Everyone Needs a Little TLC (14 parts) COMPLETE - M/M

[starpollen]

I know most of you won't know who I am... it's been waaaayyyy too long since I've posted anything online...

For those of you who do remember me... I'm writing again!!!!!!!!! After over 3 years of dry writer's-block, I'm finally writing smutty smarm again!!

Yes. It IS smutty H/C smarm. But I like where it's going and I hope I can keep the Muse happy enough to let me finish it!

Hope you enjoy!

Part 1 is short. But I have more written!... Gonna drag this out nice and slow because it's been long enough that I want to savor this...

**********************************************************************************************************

PART 1

As a pharmacist, I’ve seen it all. Poison ivy, burns, chicken pox, diabetes, high cholesterol, pink-eye… And I’m a damned good pharmacist. Top of my class, graduated early, actively sought by several renowned hospitals in the city...

But I turned them all down in favor of a small CVS in my hometown. There are a couple of reasons for that, which I don’t think about while I’m at work.

Which is where I was: standing behind the counter watching one of the store clerks mop aisle 3. A two year-old with a stomach virus had hurled her cheerios and apple juice all over the white tiled floor, and now it was this hapless S.O.B’s job to clean it up.

I watched the man don gloves and a mask – clearly not wanting to catch the sinister bug himself – and begin to sop up the gore.

This particular young man was new; I was sure I would have noticed him before. He was blond: shaggy hair the color of wheat in sunshine that curled around the shells of his ears. Pale, muscled forearms covered with dark tattoos. As his arms worked the mop, the rippling of his skin as the flexor and extensor muscles clenched and relaxed made the tattoos undulate like soft swells of dark water. Wide shoulders tapered down to a trim waist, stonewashed jeans hanging low on his narrow hips. Through the standard-issue company polo, muscled shoulders waxed and waned as the mop was swept back and forth across the soupy floor.

“Dr. Cohen?”

I turned, seeing my assistant holding the phone receiver against her chest. “Yes, Marci?”

“Mrs. Abbot is on the phone again.”

I sighed. Mrs. Abbot was one of the regulars. Knocking on the door of 90, she was hard of hearing and so blind that she had difficulty reading the directions on her prescription bottles. Clearing my throat in anticipation of the shouting I would have to do to make her hear me through the scratchy phone line, I held out my hand for the receiver.

“This is Dr. Cohen.”

“What?...”

“MRS. ABBOT? THIS IS DR. COHEN. CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

“Is this the pharmacy?... I meant to call the pharmacy…”

“YES, MRS. ABBOT. THIS IS DR. COHEN AT THE PHARMACY.”

“It’s the pharmacy? Oh, good. I need to talk to Richard. Can you get Richard for me?”

“MRS. ABBOT, RICHARD… DR. WELLS DOESN’T WORK HERE ANYMORE. HE RETIRED LAST YEAR. I’M DR. COHEN.”

“Richard? You don’t sound like yourself…” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes as the quavering voice continued. “I can’t read what it says here… My blood pressure medicine. Is it two pills once a day, or one pill twice a day?”

“ONCE, MRS. ABBOT. YOU NEED TO TAKE THE WARFARIN ONLY ONCE. AT THE SAME TIME EVERY DAY. HAVE YOU-- HAVE YOU TAKEN IT ALREADY TODAY?”

Twenty minutes later, I was nearly hoarse and Mrs. Abbot was no closer to understanding her prescription.

I gave a deep sigh as I hung up the phone. “Marci,” I called over my shoulder. “I’m going to leave early – I’ll stop by Mrs. Abbot’s house on my way home. Check to see that her pill boxes are correctly filled. I’m going to print some large signs to post on her kitchen cabinet to help remind her…”

I turned toward the computer, rubbing my fingers into my aching eyes.

“That’s nice of you.”

I jerked my head up, startled by the soft voice that came from the other side of the counter.

The blond clerk stood there, one hand on the mop handle that ended in the neon yellow bucket, gloves and mask fisted in the other that hung casually at his side. His weight was resting on one leg, giving his frame a slouched, comfortable stance. His collar was open at the top, revealing a strong corded neck and what looked like a smooth chest. It could have been a shadow from the collar, but it looked like more dark tattoos swirled down from his collarbone to disappear under the fabric. His face wasn’t one someone would call ‘handsome’ – the jaw was a little too strong, chin jutting out almost in defiance, his brows a little too thick, forehead a little too wide.

But his eyes…

I had never seen such deep, piercingly blue eyes.

Dark sapphire, like deep sea waters after a fierce storm. The younger man was looking at me warily, the sharp intelligence in his gaze at odds with the rest of his ragged appearance. Those blue eyes started a warmth swirling deep in my gut. Eyes that seemed to see straight into the deepest parts of me.

“I’m sorry?...” I stuttered, mouth dry.


“That’s nice of you,” the blond repeated, his deep voice soft, almost hesitant. It was a little husky, as if it wasn’t used much. I noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, as if he were tensed to bolt. It reminded me of a rabbit I had seen in my back yard the other morning. “To go to her house.”

“You heard that?” I rubbed the back of my neck.

“The whole store heard that.”

I felt the heat rise in my face and slowly lowered my hand. “Mrs. Abbot is a nice lady,” I replied softly, unable to break away from that knowing, midnight gaze. Afraid to speak too loud or move too suddenly, as if the man would vanish like a puff of smoke in a sudden wind. “I just want to make sure she’s all right.”

The other man looked at me for a long moment, then nodded his head once before turning and rolling his mop and bucket away. His gait was smooth, loping, feline. His shorter, stocky frame moved so lightly, almost as if he were skating. And the way he had nodded his head… it seemed to me as if, in that brief moment, the blond had come to some kind of decision about me…

And it unsettled me that I had no idea what that decision was.

Edited August 16, 2015 by starpollen

[•.*°•☆. Q .☆•°*.•]

!!! I do remember you actually, you wrote that one REALLY GOOD story about that chef that one time, it's one of my favorites. I'm really excited to see where this is going, the way you write is so visceral. Welcome back!

[SterlingSilver]

STARPOLLEN?? YOU ARE BASICALLY ONE OF MY HEROES QWQ.. I'VE BEEN READING AND REREADING YOUR STUFF FOREVER~~! I'm sorry for fangirling all over the place, forgive me, but I seriously love your stuff. It's a huge honor and it's super exciting to see you posting again!! <3 Thank you so much for sharing this with us! *sits back with popcorn*

This particular young man was new; I was sure I would have noticed him before. He was blond: shaggy hair the color of wheat in sunshine that curled around the shells of his ears. Pale, muscled forearms covered with dark tattoos. As his arms worked the mop, the rippling of his skin as the flexor and extensor muscles clenched and relaxed made the tattoos undulate like soft swells of dark water. Wide shoulders tapered down to a trim waist, stonewashed jeans hanging low on his narrow hips. Through the standard-issue company polo, muscled shoulders waxed and waned as the mop was swept back and forth across the soupy floor.

OKAY YUM? You have always been absolutely incredible when it comes to descriptions. I never have any trouble picturing exactly what you write because you use detail so effectively. And this guy, well, hot damn <3

“That’s nice of you,” the blond repeated, his deep voice soft, almost hesitant. It was a little husky, as if it wasn’t used much. I noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, as if he were tensed to bolt. It reminded me of a rabbit I had seen in my back yard the other morning. “To go to her house.”

*sobs* He's so cute QWQ. You always create such amazingly vulnerable characters. Like, so tough, but also with just enough softness to feel like they need hugs or something. I adore it.

I already am excited to see where this goes next! The humor here is great, as is the pace >w<!

[meepsy]

omg omg omg omg ahhh jeez you are one of my fave writers here of all time and you have a new story and its m/m and I just i can't I cvgkfxgvlfvkbvgk!!!!!!!! *deep breath, deep breaths* ...

seriously though, you have no idea how exited I am about this already. The set-up is perf, the blond boy sounds absolutely delicious (tats omg heavy eyebrows ugh *fans self*) and I am already in love with Dr Cohen's POV voice and how adorably awkward he is. Oh my god, I will be stalking this story like a mad woman, I guarantee it!!!

Oh, and welcome back!!!!!!

[starpollen]

You guys!...

@ _Amy_ - That's one of my favorite stories too! I'm so glad you liked it!!

@ Blackscatter - Yay!! I'm so glad someone here remembers my stuff! I feel like it's been forever! I hope you like my poor blond bad boy.

@ meepsy - Hey girl! I'm so glad to see you again! I'm glad you like Dr. C - I started writing this story in 3rd person, but in the middle of Part 2 I just suddenly felt like he needed to tell the story himself.

Here's the next part. I hope you like it!...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PART 2

A couple of days later, I was in the allergy and cold medicine aisle, trying to explain to a young Mexican mother in my limited high school Spanish about dosing her 3 year-old. When I was almost convinced that she understood, I turned around and came face-to-face with Mop Boy again. No mop this time: instead an open box restocking the shelves.

The blond was crouched down by the open box, looking up at me through the strands of his sun-wheat hair.

“You speak Spanish.”

That soft, husky voice. Those blue, blue eyes. An unreadable expression that made me feel like I was being weighed and measured in some serious and meaningful way.

“I try,” I murmured.

He looked away then. Stood and smoothly lifted the still nearly-full box as if it weighed no more than a beach ball. I thought I saw a wince cross his features, so swiftly I could have imagined it.

He hefted it to his shoulder and loped away, unaware I was staring.

---

The pharmacy is very separate from the rest of the store. I know the managers, and am passingly familiar with a couple of the long-time clerks, but I didn’t know how many employees that part of the store had or their schedules. Consequently, I didn’t see the blond (Mop Boy, as I had come to call him in my head) for five more days.

Five days I spent distracted, unable to get the blond out of my mind. Something about the way he had stood that first day across the counter from me, deceptively casual yet tense and wary. Not afraid, but definitely uneasy. Those mesmerizing midnight eyes. The younger man had been a little shorter than me – but most men are.

I’m six-foot-four. Lean and trim, slender to the point of almost skinny. I work long hours and eat when I remember to, which isn’t often.

Today I had miraculously remembered to pack a turkey sandwich, which I was eating standing at the counter. This was against store policy, but it’s a small town and nobody really cares as long as the customers are taken care of.

Pushing my glasses back up onto my nose, I threw away the sandwich bag and ran fingers through my short dark hair. My family doesn’t practice our Jewish heritage, but I’d inherited the brown hair and eyes common to many of our people. Not the nose, thankfully. I am beyond grateful to my Swedish grandfather for that.

I was about to turn back to the computer to start filling the afternoon’s orders when I got a glimpse of blond hair halfway across the store, once again pushing the mop bucket down an aisle. Aisle 8. I thought it was the shampoo aisle, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

I think I mentioned that I am very good at my job. Four years of undergrad, three years in the pharmacy doctorate program, and just over six years at this CVS. I am only 31 years old, but my trained professional eyes watched the blond man as he slowly worked his way down Aisle 8 with his mop.

Something was off.

The blond’s shoulders were hunched, his movements slower and more deliberate than the last time he’d completed this specific task. His gait was awkward, almost clumsy. I cocked my head and watched with eagle-sharp intensity as the younger man worked his backwards way towards the pharmacy counter.

Three quarters of the way there, the blond stopped. His back tensed. He turned his face to the side, giving me a glimpse of his profile beneath the shaggy locks. Dusky lips parted, revealing a snarl of teeth. His pale fist came up, dark tattoos rippling as muscles clenched, hovering inches from his face.

“ehh-GZZDSSch! -u”

His whole body shivered into that wet, tight sneeze, shoulders hunching to bring his nose into that loosely cupped fist. The blond recovered quickly, giving a small shake of his head before bending over his mop once more, his shoulders hitching sharply as if he’d given a quick sniff that I couldn’t hear at this distance.

I knew that I should turn away, should go back to my work. Shouldn’t be blatantly staring as those tattooed arms worked a mop across the tiled floor. Shouldn’t be struggling to control my lungs as my breath began to come faster, heart beginning to thud.

As a pharmacist, I had seen thousands of people sneeze over the past thirteen years. But I’d always had a weakness for a certain kind of sneeze: male, tight, all-consuming, and wet.

This one had been perfect.

When he got to the end of the aisle, he didn’t turn. Didn’t give me even the briefest glimpse of his face. He set up the yellow “Wet Floor” triangle and rolled the bucket off towards the back storeroom.

I was in a daze, my mind in a permanent playback loop of the last 4 minutes. I didn’t even feel my fingers on the computer keys, barely registering the print outs and labels.

It’s a good thing I’m a damned good pharmacist. I can do my job in my sleep.

Two hours later, I had filled the last prescription, closed the last paper bag. Running a hand over my face, I huffed a ragged sigh.

“Ok, Marci. Time to close up shop.” Apparently my voice startled her, because I heard a plastic thud followed by her sharp curse. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” came her muffled reply from under the prep counter. “I dropped the Hydromet…”

Great. Sticky, syrupy liquid. On the floor. I hated walking around having the soles of my shoes stick to the tiles.

“I’ll go get the mop,” I sighed.

Stepping down out of the raised pharmacy booth, I headed for the EMPLOYEES ONLY door at the back of the store. I turned the handle, and flipped on the light switch. Shelves of stacked boxes, concrete walls, and the faint odor of bleach.

I found the mop hanging in the wall rack with the brooms, the bucket turned upside down over the floor drain. Cranking up the knee-high faucet, I flipped the bucket upright and added some floor cleaner, moving it under the rushing water and listening to the loud drumming as it filled.

Under the noise, I barely heard it. I was half convinced I didn’t even hear it at all.

A smothered cough.

I wasn't alone.

Leaving the bucket under its foaming waterfall, I peeked around one of the shelves and gazed down the long row to the back of the room. Nothing. I tip-toed around the next shelf, peering into the dim corners. Still nothing. I passed shelf after shelf, not seeing anyone there.

Turning back from the last row, I was nearly convinced I had imagined it. And I nearly missed him.

Until he gave another muffled cough.

Mop Boy was sitting almost under one of the shelves, curled among a pile of shipping blankets, half hidden behind a stack of boxes. I couldn’t really see him well; the only way I knew it was him was that I recognized the same faded jeans and dirty tennis shoes he had been wearing the previous two times I’d see him.

I bent down a few feet from him, resting my hands on my knees as I peered into the shadows. “Hey… are you okay?”

A short, tense silence.

“Fine.”

It was a short, hoarse bark that sounded like it scraped his throat to cross the distance between us. Unlike the soft, husky-buttered voice I’d heard the week before.

I squatted down, resting my rear on one ankle and laying my arm across my other knee. “You sure?” He gave what looked like a nod in the darkness. I blinked for a couple of seconds. “You’re on the floor in the stock room. Did... did you fall?”

It didn’t look like he fell. It looked like he had been sleeping there. Based on the state of his jeans, shoes, and hair… I wondered if it was the only place he had to sleep…

A long, ragged sigh. “No.” He shimmied out from his hidey hole, putting one pale hand on the concrete wall as he slowly got to his feet. “Just takin’ a break.”

I hadn’t noticed before, but he had a slight Southern drawl. Or maybe it was coming out simply because he sounded so incredibly tired.

“Okay,” I got to my feet, looking at his shoulder as he continued to face the wall away from me.

We stood there like that for a long minute.

Then, his body tensed, free hand coming up to his face. “heh!... MMptx! -shu.” His whole body shuddered – head to toe – with that pinched, constricted release.

“Bless you,” I breathed, going hot and cold and shuddery myself at the same time.

The blond gave another brisk shake of his head before glancing at me over his shoulder, the curtain of shaggy hair hiding his features. “Thanks.”

“You coming down with something?”

The shoulders straightened. “No,” followed by a small sniff I was pretty sure he hadn’t intended to make.

Yeah, right…

Suddenly, I heard the bucket behind me overflowing, water splashing onto the concrete floor. “Okay,” I half turned my body away from him, somehow unable to make my eyes break my gaze. “My turn to mop,” I explained of the sound behind me.

“Mh,” he grunted, still turned away. I had this inexplicable urge to grab him by the shoulders and turn him around. To make him look at me, make him face me with those hypnotic, jeweled eyes.

Instead, I closed my eyes and forced my feet to take me back around the corner and back to the bucket, cursing softly as I shut off the water and poured a good amount of the excess water down the floor drain. Grabbing the mop, I pushed it into the water, bending over to wring it out forcefully.

I nearly fell over when I straightened up to find him standing very close to me, his hand on the top of the mop handle.

“You want me to do that?”

He was looking down at the bucket, hair falling in his face so that from my significantly taller vantage point I still couldn’t see his eyes. My hand itched to cup his chin in my fingers and raise his cobalt gaze to mine, but instead I clenched it into a fist and swallowed hard.

“Nah, I got it.” I did allow myself to reach out and clasp a hand around his upper arm for the briefest of moments, feeling rock-hard muscles sheathed beneath firm skin and waffly polo fabric. I pulled away before he could react, but he was standing close enough that I heard the sharp intake of breath he made as I turned to roll the bucket away.

As I closed the stock room door, I thought I heard another muffled cough.

By the time I had hastily mopped up the spilled medicine and pushed the bucket back to its storage place, the mysterious blond was gone.

Edited July 23, 2015 by starpollen

[•.*°•☆. Q .☆•°*.•]

WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Hot mysterious gruff ambiguously southern blonde stubbornly denying head cold, i am SO HOOKED.

His back tensed. He turned his face to the side, giving me a glimpse of his profile beneath the shaggy locks. Dusky lips parted, revealing a snarl of teeth. His pale fist came up, dark tattoos rippling as muscles clenched, hovering inches from his face.

“ehh-GZZDSSch! -u”

His whole body shivered into that wet, tight sneeze, shoulders hunching to bring his nose into that loosely cupped fist. The blond recovered quickly, giving a small shake of his head before bending over his mop once more, his shoulders hitching sharply as if he’d given a quick sniff that I couldn’t hear at this distance.

i LOVE this description. The way you describe his body, I can practically see it. And hear it.

Stunning work, Starpollen, i'm so excited to see what happens next!!!!

[HPG]

I've admired you for such a long time, this is so exciting for me!

[Juto]

Uhm...wow! Sorry, I'm kinda new here and haven't heard of you before or read any of your other stories... Uhm... I will now!!!

This was great! You were right to drag this out! The tension and anticipation makes the inevitable get-together all the more sweeter and satisfying! I look foreward to more!

[Hovercuke]

This is fantastic! I love the description of each attractive bit of the blond boy, just... Hooked

[MoonDuck]

I feel like I've missed so much, if this is only the first of your stories I'm reading. I can picture everything really well, I love the way you describe everything. The first person POV is great. I like how he's all hidden away in the back of the store, it's all just like *flails* omg.

Deeefinitely looking forward to more

[SterlingSilver]

PART 2 ALREADY~? Ahhhh! <3 I ran over here as soon as I saw it pop up in my notifs xDD. As usual, you've got such a good pace. I love this slow introduction we're getting to sweet, precious mystery man here.

“ehh-GZZDSSch! -u”

GEEZ THIS SPELLING! It's so perfect. I really appreciate all the "z"s xDD. I can seriously hear exactly what this sounds like.

Mop Boy was sitting almost under one of the shelves, curled among a pile of shipping blankets, half hidden behind a stack of boxes. I couldn’t really see him well; the only way I knew it was him was that I recognized the same faded jeans and dirty tennis shoes he had been wearing the previous two times I’d see him.

Q___Q Oh, no, is he homeless?! *shot to the heart* Already I'm looking forward to some serious care-taking xDD This poor man needs it!

I hadn’t noticed before, but he had a slight Southern drawl. Or maybe it was coming out simply because he sounded so incredibly tired.

EEEEE~~!! Southern accent?! I'm even more hooked than I already was xDDD

Seriously, amazing work~! Totally enthralled by this. And cannot wait for more~! >w<

[Salamander]

Missed you too. Add me to the chorus who loved and missed your writing. I'm super excited to see where this is going.

[luckyleprechaun]

Gosh, as soon as you described his piercing blue eyes, this became a Destiel fic. Never mind that the guy's blonde!

(Excuse my fangirl brain)

[meepsy]

ohhh be still my heart!!! wow I can't believe how in love I am with both of these boys already (and I don't even know their names!) You are so good with physical descriptions -- I can picture D. Cohen perfectly in my head and it matches up with his personality so well! And omg the sneezes!!!! Ugh, god--- i could hear them and I could see him shuddering, and I love that D. Cohen's so fixiated on them. And then later when he found him on the floor-- *meeeelts* Such a good h/c set-up -- I am sitting on the edge of my seat! I thikn my fave line was the one about him wanting to cup the boys chin so he could look into his eyes... ahhh, le sigh!

I seriously CANNOT wait for more!!!

[starpollen]

@ _Amy_ = thank you! After being gone so long, I was so worried that this was going to suck or that nobody would be interested since I'm such an ancient (and forgotten) author. I'm so glad you are reading!

@ HarryPotterGeek = Aww! You're so sweet! Thank you! I hope you like this next part.

@ Juto07ab = I started writing for the community waaaaay back in the day (like, 1999 I think...) I don't know how many of my stories are still on here because of their age, but if you google my name (starpollen) and some key words (sneeze) you should find some more of my old stuff. Three of my personal favorite stories might still be on here - "First," "Pimient de la Vie" and "Two Sides of the Same Coin."

@ Flyingcukes = I didn't start out liking my blond boy. And he is fighting me, trying to be a pain-in-the-ass while also so needy... (Hopefully you'll see soon!...)

@ MoonWon'tStop = check out the other stories I mentioned to Juto07ab. If they are still here (it's been a while... I wouldn't be surprised if older stuff had to be deleted to make space on the server...) check them out and let me know if if you like them! (If they aren't here and you want to read them? let me know!)

@ Blackscatter = Aww love thank you!! I really hope you like this next bit! (I was thinking of your comments when I wrote it.)

@ Salamander = Hey!!! Long time no see!! How are you??? I'm so glad you're reading this piece of crack! lol

@ luckyleprechaun = Ok, I like me some SPN just as well as the next gal. But the pics on your sig?? So hot!!

@ meepsy = I'm so glad that you like both of them! Honestly, when I started writing I didn't like either of them very much. They are both so prickly in their own ways. But... I'm hoping the prickles turn into warm fuzzies... I honestly didn't think about the fact that it's been this long and I haven't named either character for you guys. (I actually name my characters before I even start a story, so they've had names in my head this whole time. But with the 1st person speaker, it just hasn't been developing in a way I could toss them in there...) Aaaand... it's gonna take a while to get to the REALLY good stuff... I'm just drawing this out slowly and painfully... because I can... (sorrynotsorry!...)



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PART 3

That night, I had the most wickedly erotic dream I had ever had in my entire life. And the starring character?...

You guessed it.

As a result, I woke up feeling like I hadn’t slept at all. A dull headache had taken up residence between my ears and a testy mood had taken up residence in my gut. My eyes felt gritty and my tongue felt like that one time in college when someone dared me to try preserved duck egg at a fancy Chinese restaurant and I spent the next two days scraping the greasy, fermented residue off my tongue.

I did something I usually never do: I made a strong pot of coffee.

I’m not normally a coffee guy. I usually stick to water, or sometimes lemonade. In winter, I might make a hot cup of tea to sit with by a roaring fire. But coffee is reserved for a very specific kind of day. A grumbling, gripey, growling kind of day.

A day like today.

The weather seemed to match my mood: it was overcast, chilly, and drizzling. I threw a scarf around my neck and plonked a crocheted beanie on my head. Wrapped inside my knee-length coat and clutching my silver thermos of mood-altering substance, I hunched down and glared at the world as I got in the car and drove to work.

Parking out back, I came in the employee entrance and walked through the store room. I slowed a little, peering through the shelves in case I caught a glimpse of blond hair or ratty sneakers. But I didn’t.

That just seemed to fuel my hate-fire even more.

The day didn’t get any better once I stepped behind the pharmacy counter at 8am. One of our supply trucks had turned over on the highway 400 miles away so we wouldn’t be getting our expected shipment for two more days. That meant I was going to have to deal with several frustrated and desperate customers who panicked at the thought of not having their medications. Lunchtime was spent on the phone with one of the insurance companies, arguing about why they suddenly stopped covering a basic, mundane – yet essential – prescription that several elderly patients in our town relied on to keep their failing bodies functioning one more day. By 4:00, I was snapping at Marci and hiding in the back corner by the Zoloft, cursing the fact that I was too honest and law-abiding a person to crack it open and take some.

“Um… Dr. Cohen?...” Marci timidly poked her head around the shelves, wincing as if already bracing herself for my wrath.

I sighed. “What.”

“Um… the, uh… the hospital just called. Mrs. Abbot was admitted this morning.”

I closed my eyes, feeling a dread weight dragging my shoulders down even further into slump.

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“Dr. Panjit said Mrs. Abbot mixed up her medications again. Her daughter is working on getting her into one of the nursing homes.”

I clenched my fist. “I organized all her pills the other day. I posted reminders for her… 72 pt font…”

“Dr. Co-- … Travin…” Marci said my first name softly, trying to break through my angst. “You did everything you could. It’s not your fault. She’s just too old to live alone anymore.”

I knew how fiercely the elderly lady valued her independence. She wouldn’t last six months in a home: it would just crush her spirit and she would waste away. They would all say she was just old, that she’d had a good life, that it was her time… And nobody would care.

Nobody but me.

But Marci was right. There wasn’t anything more I could do.

“I’m gonna step out for a minute. Get some air.” I pushed past her, heading for the back exit.

“Dr. Cohen, it’s raining.”

My only response was to snatch up my coat, shoving the EMPLOYEES ONLY door open so hard it slammed into the wall behind it. Good thing the store was always pretty empty on a nasty wet day like today.

This time I didn’t look around the store room for a shaggy blond head of hair. I didn’t even think about it. I just stalked outside, trying to walk off the frustration and anger the day had deposited into my tight, tired muscles like lactic acid after overexertion.

I found myself near the large dumpsters and I couldn’t help it – I lashed out and gave one a savage kick, accompanied by a dull roar of defeat that echoed in the empty parking lot.

“Whoa.”

And there he was, standing behind me near the green recycling dumpster. There was a pile of cardboard boxes under a tarp, a box cutter in his hand. No coat. He had obviously been out here for a while because his shirt was soaked, molded to his stocky frame. His wheat-gold hair had darkened to a brassy hue, plastered to his neck and wide forehead. The chill had given his skin an ivory cast, causing his indigo eyes to burn brightly, like gas flames. It made that strange warmth in my lower belly flare to life and flicker in sympathy.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, shoving my hands in my coat pockets. “It’s been a bad day.”

He cocked his head. “I see this.” His voice was a cracked whisper over the pattering of the rain on the metal and asphalt.

I squinted at him, trying to ignore the magnetic pull of those azure orbs to scrutinize his other features. His snow-white cheeks had two spots of scarlet painting his cheekbones. His eyes were red-rimmed, droopy, and tired-looking. His nose was a little pink, flaring incessantly with tiny constant sniffles.

“You shouldn’t be out in this rain with a cold,” I offered gently.

His shouldered squared as if to deny it, but – almost as if I had invoked it by naming it for what it was – his eyes began to flutter. Chin quivering as those dusky lips struggled not to part, he brought a fist up and buried his nose in the round center, wiggling the whole thing around in a way I had never seen before. Even from several feet away, I could hear the wet squelching sounds of liquid congestion.

Lowering his fist, he gave a sharp sigh, apparently having wrestled the tickle into submission.

“Do you have a coat?”

At that, those deep sea eyes iced over, jaw hardening. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, I just—“

The tickle he had avoided came back with a vengeance, his eyelids drifting down, eyebrows arching sky high as his chin dropped and his pink-rimmed nostrils flared round and wide.

“ehH??... ZZGSDschh –uu!”

The huge, wrenching sneeze snapped him forward, fist coming up to press against his nose and mouth as his other hand shot out to brace himself against the metal wall of the recycling bin.

“Bless you…” I breathed, blatantly staring as the blond gave a few throaty coughs.

“Thagks…” he croaked, head down, slowly wiping his streaming nose across the back of his hand.

“Here,” I stepped forward, daring to wrap an arm around his soaked shoulders. “Let’s get you inside.” He resisted me for all of about three seconds, finally submitting when another shivery, wracking sneeze shuddered through him from head to toe. I felt it, the shock of heat that went through me nearly causing us both to stumble. In the aftermath, he kept his head down, fist pressed urgently to his face, and let me guide him gently but insistently back into the store room. “Lucky for you, I know where we can get some tissues.”

Once inside, I maneuvered him back to the blanketed corner where I had found him previously, snatching a box of tissues from the stock shelves. (Apparently I wasn’t too honest for this – I made myself a mental note to pay for them before I left work.) I ripped off the plastic, popped out the perforated cardboard top, and pulled out a short stack of white squares.

“Here,” I lifted his free hand by the wrist and pushed the tissues into his lax palm.

He ducked his head and turned away from me, clearly trying not to make noise and failing as he blew out what sounded to be a nosefull-and-a-half of congestion. The way his shoulders hunched, I wondered if he was blushing.

“I’m Travin, by the way,” I said, trying to peer around his shoulder to catch his gaze.

“…b-… Bayle.”

The hoarse whisper was so faint I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

“Bayle?” I repeated. He nodded vaguely, suddenly twitching with a barely-suppressed full-body shiver. “Ok. Bayle. Stay here,” I commanded, heading off down the stock room aisles. It took a few minutes, but eventually I found what I was looking for. “Here,” I held out a couple of beach towels from our out-of-season section. “Dry off a little and I’ll find you another shirt.”

He took them with another one of those strange fist-rubs to his increasingly-reddening nose.

After some more rummaging in boxes, I did even better than just a shirt – I found a soft grey sweatshirt, a pair of flannel pajama pants, and a thick pair of socks. Even though I was pretty sure he was a Medium, I figured the Large sizes would be more comfortable.

Coming back around the corner, I stopped and grimaced at the sight of him. He had wrapped one of the beach towels around his shoulders, clutching it with a fist at his chest that also held the other towel, one end dragging the ground. The other hand held a fist full of tissues, hovering expectantly in front of his face. His eyes were mere cerulean slits, his poor nose twitching and torqueing through various contorted expressions, chest hitching ominously.

“ih!-Ih!-Ih!...-... igk-ZZDSsscHh –!”

A waist-bending, wet sneeze, face thrust down into the nest of tissues.

“Damn,” I breathed – stunned – struggling not to shiver as the gorgeous sound washed over my eardrums, eyes closing for a brief moment in pleasure.

Perfect.

Giving myself a rough shake, I held out the clothes, clearing my throat and praying I could sound normal through the heat of desire that sent fiery crackles of electricity through my blood. “Here, I f-.. found something dry for you to put on.”

He used the damp tissues to pinch-wipe his nose roughly, sending it one shade closer to red than pink, and gave a liquid sniff.

“I don’t--” he started, breaking off to give another couple of harsh coughs into that familiar fist.

“Don’t argue, ok?” I snapped, my foul temper flaring back to life.

He ducked his head, took one step back, and almost… cringed. It made me stop and blink for a second, tilting my head to study him as he slowly pulled the towel from around his shoulders, carefully draping it and the second unused one over a shelf to keep them off the floor.

I was about to turn away to give him privacy to strip, but was glad I didn’t when Bayle’s pale arms crossed, fingers curling around the bottom of his drenched polo and peeling it off over his head.

He was beautiful.

Skin the color of pale cream, slashed by an intricate weaving of dark tattoos that started at his collarbones and laced their way over his shoulders and down his arms and chest, all the way to his wrists and waist, disappearing into his jeans. Tribal designs, abstract. Harsh and delicate. Brutal and beautiful.

I thought they captured him perfectly.

But then, as he twisted his upper body to lay the wet polo across an empty shelf, I couldn’t stop the sharp gasp of air I sucked all the way down to my gut.

Scars.

All over his back. Some so old they were just faint bright lines on the surface of the creamy/inky mosaic, others a rainbow of pink from seashell to coral. And one angry red slash just at the base of his scapula, barely crusted over by a thin scab.

As he stretched to spread out the wet polo to dry, the gash pulled open.

I stepped toward him, picking up the unused beach towel and gently pressing it against his back.

But the movement must have been too sudden for him, because he flinched violently and shimmied away from my hands, eyes snapping to my face, expression guarded and wary.

“You’re bleeding,” I explained, holding out the portion of the towel in my palm that had the bright spot of blood on it.

Shutters slammed down behind his eyes so fast I was the one that flinched.

“I’m fine,” he growled, jerking the sweatshirt on with such force I was surprised it didn’t tear.

“Sorry…” I held up my hands in surrender, eyebrows raising in surprise.

He was scowling, the damp brassy curtain of his hair not quite hiding the flush that was creeping up his neck. “You should mind your own business.”

“I didn’t say--”

But his damp head slowly tilted back, silencing me. His mouth hung open, eyes squeezing shut so tight that crinkles formed at the edges. His shaking hands slowly began to rise, little stuttering gasps making his shoulders do tiny jumping jacks as he built towards the massive sneeze.

I swiped several tissues from the box, not even thinking as I crossed the distance between us.

“h-h-h--H!!-- …. …. H-ZZDXSCchh –!”

“Bless you,” I panted as I stared, vision pulsing like speakers at a club as my blood pounded through every cell in my body.

His pale hand pushed the thick hair back from his face, his pinkened nostrils flaring wide as he gave several deeply liquid sniffs, pointedly ignoring the tissues I held out. Those mesmerizing blue eyes looked a little shiny, the wrenching sneeze causing them to water.

Suddenly, he seemed to remember that I was there. He jerked, whipping his face up to gaze into mine. Whatever he saw there seemed to anger … and frighten… him.

His mouth twisted into a snarl even as his eyes widened in panic.

“J-just leave me alone!” He pushed past me, practically running out of the store room and back into the rain.

“Dammit!...” I took time to grab the towels, preparing to haul his sorry ass back inside… after I knocked some sense into that shaggy blond head…

But the parking lot was empty.

“Bayle!” I called over the increasing rain, jogging around the building to search for the strange, stubborn bastard. “Bayyy-le!...”

But it was no use. He was gone.

Edited August 16, 2015 by starpollen

[•.*°•☆. Q .☆•°*.•]

oh my god i'm so into this. I need to know what happened to him. I hope dr cohen gets to rescue him and he lets his guard down. also i looooooooooveeeeeeed your descriptions of his nose and also of the way his shoulders shook oh my god i'm dyin'

[truth]

At the beginning of part three I started silently facepalming myself. Somehow I forgot the title as tagged m/m and I had Dr. Cohen as a woman in my head until them. But that's not saying I don't like him as a man... hehe. Also dear darling lovely Bayle please come back so we can hear your misery.

[meepsy]

Oh my god, this is everything I've ever wanted in a sneeze fic. Perfect blend of smart character building and h/c lovliness. Can I just tell you again that I love Dr. Cohen (oh, wait, uh - Travin's) personality? Like how he's knid of a prude and so whiny about being in a bad mood? I love it -- he feels like such a real person. The kind of person I would probably want to smack in the back of the head for being such a dweeb, but still endearing nonetheless <3 And Bayle --- auugh! The rain, and the resistant sniffling and the sneezes and the defiance! What is his deal? What is going on??? I have to knooooow!

h/c that takes place in a sort of public place like a store has this weird sort of intrigue for me. I loved the towels and the pj's so much! But then he went out into the rain and my feels???!!! Baaaayle come baaaack! (<-- that is me imitating Travin!)

In short this is great and the best and I love that even more h/c seems to be poised on the horizon!!! So so pumped you don't even know!!!!

[luckyleprechaun]

“ih!-Ih!-Ih!...-... igk-ZZDSsscHh –!”

A waist-bending, wet sneeze, face thrust down into the nest of tissues.

“Damn,” I breathed – stunned – struggling not to shiver as the gorgeous sound washed over my eardrums, eyes closing for a brief moment in pleasure.

Perfect.

HE'S ONE OF US.

DR. TRAVIN COHEN IS ONE OF US.

ONLY EXPLANATION IN MY MIND.

Best part yet! I love your drawn-out, detailed descriptions… they're perfect!

[HPG]

Have I ever told you all how much I love the rain? Both in real life and stories - it's awesome, and this part was great.

[Arty]

O.o

Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!!!

OMFG!!!!!! HEGEGEGHT GGHRFGFFGA!!!!!! *DIES OF THIS AWESOME FIC!*

[starpollen]

Short part here - no sneezing, just plot development. But the next part is almost done and it's total H/C CHEESE!! lol

@ _Amy_ - I'm kind of obsessed with noses. My dream is to write them the way Liberty Belle used to. She was amazing at nose/nostril descriptions! And characters. (sigh... I miss Liberty Belle!...)

@ truth - I'm sorry!... I honestly probably could have started this story with Dr. Cohen as a woman, but when you see where it's going I think you'll understand why it's better that he's a man...

@ luckyleprechaun - Yup. And if I can get the story to the chapter I'm dying to write, it'll be even more obvious!... (heh heh)

@ meepsy - Yes, MUCH more H/C coming in future bits... because I'm being self-indulgent and writing what I'm most in the mood for. I've got a couple other plot bunnies hopping around in my head for some more straight-forward allergy SF fics, but this one is shaping up to be really smarmy. (But hopefully not unrealistic or unbelievable.)

@ HarryPotterGeek - I love the rain too! I feel like rainy weather or snow and colds just seem to go so perfectly together.

@ ArtyGirl22 - I hope you like these next parts!... (Be patient through this one. I know it's plotty...)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PART 4:

I had gone back into the store intending to seek out Bayle’s manager and find out what the hell was going on with the kid. But she had left; the assistant manager was going to close up the store. And he never knew anything useful about anything. To put the cherry on top of it all, Marci had to leave to pick up her sick kid from school, so I had to finish up the day's orders by myself. Which was when all the weirdos and high-maintenance patients came out of the woodwork.

I was so done with this day.

By the time I got home, it was storming. Lightning and thunder, pounding rain coming down in sheets.

I built a fire and made a huge mug of steaming hot tea, generously spiking it with whiskey. Sitting in my chair, the flannel throw over my legs, sipping the warm and spicy beverage… I watched the trees outside take a beating in the fierce wind. Normally I loved storms, loved rain and the rolling of thunder.

Tonight, it worried me. I wondered where he was.

Bayle.

I’d never heard that name before. Then again, most people hadn’t heard mine before, either. Travin Levi Cohen. Supposedly I was named for some distant relative.

The phone rang. I checked the caller ID and sighed – It was my Aunt Grace. Apparently just thinking about family made it appear. She had raised my sister and I since our parents died in a car crash when I was 9. My sister lived in New York City – she didn’t come home to visit and we didn’t hear from her often, obviously not wanting to admit she came from our humble roots.

“Hi, Aunt Grace,” I answered, forcing my voice not to sound as tired and cranky as I felt. She had a tendency to worry unnecessarily. And the last thing I wanted was her deciding to come over in this storm ‘just to check on’ me.

“Hi Trav,” she chirped. Aunt Grace was tiny, like a little brown bird, with thick glasses that made her dark eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, there’s a storm outside.”

As if I didn’t know. “Yes I can see that. I'm fine. I’m inside. The roof isn’t leaking. I have milk and bread. The power hasn’t gone out.” I could have gone on listing things that were fine, but I stopped because those are all things she would suddenly begin to worry about. “It’s just water.”

“Well I just wanted to check on you. The weatherman says this storm is going to last until morning and then it’s going to turn to sleet. Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“Yes, Aunt Grace,” I took a quiet sip of tea, deliberately trying to keep her from hearing it. (As if she could detect the whiskey through the phone…) “It’s Thursday. I work Monday to Thursday, 8am to 6pm. Then I get a nice long weekend.” I couldn’t wait.

I had told her this a million times. But she had a reputation in the family as ‘Spacey Gracey:’ she never could remember anything.

“Okay,” she sounded upset, but there was no point in explaining to her that I couldn’t stay home from work for weather.

There were only 2 full-time pharmacists at our CVS: me and Dr. Gupta.

Dr. Gupta worked evenings (6:00 to 9:00) and weekends, Friday to Sunday. (Sundays were short days, noon to 8:00.) She had been working there a lot longer than I had so she got to have the better schedule. Most customers came in on my shift, so I had to deal with the people. She mostly filled prescriptions and stocked the shelves. When one of us called out, the other one had to fill in. And Dr. Gupta had kids, so it wasn’t easy for her to have to cover one of my shifts.

“Well if you need anything, call me and I’ll come over.”

I wasn’t about to tell Aunt Grace that I wouldn’t be calling her to drive out in this storm no matter what happened. So I lied.

“Okay, I will.”

“Okay, honey. Goodnight. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Goodnight.” I knew she would. Mother hen didn’t even begin to cover it.

After two more mugs of hot, sweet, spiked tea, I drifted off to sleep in the chair, dreaming about yellow mop buckets, sapphire blue eyes, and creamy tattooed forearms.

The next morning I was a little lethargic, but I actually felt better than the previous morning. No testy mood, not even really a headache. Just a heaviness in my limbs that comes after a just a tiny bit too much whiskey-tea the night before.

Instead of a thermos of coffee, I had a large icy water bottle and a banana. Potassium always helps. Aunt Grace called as I was brushing my teeth, and – having confirmed that I had, indeed, survived the storm – informed me that she was driving to several friends’ houses that day to ‘check on them.’ I swear, I’m gonna get her a bright pink T-shirt that says ‘I’m just checking on you.’

Marci was in a pretty good mood, her kid having recovered overnight, and the sleet that had started around 7am and was predicted to continue until well into the afternoon would guarantee that very few people would be coming in the store.

I had noticed as I passed through the stock room that Bayle’s work polo was still draped over the empty shelf, the beach towels still in a heap on the floor where I had tossed them after running after him into the rain. I didn’t move them. I squared my shoulders and went behind my counter, determined not to think of him at all.

I failed.

I replayed our encounter in the stock room over and over in my head, to the point where the scenario took on a life of its own and I started imagining what may have happened if he hadn’t bolted. If he had stood there and continued to peel off wet clothing to expose more of that deliciously creamy skin…

And I wondered how far down those tattoos actually went…

It got so obsessive that when I happened to see the store manager Cindy near the pharmacy, I waved her over.

“Hey,” I tried for casual. “Do… do we have a new guy working here?...”

“You mean Bayle?” she answered, rubbing one of her dark arms. Cindy was one of those small town women who tanned year-round and bleached her hair blonde, despite the sun spots and dark wrinkles all over her baked skin.

“Yeah… Bayle…” I made the name sound unfamiliar on my tongue, leaning my arms on the tall counter. “Is he from around here?” It was a small town. Everybody knew pretty much everybody else.

“Hm, I don’t think so,” she answered, straightening the bottles of vitamins on the display in front of her: Cindy never could be idle. “The address he gave on his application is a couple of blocks away from my house. One of those old A-frames that looks like a stiff wind would blow it over. I never see him around there, but there’s this red-headed woman who is always sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette.”

“Ah,” I answered, having seen that picture around our town a million times.

“He didn’t show up today,” she continued with more than a trace of annoyance. “I called the number he gave but it said the line had been disconnected.”

“He was coming down with a cold when I saw him yesterday,” I explained, hoping to get her to cut him a break. “If he’s sick and doesn’t have a phone he wouldn’t be able to call and tell you.”

She pursed her sun-wrinkled lips, hazel eyes narrowing. “Well he should have found a way. Gone to a neighbor’s or something. It’s unprofessional just not to show up. Not if he wants to keep this job.”

The thought of him getting fired – of never seeing him again – clenched my stomach with dread.

“How about I swing by his house at lunch,” I offered casually, straightening and not making eye contact. “Check and see what’s going on.”

Cindy looked at me for a minute, and I felt a split-second of panic that she might suspect that I was developing a hopeless crush on the mysterious clerk. But then her expression changed. “Good. I know you’ll tell me truthfully if he’s just playing hooky. Sitting at home on his Xbox or something.”

Thinking back to his daily wardrobe of the same pair of threadbare jeans and dirty tennis shoes, I highly doubted Bayle had an Xbox.

Cindy went off to the office and brought back a small slip of paper with Bayle’s address written on it, and I managed to keep my fingers from trembling and my expression neutral as I took it from her, casually slipping it into my pocket. Then, it was just a matter of counting the minutes.

How is it that all the brief interactions I’d had with Bayle had seemed to last mere seconds… while the three hours until lunch seemed to drag on for days? I must have touched the paper through my pocket nearly a thousand times, just to make sure it was still there.

Finally, it was 11:30. Normally I didn’t leave for lunch, and today I didn’t tell Marci where I was going. I just said, “Be back in an hour,” and walked out.

Edited July 28, 2015 by starpollen

[luckyleprechaun]

The next morning I was a little lethargic, but I actually felt better than the previous morning. No testy mood, not even really a headache. Just a heaviness in my limbs that comes after a just a tiny bit too much whiskey-tea the night before.

Um, guys…

Am I overthinking this, or is he going to get sick?!

[truth]

eek ! yes an update (I haven't been obsessively checking or anything...)

and I think you misunderstood my last comment - this is totally cool with me, I almost read exclusively m/m, here on the forum.

im excited to see what will happen when travin goes to see bayle since it seems pretty clear to me he has the fetish.

lots of h/c oh god yes

[SterlingSilver]

*slides in from off camera* WAAAAH! I come to check and there are TWO UPDATES, WOOO <3. It's like Christmas! I hope you don't mind twice the quotes >w< I need more space to address double the magic LOL. Seriously, I cannot get enough of your writing! You are such a talented artist <3.

I’m not normally a coffee guy. I usually stick to water, or sometimes lemonade. In winter, I might make a hot cup of tea to sit with by a roaring fire. But coffee is reserved for a very specific kind of day. A grumbling, gripey, growling kind of day.

See? There's so much to love about this. The tone is perfect, you have fantastic characterization just with these few lines, and then there's this great alliteration at the end. Like, THIS IS JUST SO PERFECT~ *dotes endlessly*

I just stalked outside, trying to walk off the frustration and anger the day had deposited into my tight, tired muscles like lactic acid after overexertion.

I can't help but love how grumpy Travin is <3. Granted, he's had a pretty bad day, but I love this attitude on him. You write him so well, and really do such an awesome job of communicating these emotions in ways that other people can relate to and understand >w<

There was a pile of cardboard boxes under a tarp, a box cutter in his hand. No coat. He had obviously been out here for a while because his shirt was soaked, molded to his stocky frame. His wheat-gold hair had darkened to a brassy hue, plastered to his neck and wide forehead.

*heart explodes again* UGH OH NO THIS POOR BABY AHHHHHH <3. The sympathy centers of my brain are like, full alarm. I JUST WANT TO SAVE HIM <3. Pleeeeease Travin heal this poor man. It's terrible, but I'm such a huge sucker for these sorts of situations. Just some helpless character that needs some serious care-taking. I can't resist. The feels are too much.

“Do you have a coat?”

At that, those deep sea eyes iced over, jaw hardening. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, I just—“

The tickle he had avoided came back with a vengeance, his eyelids drifting down, eyebrows arching sky high as his chin dropped and his pink-rimmed nostrils flared round and wide.

“ehH??... ZZGSDschh –uu!”

This exchange is just really great. I don't know why, but the dialogue was so natural. It flowed really well, and I could just see the two of them in my mind conversing like this, complete with body language and facial expressions. AND THEN THAT SNEEZE <3. So perfect-soundinggggg!

“ih!-Ih!-Ih!...-... igk-ZZDSsscHh –!”

A waist-bending, wet sneeze, face thrust down into the nest of tissues.

“Damn,” I breathed – stunned – struggling not to shiver as the gorgeous sound washed over my eardrums, eyes closing for a brief moment in pleasure.

Perfect.

RIGHT THERE WITH YOU BRO. *fans self*

Scars.

All over his back. Some so old they were just faint bright lines on the surface of the creamy/inky mosaic, others a rainbow of pink from seashell to coral. And one angry red slash just at the base of his scapula, barely crusted over by a thin scab.

As he stretched to spread out the wet polo to dry, the gash pulled open.

*sobbing* OH NO! NOOOOOO, THE POOR PRECIOUS SON HE NEEDS HELP-

“You’re bleeding,” I explained, holding out the portion of the towel in my palm that had the bright spot of blood on it.

Shutters slammed down behind his eyes so fast I was the one that flinched.

“I’m fine,” he growled, jerking the sweatshirt on with such force I was surprised it didn’t tear.

-OH GOD </3. THERE IS A BACKSTORY HERE, AND I AM SO CURIOUS. You always construct such complex and realistic characters, and you do an incredible job unraveling them slowly and delicately as the story unfolds. Truly just masterful. I really love that about your writing.

Suddenly, he seemed to remember that I was there. He jerked, whipping his face up to gaze into mine. Whatever he saw there seemed to anger … and frighten… him.

His mouth twisted into a snarl even as his eyes widened in panic.

“J-just leave me alone!” He pushed past me, practically running out of the store room and back into the rain.

*chasing after him in getaway car* BAYLE NO COME BACK YOU'LL GET WORSE IN THE RAIN AND I DON'T THINK YOU HAVE A HOME-

Also, "strange, stubborn bastard" made me laugh more than it probably should have xD

(Please forgive me for all the play-by-play. I get super invested in good stories LOL.. ^///^ AHEM)

Going to try and calm down for the rest of this xD. I want to say I appreciate so much how you can build characters without spending a lot of time on them. Like Cindy and Grace - I have a good idea of the kind of people they are even though they have very minimal description. Their dialogue and action are that good!

ALSO

But the next part is almost done and it's total H/C CHEESE!! lol

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE <3