. "Aren't you wet enough? Get in already."
Blossom hesitates for a second, because whatever a license may say, Buttercup can not drive, and the thought of her in command of a vehicle in this weather makes Blossom's bumpy plane trip feel like a smooth kiddie ride.
But then, she realizes how dumb it must look for her to keep standing here in the worst possible dress for this storm.
Barely able to feel the water's chill against her cold skin, she tosses her too-expensive suitcase and leather duffel into the trunk's hodgepodge of tennis rackets and heels and milk crates of vinyls. She slides into the passenger seat, dress second-layer-of-skin soaked, quick to look in the mirror to fix scraggly bangs from her forehead and wipe away the mascara crawling down her cheeks. Buttercup's car has the permanent scent of freshly opened tennis ball canisters that's befriending the littoral drizzle on her, and there's a crumpled fast food bag by Blossom's pruning toes.
"My sandal broke," Blossom comments to no shock.
"Off to a bangin' start, I say." Buttercup terrifyingly peels out of the slippery parking lot, speeding towards the west, past canopies of Sitka spruce, to the fog of the coastal lowlands, to the dunes and the house.
The drive consists of Buttercup focusing on not hydroplaning on the sinuous roads, passing cars spraying up water, the greenish-gray of the downing sky meeting the coniferous forest. Blossom takes a break from those highly important emails to read Noelle's texts sent during her six-and-half-hour flight.
Noelle: Good Morning little miss snack that smiles back!
Noelle: lmk when you land!
Noelle: A man on the subway said I have beautiful ox-plowing shoulders. Time to move the fuck out of the city already?
Noelle: Blueberry salsa at Trader Moe's is on sale, btw!
Blossom chuckles as she types a simple reply.
Blossom: Landed.
Nearing the end of the ride, she can feel Buttercup's eyes on her.
"So… Bubs warned you about the dick-muncher you're about to walk into, right?"
Blossom's stomach is an airliner caught in a graveyard spiral, needing to correct itself back to the horizon soon. She'll only allow her body to pilot like that for a few seconds, that's all. There's no need. This week is about sunrise nature walks, sisterly shenanigans, chilled white wine and beach days, and, of course, the wedding. Because, "It's okay."
"Really." Buttercup huffs out a laugh. "Shit. I thought you would've freaked."
"It's okay," Blossom says again. Because it is, it is, it is. Phlegmatic, she adds, "What can I do?"
"I like that mentality, Leader Girl." She flicks on her blinker for the first time in thirty minutes. "Crimbug could learn from that."
Blossom does smile at the mention of her niece. "How is she?"
"Becoming bit of an egghead. Can't tell you about half of the things she talks about nowadays," Buttercup tells. "Don't know where she got that from."
"Her mom is pretty sharp."
Buttercup chuckles, making another right turn onto the glistening treescape road. "But teachers are saying she's got a mouth on her."
"Now I wonder where she got that."
"I know, I'm so proud," she says. "Even though she's at that age where I'm everything uncool." Buttercup then makes a face at Blossom when she should really be looking at the road. "Which is such bullshit. I'm the coolest mom at her PTA."
"I believe you."
"Thank you!" She turns into the uphill, stone-paved driveway, pressing on a small remote to open the compound's modern white-slatted gates. "Sydney Van fucking Hanson has nothing on me."
"That's the WASP mom who passed off Malph's cupcakes as her own, right?"
"Yes! That dumbass bitch! Anyone can make better red velvet than pussy-dry Malph's."
"Sydney Van Hanson apparently likes it dry."
"Not my kink."
"Not mine, either." Blossom gestures to her current sodden state. "Obviously."
That got a good, throaty laugh from Buttercup. "But yeah. Glad you're alright with it. I would've been so freaking pissed, but Bubs has her reasons, and this week should be all about—"
As their ride glides past the fastidious hedges and lawn, and into an open spot in the eight-car garage, they say in unison, "Bubbles."
Aureate, Oregon.
A bucolic town on the furthest spit of the state where the Pacific meets misty beaches, where skies are touched by the brushed tips of Douglas furs and dominant spruces. Where wild strawberries are fat and ruby-bright and juicy, freshwater lakes are crisp and green-blue and begging for another swim. Where air is cool even under a swollen sun. Where summer days stretch on like lifetimes.
Aureate is practically owned by the Morbucks. The story goes when they immigrated from Russia in the 1850s, they made a home out of an unincorporated Aureate, building a small cottage to host those involved in the maritime fur trade. Today, the Morbucks have built a billion-dollar empire on luxury hotels and venture capital, but the original Golden Berry Inn and Aureate will always be their humble beginning.
And Princess Morbucks is why Blossom and her sisters have come to know Aureate, thanks to her decades-spanning friendship with Buttercup and her extending invitation they've received for fifteen years, to her family's $60-million estate.
Sprawling with the grandeur of wealth to put the Kennedy compound to shame, it's three-stories of modern architecture, all sharp lines and big windows, vapidly white with a door to match. There's a theater, a heated indoor pool and sauna, indoor tennis court, staff quarters, a gambling room, a library brimming with first editions and rare prints. Outside, an eight-hole golf course equipped with three carts, a hard tennis court, stairs descending to the private beach, an apiary and wildflower garden.
Blossom hasn't been able to make the annual trip to Aureate these last few years. Employed as part of the in-house counsel for the Justice Institution of Super Species, there's always another budding hero to bind by a contract, another attorney-approved press release, another thin-veiled threat of litigation from a D-tier villain who failed to meet the Villainous Association and Henchery's health insurance qualifications. She's only able to get these ten days off because Blossom put in PTO a year prior, while still promising to be on-call for any national emergencies.
So it's a throwback for her, to stand in the Morbuck's all-white foyer, dripping the remnant rain onto the wood floor, the smell of past summers—linen sheets, Jasmine beeswax candles, the salty damp you can never dry out of northwestern homes—and staff already taking away her belongings to a room. To her room.
"I'mma go check on Crim," Buttercup tells her, and Blossom nods, watching her head towards the living and kitchen area of the first floor.
Blossom should follow Buttercup, or the staff, at least someone, rather than be stationary in this atmosphere. No one should see the soggy wreck of her in these drenched clothes, broken sandal, makeup smeared. It's not the impression she wants to give.
A shower. Blossom really needs a hot shower.
She makes quick strides toward one of the two elevators on property, jabbing at the button, glancing this way and that way, just in case. She really shouldn't be seen like this.
It's not how she wants—
"You're here!" A wind carried by a blur of baby blue and golden hair smacks Blossom before the elevator even moves an inch. Hands grab Blossom's cheeks, squealing, "Oh my god, you're here!"
Despite her own concerning appearance, Blossom smiles. How could she not?
"Yes. I'm here."
"Gosh, I've missed you so, so, so much!" Bubbles squeezes Blossom into her signature bone-crushing hug that has Blossom glad for the Chemical X in their veins. Her sister smells of vanilla orchids and caramel, and Blossom bends down a little to hug her back, eyes closing.
Bubbles of the Powerpuff Girls looks like the incarnation of sugar and sunshine. Bouncy curls and big blue eyes, just an inch taller than Buttercup, she's all the curves in the family. Her laugh infectious to the sourest of souls, and besides the potential to crack a rib, she gives the very best hugs. She's the sole sister to take the Professor's last name, for the public persona of Bubbles Utonium, starlet and frequent collaborator to the Justice Institution's film studio, the ever cleverly named, Justice Pictures. Her movies have been box office juggernauts; although they've taken a dip with the rinse-and-repeat plots of their latest phase.
"I've missed you, too," Blossom says into Bubbles' hair. She could feel the water diffusing into the cotton of Bubbles' blouse. "I'm sorry about… well, the wetness."
"I happen to like my hugs sopping wet."
Blossom laughs, pulling back a little to say something else, but then she spots it.
A small, black mirror points at her and Bubbles, hyper-focused on this saccharine moment between sisters. It's held by a stranger, some twenty-something-year-old with a blond mohawk and Megatron tattoo on his bicep. Next to him is another pale, lanky guy dressed in all black carrying a boom mic, hair dyed a Jolly Rancher blue, and a tiny blonde with an earpiece, holding a clipboard.
Blossom stares at them, so distracted that Bubbles completely untangles from her. The elation that welcomed Blossom and comes so naturally from her sister's spirit, dwindles for a moment.
"You're not supposed to look at the camera," Megatron blandly says.
Boom Guy laughs. "We should probably retake. Need a mic on her."
"Agreed." The blonde woman's black-out eyes land on Blossom. "Maybe explain why you rolled in like a dog after a bath, and—"
"Excuse me," Blossom interrupts, wondering when a tornado may have came through and swept her onto one of Bubbles' film sets in the blink of an eye. Her cold skin thaws with a kind of diurnal heat, radiating out towards her chest to her cheeks. "What is going on?"
"I thought I'd told you," Bubbles says.
"Wait. You didn't tell her? Is she even under contract? We need her under contract, Bubbles."
Bubbles nods, more to Blossom than the demanding blonde. "I did. Over the phone, when I'd told you Princess okayed us for the wedding here."
Blossom remembers it to be March 13th, to be exact. The day Bubbles had made Blossom her Maid of Honor.
We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you, Bubbles had said. Please say yes. I can not stress how much I can not do this without it being you.
Blossom had agreed, and then Bubbles told her who would be the Best Man.
I know it'll be crazy, but I think it's a good idea, she'd heard Bubbles say, breaking through the ten straight minutes of blood screaming in Blossom's ears after hearing that name.
Right, Blossom had muttered before making up an excuse to end the call, to not—
She's still not sure what.
Now, Blossom blinks at Bubbles, wishing she hadn't let such a popcorn convection neglect her sister, wishing these three strangers with a camera and mic weren't staring and invading on this embarrassing mistake. Bubbles sees this, graciously doesn't take it personally as some may, repeating to Blossom what she'd said on March 13th.
"Justice offered to pay for the wedding!" she says with a bright, sunny grin. "And they'd offer to capture it all on film. They want to do something special for JPC."
JPC is a small network channel the Institution acquired for film residuals and commercial revenue. It gets abysmal ratings. It does not produce new content. Ever.
She doesn't recall a memo about this, and Blossom is thorough about reading the email blasts of Major Glory's "Major Glory's Glorious Major News", a newsletter detailing, well, the glorious major news happening within the Institution. There's no way they would decidedly leave off something so minuscule as a… wedding special? Bubbles may be a top talent for the Institution, but they've never cared much for her personal affairs before. From what Blossom knows, Bubbles is only contractually obligated to never curse, due to popularity from the under thirteen and fifty-five plus crowds.
"That's… amazing," Blossom says, incredulous. "What an opportunity."
"I know." Bubbles still smiles. Blossom is worried she's going to pop a blood vessel.
"Now that we're caught up here," the blonde interjects again. "Can we get her under contract?"
"She already is," Bubbles answers before Blossom can say no. "She's a part of the Institution. Everything is okay."
The media clause. Blossom never thought she would apply to the Institution's non-negotiable permission to use all employees, past and present, in any media content.
"Perfect!" the blonde grins. "Then let's get another take in the can, ladies."
"Actually," Blossom says. "I was hoping I could go and freshen up, due to…" She gestures to her wetted body. "If that's alright?"
Blonde lady sighs exasperatedly as if Blossom is a conspiracist spewing on about the government controlling weather phenomena via satellites. There's something about her thunder-cloud eyes that Blossom can't get past, something that felt…
It's fog in the forest, her thoughts keep getting lost in the thickening vague of what it could be.
"Only agreeing because viewers don't want to see our supes looking like they should be in The Ring," she says, really tapping into Blossom's whole torrent of not wanting to be seen before this. "But the execs will ask for this scene. So you have an hour before we reshoot. Got it?"
Blossom exchanges a look with Bubbles, her sister's smile developing into something sheepish under the pressure. They'll have to talk about this later.
"I got it."
The heat-warning level shower and ylang-ylang bar soap do their best to have Blossom's mind lull into a state of serene—or at least, the closest her whirlwinding mind can get to serene.
Still.
This wedding special… If it was for the Valhallen or Angry Spore, it would be plausible, something for top roster spots at the Institution with less than favorable reputations needing to be humanized for the general pop to forget whatever it is they'd done recently to piss them off.
But that isn't Bubbles, it'll never be her. She's likable and far too pleasant and surely doesn't need America to think Well, now I see where she's coming from! She may be a thirty-two-year-old childless woman still landing roles, daring (gasp) to have it all, but people were getting better about "older" women in Hollywood not being shoved away for prettier, shinier, younger things.
So then, what elevation would this do to her career?
Blossom knows the Institution. She knows their values.
She knows what they lack.
It's all she's thinking about as Megatron and Boom Guy (she later learns their names are Taylor and Taylor) re-film her and Bubbles' reunion in four more takes. She's changed into jeans and a mauve halter, orange hair hastily blown out, clean-faced and glowing. Perfectly ready to be seen by maybe an audience of thousands, this intruding film crew, or anyone who may be simply walking by.
The dark-eyed blonde isn't there this time, but Blossom swears she can still feel her stare like the rainwater that'd plopped onto her skin. Blond Taylor says they need some footage of Bubbles with her fiancé, wanting them on the beach before they lose good lighting.
"We have to catch up," Bubbles promises with a slight pout. "Hoping this won't take too long."
"It's okay if not. We have a whole week."
Bubbles' smile is sunshiney, squeezing Blossom's hand. "We do."
She watches her sister walk out the door with Blond Taylor and Blue Taylor, then glances around and up the foyer's spiral staircase. Today's only the arrival of immediate family, minus the Professor who is in Beijing for a conference until Thursday. Tomorrow should expect Robin, childhood friends, and some of the Hollywood crowd, followed by a dinner to celebrate the upcoming week of nuptial jollying—Bubbles' invites used this exact description, not Blossom.
Blossom doesn't want to think too much of the exacts to the week, even though she thrives off of exacts.
Instead, this week should be a breeze. She's going to eat her body weight in marionberries, get a little sunburnt in a cute way, catch up and laugh with her sisters. Yes, there'll be a camera, and there may be dubious reasons for such, but it's for the wedding.
It'll be a breeze.
She can be a breeze.
Rain had stopped, leaving a cool, gray sky with hints of sunlight filling the home. The Morbucks' home is a swatch of creams in wallpaper and curtains and throw pillows. Abstract paintings devoid of color, acquired by seven-figures in private auctions, hang. European white oak floors. Vases of trilliums, daisies, asters on every solid surface. Contemporary-style furniture in shades of even more cream.
Phone in hand, Blossom looks up from an app's dot to the expansive main living room. Overlooking the formal lawn area and the bluff, there's a wall of sliding doors with a plump eight-seater sectional, woven modernist rug, and Montigo fireplace. Today, the space is soft on the eyes like wool, and on the Nim Dune coffee table, wireless headphones and a teal reusable water bottle sit. Blossom grins at the sight of her reading niece on the couch, wearing shorts and a Niall Horan t-shirt, and she's sprawled out on her stomach.
"Crim Crim, how's this one feeling?" It's a question Blossom has been asking her niece ever since Crim started reading on her own.
Crim looks up from her book to smile, rainbow ligatures of braces with a dust storm of freckles along her nose and cheeks, chocolate-brown bangs and aqua-bright eyes. She's the goalie on her youth soccer league, can play a mean lick on the electric guitar, and is the president of the Middle-Grade book club at her local Pokey Oaks library. She's just about the coolest eleven-year-old that will ever exist.
"Thinking it's going to tear me apart, but, like, in a way where I want it to tear me apart," she says, exuberant as always.
"Promising. I've been needing a Crim rec these days."
"Duh, Aunt Blossy." Crim goes back to her book, singing out, "I know what's best."
Blossom laughs, moving across the room to the open kitchen of a waterfall island and professional-grade appliances colored in (you guessed it) cream, needing a late lunch thanks to Limp Peanut. Maybe even a glass of wine as well.
Buttercup is already there, scrolling on her phone, cross-legged on top of the white-marble countertop. A jar of cloudy honey is accompanied by slices of a baguette, gruyere, granny smith slices.
Blossom can smell the crust of the baguette, the tart apples, still-burning jasmine candles and clean dish towels, but her brain searches for what it smelt on past summer mornings. Of browned butter and sugar, heat and spice.
Gingersnaps.
"What's up?" Buttercup asks, pulling Blossom back to the present. Her phone is face down now, and she smears bread with the American Royalty labeled honey.
"Oh, you know how it is." Blossom peeks into the island's wine cooler, grabbing the Pomerol region merlot. Daddy Morbucks, for all the not-so-nice things he can be, has never disappointed with his taste in reds. "You come to your sister's wedding. You're blindsided by a film crew. Typical stuff."
Buttercup wrinkles her nose as she does when irked. She keeps her voice low enough to avoid Crim's ears. "What the fuck, man."
"Right." Blossom pulls glasses from the ceiling rack, pouring one for herself and Buttercup.
"No, Blossom. I'm saying, what the fuck, I'd tried warning you? You'd said you knew?"
"You did not—" Blossom shuts her mouth, recalling the conversation during their inclement car ride. A palm massages at her temple. "You absolutely did."
Buttercup eyes her, inscrutable. Whatever it may be, she drops it a second later.
"Must have been one hell of an offer."
"Inconceivable one."
"That's what I'd said." She chews on the gruyere, adding, "Well, not exactly that. But like, those Justice fucks shelling out free money? On a wedding? " She swallows, narrowing her eyes. "They think we're halfwits."
Blossom hums at that as she swirls her glass, the sip tasting of cherries and black fruits. It doesn't take long to drain, pouring herself another.
"I didn't hear anything about it," Blossom comments. "But they tend not to include me in Bubbles' affairs. Conflict of interest, Major Glory likes to say."
"Of course he would."
"What would be the intention? Bubbles doesn't need good press."
"But… what if she does?" Buttercup considers.
Blossom raises a brow at that. Her next thought is a lightning strike at a metal pole. Of course. How predictable they can be, Blossom is a bit ashamed it took her two hours to put together.
"Could it be—"
Buttercup's eyes flare as she nods furiously. "Yes! Yes! Look who she's marrying. It's not going to look good for them, her marrying someone from VAH. It's—"
"An elaborate PR move," Blossom says as Buttercup continues with, "a goddamn ball-squeeze scheme."
There may need some clarification here: Blossom likes her job. Blossom has worked for the Justice Institution straight out of law school, hand-selected by Major Glory. She likes giving direction to new supes to abide. She likes doc review and always being busy with helping on a new case until there's another. She likes knowing she's giving her best to those powered like her.
But she's also aware the Justice Institution of Super Species is not only around for doomsday defense. It's a business first, it'll always be a business.
"Do you think she knows?"
"Of course. I don't think she would have entirely agreed, either."
"Crimbug," Buttercup calls out.
"Yeah?"
"Headphones on."
"What! Why?" Crim exasperated, perking up from the couch like a meerkat, bangs all in her wide eyes. "I'm not even listening!"
"Headphones," Buttercup repeated. "Now."
"This is so freaking lameo," she complains but she slid on the pair of noise-canceling headphones that'd been on the coffee table.
"They better be on," Buttercup checks, and Crim sighs loudly, pressing the button on the side, a tiny green active dot informing they no longer have a tween eavesdropper. "Right, so." Buttercup leans into Blossom, menacing dark, ready to crack down on anyone in her path. "If they'd threatened her, I'm going to shove that flag pole Glory loves to pledge by so far up his anal canal, he's gonna be shitting red, white and blue for months."
"Wow," Blossom grimaces. "I so wish I was the one with headphones on."
Buttercup throws her hands up in innocence as if she didn't just say such a repulse. "Hey, Eagle-jerk has it coming for him."
"Bubbles seems to trust them. Maybe it'll work in her best interest."
"It better, or I'll—"
"I got a good enough idea what you would do the first time."
Buttercup huffed out hot air. "One treasonous atrocity a day is a good limit, I guess."
"It is."
Blossom takes a baguette slice, gathering a dollop of honey on it. It's blooming with lavender, not overly sweet in the slightest bit, and maybe it's her empty stomach, or it's the second onto the third glass of wine, but it may be the best thing Blossom has tasted in a long, long time.
"Did you just fucking moan?" Buttercup guffaws.
Blossom blinks, face warming on top of the alcohol glow she's been sporting. "Did I?"
"I think you did." She laughs a bit harder, and Blossom joins her. "That good, huh?"
"One may say titillating."
"I forgot how much of a lightweight you are," Buttercup says. "It's good to see you loose like this."
Blossom tilts her head a little and eats another drenched slice. She does her best not to moan again. "Excuse me?"
She gestures vaguely. "All this bullshit that'll be going on. And then, you know, you'll be—"
"Like we'd said, this week is about Bubbles," Blossom says, a bit too quick. But this is her being a breeze, after all. "I can get over the reality trash for her."
"You'll probably be fine anyway. These things always play out the same."
"Speaking from experience?" Princess had been a cast member on the Real Gals of Metroville for three seasons; Buttercup had been known to make an appearance as a Gal's Gal.
She nods. "They'll typecast us."
"Sugar, spice, and everything nice." Her eyes roll a little at their beginning. "Already easy for them."
"They'll make Bubbles a ditzy, lovesick fool worth rooting for." Buttercup points at herself. "Come to me for snarky confessionals." She points at Blossom. "And you'll be the no-nonsense Maid of Honor." She crunches an apple slice with her teeth, continuing, "But hey, maybe you'll also get the ghost edit for not really giving them anything."
That's a kind way to put what Buttercup really meant to say.
"Isn't it maddening they can edit us into these caricatures?"
Buttercup shrugs half-heartedly. "But that's been our entire lives, hasn't it?"
The film crew left around eight, and Bubbles had been quick to suggest s'mores. Gathered around the gas-lit fire pit and outdoor couches, stars wash the sky, foam of light spreading above. Ocean rolls beyond the bluff, its salty mist pairing with confectioner's sugar and fiery warmth. Buttercup and Crim sit across from Blossom and Bubbles, all comfy in sleeper shorts and matching Aureate crewneck sweaters they traditionally wear on s'more nights. Metal skewers, dark chocolate bars, honey-grahams, artisanal marshmallows are plated and passed around. A soft blanket is thrown along Blossom and Bubbles' laps, while Crim rests her head against Buttercup's shoulder.
"Then a wave comes and just knocks Blond Taylor clean off his feet, and Blue Taylor dropped his boom mic into the water to help him," Bubbles tells.
"From a foot of water?" deadpans Crim.
Buttercup stabs a marshmallow with a skewer, bringing it to the fire. "Is that really how we're going to refer to them? Blond Taylor and Blue Taylor?"
Bubbles says, "Why not? It's identifiable."
"I like it," Crim adds. "Simple to remember."
"See!"
Buttercup jabs her marshmallowed-skewer towards Bubbles, eyes slanted. "Turning my own kid against me."
Crim giggles. "Was I even on your side?"
"Crimbug, you're going to be on my side no matter what. That's what we'd decided after I birthed you."
"I couldn't have agreed to that. I was just born."
"Crim Crim is making a valid argument."
"This is why no one likes lawyers, Blossom." Buttercup shakes her head, blowing on her freshly roasted skewer. "Princess chose a heck of a time not to be here while I'm getting three v'ed."
"Where is she, anyway?" Blossom thinks it's polite to ask.
"Won't be here until tomorrow." Buttercup presses the golden-burnt marshmallow between graham crackers, handing it to a delighted Crim. "She's coming up with Robin."
"Yeah, are we going to talk about that?" Bubbles has a baby-blue thermo cup of gin in one hand because she drinks like an old man, chocolate melting onto her fingertips in the other.
Blossom squints her eyes, the haziness of one and a half bottles of wine and a light lunch getting to her. "Talk about?"
Buttercup and Bubbles stare at one another for a moment, flames illuminating their mirth as a giggle escapes from Bubbles.
"We think they're…" Bubbles tips her gin at Buttercup before taking a sip.
Buttercup shields her face from Crim as she mouths, "fucking."
"I know what you're saying," comments Crim. She has a little crust of s'more at the corner of her mouth.
"Shush! You don't."
"Totally do!"
"Well. That's," Blossom mercifully tries to think of anything she could say, spectacularly failing to have anything to say. "That's a thing."
Bubbles chortles out, "A huge, huge thing!"
"They think we don't know." Buttercup eats a plain marshmallow from the bag. It's almost empty. "We definitely know."
"Terrible excuses."
"Princess keeps flying privately to San Fran as if she would ever want to be associated with those robot," she covers Crim's ears, "fuckers."
"I'm old enough to hear this!" Crim tries to dispute.
"No, you're not," they collectively say.
"Dang." She slumps her small shoulders with a nose wrinkle that's definitely from her mother. "Got three v'ed."
Buttercup rests her chin atop Crim's head. "Not fun, huh?"
"And, like also," Bubbles says in sudden, tipsy recollection, "Robin made a joke a couple weeks ago about us liking gingers when she's never dated a ginger before! Like? It's so, so, so obvious!"
"God, the joke I could make right now." Buttercup pats Crim's cheek affectionately. "But can't leave this lady out anymore."
"Good thing we have Crim to save us from that joke," Blossom says, sharing a wink with her niece, only to question if she did wink or just blinked real slow.
Crim tucks a hair away, replying in jest, "It wouldn't have been funny, anyway."
Buttercup exaggerates her offense, devotedly scratching away the chocolate-marshmallow crust at her daughter's mouth. "Crimbug, what did we just talk about? You're on my side!"
Crim simply shrugs with a smirk, lifting her hand to tap her mom's cheek in the same affection.
An hour later, the s'mores supplies are depleted, and Crim yawns, rubbing at her barely open eyes.
"Think we're gonna call it," Buttercup says, mum. Crim leans on her as they stand, near identical in height, practically sleepwalking into the house together.
Blossom and Bubbles lay on the couch, facing the other, feet tangled together, still sharing a blanket. Bubbles reaches for her hand, playing with Blossom's fingers. Starlight splashes in her eyes, the Pacific's waves quiet as the night dives deeper.
"My heart is so full," Bubbles says, her smile so tender. "It really is."
"I'm glad."
She giggles into a gin-induced hiccup. "Can I confess something?"
"Anything."
"I almost did it yesterday. Like really, really almost said screw it and, just, like, let's do it. Let's elope." She hiccups again, eyes shutting with her full-hearted bliss. "But you and the Professor weren't here, and Robin, too. Neither are his brothers."
Blossom's smile falters, swallowing at her dry throat. Hesitant, she asks, "They're not?"
She already came to the conclusion hours ago. She'd looked around enough and hadn't heard them from any corners of the compound. And perhaps its an innocent mistake, a forgotten element, or maybe as a tiny act of cruelty in the digital age, a past connection plowing away the sense of self control, but if Blossom were to open a certain app, she could still see where another's phone is located.
She could see it's still a state away, as of an hour ago.
"I think they're in San Fran for the night. Driving tomorrow or something."
Blossom almost asks, but she already knows too much. Any more would be a calamity.
"I see."
"Can you imagine?" There's a wistfulness to her tone. She peeks out at Blossom, eyes heavy-lidded. "If we did? Then… just a big party tomorrow?"
Blossom couldn't. Bubbles is that person who's thought about their wedding since they were old enough to comprehend. Pinterest boards and voice memos throughout the years, she's known what silverware, dining cloths, candles, signature cocktails, guest favors— heck , even the trash cans—before there was ever a groom to accept.
But also.
Marriage, to Blossom, sounds so scary. She still can't imagine wanting it sooner.
"I kind of," Bubbles is mumbling now, eyes closing again, "I kind of wish… you think… I…"
Blossom takes whatever blanket is on her, and tucks it around Bubbles. When a faint snore comes from her sister, Blossom smiles at her, watching as the fire dwindles from the ending of its timer.
It must have been around midnight when from behind her, came a, "Hey."
She turns, a distant hallway light silhouetting her future-brother-in-law.
Brick Jojo is five-five in height. That's about all you need to know about him.
Well.
That and he's the head accountant for the Villainous Association and Henchery.
"Hi."
He's in sweats and a worn tee with the Excel logo saying I'll Spread in Your Sheets (a gag gift from Buttercup during his first Christmas as a part of their family). Tawny hair is tousled as he looks down upon a slumbering Bubbles like a prince about to deliver a true love's kiss. "Woke up to her not in bed." He spares a glance at Blossom, typical high-altitude of judgment. "You're just sitting in the dark."
"Keeping my sister company."
"Right."
He appears to debate on what to do, wake Bubbles or go a night separated. Blossom can't stand the intimacy of it all, needing a vortex of disruption. So, she dares to ask him, "How are you feeling about the Institution being involved?"
"I'm getting married to your sister," he says plainly. "What else is there to care about?"
Somehow, that answer makes Blossom feel worse.
When does one ever get to the point where they know marriage is the only matter? When does it stop being this petrifying, crazy thing?
Does it ever stop?
"Hey," Brick whispers, too gentle for any occasion. His hand shakes Bubbles' shoulder, light as a snow flurry.
She mumbles, eyes blinking a little, arms pathetically held out for Brick's grasp, "Uppies."
He scoops her up, her head tucked into his chest, and he's going back into the house, taking slow steps. Blossom can tell years of long shoots and Hollywood events have let them perfect this routine.
He doesn't look back at Blossom, telling, "You should get to bed."
She should. She barely slept the night before, and all the wine will soon be pounding at her head.
But it's weird. To be here, and sleep it all away. To be up this late as the lone insomniac.
She should go to her room, but she wraps herself in the blanket Bubbles left, staying within the ocean's spray, watching the moon capsize and stars fizzingly away. Summers go by in her mind, and she's wondering again, only to crash into sleep by the first stream of morning light.
It's the afternoon when Blossom wakes. She's not sure who to thank for not disturbing her, not only for the astounding amount of sleep she got but with Princess and Robin's arrival, everyone went into town to film at the Golden Berry Inn without her.
On the third floor, the farthest room from the stairs is Blossom's room. It's filled with her interior choices made throughout a decade: Anthropologie furniture, natural woods and floral patterns, hand-tufted Cassia Rug, vintage armoire she found at a local estate sale. One summer, she and the others painted their bedrooms for the fun of it, hers being a crepe-pink.
Her suitcase had been unpacked by staff, and there's a stack of Sea Island Cotton towels, no dust to be thought of. But the room itself is largely a preservation. Her rose comforter with its burgundy stain at the bottom corner. Forum of Lilacs and Stringers' water-touched pages on a small bookshelf. A cardigan thrown across a velvet Glenlee chair, pink freshwater pearl earrings she'd left on the nightstand on a rapidly intensified year. Scent of fresh rosemary faint to the air, and taped to the wall opposite of the door are polaroids Bubbles had taken throughout the annual season.
Yesterday, she barely gave it a glance.
Today, she's pink streaks, feet barely on the ground as she changes into a red one-piece and gathers a tote of her things.
The rest is spent on the sea stack beach, taking weathered steps down to its honey-peach sand. A column of capstone sits fifty feet out, withstanding the wind and ocean's force. Tide is low, and she goes to this cove cut into the cliff. It's one of those days where the sun hides behind clouds, bringing along a slight wind. She finishes her fantasy novel (officially earning its two stars), considers going into the smokey-green water. Eats an artisan sandwich that'd been pre-made, lettuce and local turkey with apple cider mayo and brie cheese, all on soft ciabatta. Resists the neutroic urge to check on a dot's impending travel. She breathes in the salt of August, lets it rub at her lungs once more.
Then.
She's quick in her room again, slipping into an Oscar de la Renta. Fit and flared, stopping mid-calf, creamy satin is dyed from her straps and square neckline to petal down to her hips, mid-thigh, to the knees. Deep violets and lavender, orange-golds and yellow; it's a purple iris melting onto the fabric. Blossom tends to favor flats, largely to combat her five-ten height, but tonight, she wears lavender ankle-strap heels, giving her an extra four inches. Her hair is made into a half-do, with a cream bow, and her standard makeup routine of light mascara, concealer, blush, clear gloss, a good spritzing of perfume.
Downstairs, there's an hour until dinner but the compound is fuller than Blossom has seen in ages. Maybe ever.
It's all power players of the modern film industry: Steven Fabelman, Greta Barwig, Margot Bobbie, Mel Powell and Tom Speed, that British guy who plays Arachnid-Man and his on-screen/off-screen girlfriend that Blossom prefers as a model rather than an actress. In the study, Zac Aaron and Chris Oak are formalizing a deal to star in a buddy-action film together, making promises to call their agents as soon as the night is over.
Lifestyle expert Martha Ward tells anyone who'll listen that the wedding will have a full spread in her magazine next month. Princess and Buttercup are in the foyer, standing close in their private disparaging of guests. Crim is outside with the other preteens, playing a pretty heated game of UNO.
Sky blooms into honeysuckle shades of yellow and pink, the slight wind deciding to stick around. On the formal lawn, a long banquet table is circular around the entire garden, clothed in organic linen, crisp white dinnerware, metal woven chairs with thick cushions. An ethereal runner of taper candles and greenery and Spencer sweet peas of the Ethel Grace variety. Ornate chandeliers suspend from the trees, and it's the kind of opulence you have to ponder how it will be topped later in the week.
Dressed in all white, staff come and go with flutes of champagne, oyster shooters paired with uni, soba and caviar, tapenade with toasted crostini. Recognizing the rich, nutty and sweetness of Krug, Blossom is tentative with her sips. She's pleased the wine of last night had not lingered, and she does not want to risk it again so soon.
Out here, she listens to the ocean's constancy, notorious call of Killdeers, the live trio of a harpist and violinist and cellist's romantic strings, motions and chatter of those around her. Taking in the mixing fragrance of fresh-cut grass and brine, overpriced perfumes and aftershave, all the various foods and floral arrangements. She hasn't seen the film crew, hoping they've finished for the day, but Blossom does spot Florence Spellman, the original Miss Spell and the head of Justice Pictures Studio's marketing distribution, and Living Bullet in full costume, and playboy Clance Dwayne (the Rat Man), and Capital G—after surveying the entire lawn, Blossom can conclude nearly the Institution's primary lineup is here!
Huh. They hadn't been on Bubbles' registered guest list.
Blossom turns on her heel, hoping to check with her sister why, but someone calls her name before she can take a step.
And it's not just someone.
What is going on, she thinks as Blossom puts on a polite smile, standing face-to-face with Wellington Eagleton.
Wellington Eagleton is Major Glory's nephew, the only son of a geriatric Uncle Sam and his supremely-too-young John Deere model wife. Buckwheat hair, soil-brown eyes, thin lips and a snub nose, wide shoulders like a mountain range and deep tan skin, he was raised on a cattle ranch in Oklahoma, shearing sheep and raising livestock to be sold to red-blooded Americans. A late bloomer, it wasn't until his early twenties he displayed powers alike Major Glory. Since then, he's been taken under the wing of his blood relative, working the ranks of the Institution with the namesake Captain USA—his original alias came with a marvelous copyright suit from that one comic book company.
He is, also, Blossom's most recent ex.
"Blossom, hey." He goes for a hug, and Blossom allows it; albeit rather stiffly. He still smells like the worn leather of a saddle, a hint of chewing tobacco. "Long time no see."
"I agree."
They part, and he glances her over, eyes crinkling with a smile, then turns to the lawn and its people. "Your sister has put together somethin' special."
"She has a good eye."
"It sure shows."
Naturally, as you would when running into an ex you hadn't expected to float on into your sister's nuptial jollying, Blossom forgets about the risks and gulps down the rest of the champagne, her nostrils stinging, tasting the finishing impression of grapefruit on her tongue.
She hasn't spoken to Wellington in months, and even given that, Blossom didn't have much to say. He's sweet and mild, always has been. She can't blame him for his paternal relation, can't blame him for how they'd ended. It's all on her.
"How have you been? Heard you're close to leading the Midwest faction."
He chuckles, sun-spotted cheeks warming. The tip of his alligator boot kicks the ground a little. Blossom remembers how she used to think his aw, shucks shtick had been a breath of fresh air, the cutest thing a beefcake of a man could do.
"Think hearsay is a bit too high, but it's been good. Gotta make it all about the community and gainin' their trust."
Blossom smiles at that, sincere. "You're best at that."
"I'm closer to Ma, too. Can't go too long without a visit, or she'll have my head." He scratches at the day's stubble along his jawline. Blossom knows he's not comfortable in the charcoal suit jacket he wears, preferring flannels and t-shirts to formal wear. He's wearing the Eagleton bolo tie, red jasper smooth and brecciated. "But how are you doin'? Still at that big city lawyer junk?"
She lets out a light laugh. "Still at it, yes."
"Sweet."
His profile is shaded by the sun's withdrawal, the chandeliers' glow, and Blossom can tell he has more to say. A lot more.
But he doesn't, so she says, "Bubbles didn't tell me."
"Ah." He laughs, hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. "I figured. It was a bit of a wrangle. Uncle Glory didn't tell us until last Saturday, I think?" Wellington considers for a second. "Yeah, last Saturday. Then he's sendin' us out here. Big Justice stuff. Didn't know it'd be for a pretty swanky wedding, that's for sure."
Blossom blinks, incredulous. The cameras and the show's broadcast, the headliners of the Institution getting last-minute invitations to invade. All these aerosols gathering, waiting to form into something more.
What the absolute heck is going on?
"I'm guessin' he wanted us to protect y'all," Wellington decides to tell her because he has never been the best at discretion when it comes to her. "Never know what can happen with all these VAH possums around." Wellington puts up his hands innocently. "Not that you and your sisters can't take care of yourselves."
These VAH—
Blossom glances over the lawn that's growing a denser crowd as they approach dinner time, moving past the starstruck-inducing guests, and there they are.
Alek Alekseev, the Comrade Red. Von Hellen and his infamous black mask. Bertha the Barbarian. Gustavo Carvajal outside of his Doctor Diablo's suit. Even the Math Magician left his mathematical realm to be here. All of the Villainous Association and Henchery's main liners.
When did her sister's wedding turn into the colliding of heroes and villains?
What have Bubbles and Brick really agreed to?
"I'm sorry for offense. I didn't mean a thing by it," Wellington goes on. "It's just. You know, you and your sisters aren't really—"
Blossom isn't paying mind to Wellington, searching for Bubbles or, even at this point, Brick among this indecorous mix of people. "Will you excuse me?"
"Oh." Wellington frowns a little, dipping his chin as a nod. "Sure thing, Blossom."
She doesn't attempt to leave with pleasantries or promises of further speaking. Blossom needed to get the exacts of whatever's going on, blindly guiding herself through the fog the Institution has induced.
Can it only be a puff piece?
Blossom is reminded of dining starting in fifteen by staff, but she's moving through the crowd, sight flitting along these familiar faces. The film crew has returned, that blonde woman pleasured by the surge of A-listers and big-named heroes. Blossom stops in her tracks, taking a sharp breath, still wanting to speak to her sister for a better radar on things, but she's nowhere, neither is Buttercup, or Brick.
All she finds is Boomer standing on the perfect grass beneath a chandelier as Crim runs up to hug him with a good laugh.
If he's here—
Blossom tells herself it's okay. It'll be alright.
It'll be a breeze.
She's such a freaking breeze. She really is.
It'll go perfectly like this:
They'll get dinner over with, then it'll be nothing. Bubbles will corroborate what Blossom has already forecasted. This week goes by. There's no incident between the differing aligned guests. It's all normal as super can be. And then, there won't even be anything for them to talk about.
It'll be good.
She can keep it all in, she has absolutely mastered the life skill of repression and stoicism. She's handling the cameras at her best. She can deal with the heroic front crashing into a villainous one without a statement of emergency.
Except. All of this was then.
And now.
Now, it's become too unpredictable, this pattern and pressure that's moving in swift, bringing her spine-chilling temperature to the surface. She still didn't know how to exist in this ravaging climate that changed for them years ago. All it does is force Blossom to read the headline for what it is.
And the reality is, Blossom isn't a breeze.
These elements only lead her into becoming a superstorm. Too foreboding, too obtrusive, too destructive without meaning.
She can't stop it once it's begun. She can't let them see her like this. Not when a third of the attendants are co-workers and, technically, superiors. Not when VAH members could see it as an Institution's weakness to exploit. Not with those cameras pointing at her.
Not when she's making things about herself and not about Bubbles.
She needs to let it all dissipate. No one likes to have their days rained on, and she had prepped in case of doom, but no matter what shelter she takes or how long she's had this storm warning, Blossom isn't doing better as she thought she would.
She can't do it, she can't with all of them here, in perfect range to the land-wiping catastrophe summoning within her.
Blossom goes into the home, heels sharply clicking against the hardwood, shaking like leaves barely holding on in a violent gale. A moment. That's all she needs. Then she'll be okay, she swears.
She reaches for the stairs' railing, taking a step up, but there's a voice coming from the library that makes her pause, that makes it all go eerily silent, bringing forth the eye of a hurricane.
Moving through the cracked door into the library of floor-to-ceiling shelves and another Montigo fireplace and camelback sofas, the person's back is to her. They're towering in this room, in all things of life. A hand runs through unruly curls, and a riverrock voice says, "Yeah. That's—That's so doable. I can. I—" Turns around, evergreen eyes are irradiant against the unlit room.
Butch furrows his brows, mouth slacking, caught by surprise for a second. But he's good, easy to recover and go back to things like there's never been a drop of rain to have befallen onto his skin.
"I look forward to it. Thanks again."
Butch Jojo is—
Blossom still doesn't know what she can say about Butch, so she'll tell this: Butch Jojo has been her best friend since the age of seventeen.
They haven't spoken in four years.
"Blossom." The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Butch." She keeps staring at him. He's here, not just a dot states away on her phone in dumb curiosity and self-infliction. The blood in her ears is blasting again. "I, uh… I happened to be walking by," she gets out ever so awkwardly, as if this were their first real conversation again.
"Going the wrong way." He glances down at his watch, then gestures to the lawn she'd been on. "Dinner is about to start."
"Yes."
"If you're bailing, totally get it." He takes the steps towards her, slipping his phone into the pocket of his slacks. His light-blue linen shirt is fitted, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a button loose, a peek of dark chest hair. "Saw some of those Justice dweebs."
"I am one of those Justice dweebs."
"Right." He cocks his head, amusement in his glowing stare. The pink of her very own barely touching him. "How are things at JISS, anyway?"
She frowned at his taunting acronym. He cannot kick up the category of this cyclone in her any further, she cannot allow it.
"Good. Great."
"Cool."
"Yeah."
They stand, staring. She's almost to his height in these heels, and his eyes flick her up and down, so shameless and disregarding, Blossom takes it as an okay to study his changes between twenty-eight to thirty-two.
She finds he's mostly the same. Same defined angles and muscles, those protruding ears. Same thick, dark eyebrows reminding her of silken caterpillars. Same impossibly long fringe of lashes, same bent nose from Buttercup breaking it and not being properly set before the accelerated healing did its magic. Same head full of curls, too messy and loose for his own good, always a piece falling into his face. He even smelt the same.
But there's no slouch to him, his shoulders held square here, even amongst the horizon, and that blared too many alarms through Blossom. Her stomach is graveyard spiraling again, unable to get back on a resuscitative course. Ice-cold sweat collects on her forehead, the room noticeably dropping a couple degrees thanks to her stupid body and its stupid reaction. Butch doesn't even shiver, the cold having never bothered him before. Despite this, knowing this, her skin surely is splotching red all over as if instead enduring a triple-digit heat wave.
She doesn't want him to see her like this. She's done absolute everything in the last twenty-four hours to prevent him from seeing her as a cataclysmic mess like this. But she couldn't move. Thunderstruck, Blossom swears she may have pathetically forgotten how to.
An awkward beat goes on, and another. Then:
"You cut your hair," Butch says, supercool in tone.
"I did." She self-consciously touches the end of her hair, where it barely brushes her shoulders. Two years ago, she decided to go for the dramatic chop. She had gotten several compliments, but no one in her life comments about it anymore. Only strangers now.
"Nice."
"Thank you."
He juts his chin towards the door. "Not like you to be late."
"It isn't." She pauses, and against her betterment, attempts wryly, "Guess I'm the same with less hair."
He lets out something of a low laugh, something marked by pity or aggravated politeness. It makes another disaster out of her mind, knowing Butch only does this for strangers he accidentally bumps shopping carts with at Malph's.
"I'll see you around." He gives a parting smile, nothing surprising. It's all alright for him because he's Butch Jojo. He's the real breeze here.
Why can't Blossom be like that?
Natural like him, all clear skies and perfect temp. Able to make any scenario feel like sunshine, to blow past all these other things like the wind, to not think about—
Blossom reaches for his arm before he does leave her alone. Her touch is fleeing, the slight warmth of him in this chill she's released, but he stops as she asks softly, obsecrate, "Is this going to be okay?"
He's still smiling.
"Why wouldn't it?"
Next Chapter: The night Blossom turned seventeen was when it began.