#but at the end of the day i don't suppose stoker was trying to say any of the actual houses along piccadilly was dracula's house

[mxcottonsocks]

[ID: The "was anybody going to tell me" meme, edited to read, "Okay, was anybody going to tell me that Dracula's house was across from Queen Victoria's or was I just supposed to read a map of London myself?"]

So I'm sure this is obvious to anyone who knows London well, but for those of us who don't, it turns out that Piccadilly is not an area of London, but a single long street.

The blue line below shows Piccadilly.

The red line is the part of Piccadilly Dracula's Piccadilly house is on (Jonathan walks westward from Piccadilly Circus, and comes across the house "beyond the Junior Constitutional". The Junior Constitutional club was at 101-104 Piccadilly, so the house must be between that and the West end of the street.)

[ID: An extract of the Ordnance Survey six-inch map 'London Sheet VII.SW' revised 1893 to 1895, published: 1894 to 1896 showing the area of London around "Green Park". Blue, red and purple lines have been edited onto the map. The blue line marks out Piccadilly, a long street stretching from the junction Piccadilly Circus and running roughly South-West. Approximately the west-most half of Piccadilly has a park called 'Green Park' to the south of it. Approximately the last third of Piccadilly on the west end of the street is marked in red. Roughly opposite the red line across the Green Park is an area of land marked "Palace Gardens". Within the gardens, Buckingham Palace is shown, circled in purple.]

[myloveforhergoeson]

October 3rd

Prompt: Vampire🧛

If James clicked those fake plastic vampire teeth one more time while Roxy was trying to write, she might just smash her songbook right over his head.

To be fair, her choice of writing space for that day was the orange couch of apartment 2-J and the residents were certainly not known for keeping it own on their side of the wall, but after yesterday's events at the thrift store, the witch really didn't want to be alone. Any time she could spend with her friends was precious and she was planning on soaking up every moment of it.

Except, of course, when they drove her up the wall.

As she tried to focus further on a potential melody for a song she had written ages ago, James cleared his throat at the breakfast bar, adding to the noise, and asked, "What are you planning to be for Halloween?"

A question posed to all of his friends ended up causing quite an uproar.

Together, both Kendall and Carlos said, "A werewolf," before looking at one another and launching into a noisy wrestling match that brought them from the sofa to the floor.

Watching them roll around for a bit, Logan shut the MCAT study book he was annotating on the coffee table and sighed, "I don't know honestly... Maybe a classic monster, like the Phantom of the Opera or the Invisible Man."

"Lame!" James exclaimed, clicking the teeth a few more times between his thumb and forefinger. "Those guys aren't even hot."

"Well... the Phantom-"

With a sharp gasp, the long-haired boy interjected, "Roxy!"

She simply shrugged, keeping her attention on the page she was now doodling over with her red pen as she absentmindedly began to hum the overture to the Phantom of the Opera. So much for a new piece today.

"Not as hot as a vampire, right? I thought you were all into stuff like that."

"On TV, yeah, but you can't even imagine-" She stopped herself before sharing, "What they're like in real life."

After the early 2000s teen-vampire craze, it had gone to the existing vampire's heads just a tiny bit. They were, however, quite fun to hang out regardless. One of her father's suppliers of potion ingredients was a vampire, and she loved hearing his tales about the thousands and thousands of years he'd lived. Though he was still having some trouble letting go of the customs of his time - the Ottoman Empire was very long ago - he'd rattle on about his days on the battlefield, showered in glory, just to entertain Roxy while he and her father did business. The one thing supernatural romances missed out on was the Transylvanian accent, but it was probably good to leave out the bit where they always smell just a bit ripe. They were dead after all.

"-How good I'm going to look in this costume?" James finished for her, holding up the plastic bag with the costume he had snagged from the Halloween store around the corner from the hotel.

There was no denying he would look very good in the costume, considering he looked good in just about anything he wore.

From the couch, Logan scoffed, keeping an eye on the tussle still happening on the ground, "Let's just hope a Van Helsing type doesn't wander into the Palm Woods and take you out."

That comment piqued the assistant's interest. "You believe in stuff like that?"

"Maybe not in the traditional sense..." The boy trailed off, trying to find the proper way to frame his thoughts. "But the stories have to come from somewhere, right? I'm supposed to believe that Bram Stoker just thought up Dracula?"

He did say it came to him in a nightmare... But we all know he almost had his neck sucked completely dry one night...

"Yeah," She lied. "How else would you come up with something so scary? A creature wanting to suck your blood? Right out of your body? I'll stick to the Cullens and their animal blood diet, thanks."

The witch said a silent apology to all the vampires in the world for her harsh words.

With a little, "Humph," from the breakfast bar, James tried to change the subject after his assistant's disapproval. "If you know everything about monsters, what are you going to be then?"

Considering Halloween was the night when the veil between the mortal realm and the spirit realm was the thinnest, she had been planning on hiding out in her room with a protective spell barricading her door. A wandering witch with a spell book as extensive as hers could be quite the target for any spirit strong enough to pull her across the veil... She wasn't interested in trying out necromancy and bringing the dead back just yet.

"I dunno... I don't really go out on Halloween."

That elicited a gasp from all four of her friends - completely ending the tussle between Carlos and Kendall from the floor.

"What do you mean?" The helmet wearer asked her, staring up at her from under Kendall's grasp. "Halloween is the best day of the year... Besides my birthday of course!"

Lucky for her, she got to celebrate those two holidays 24 hours apart.

"Yeah," Kendall unexpectedly added, "Free candy, sick parties, hanging out with your friends in wacky costumes-"

Roxy coughed, inadvertently cutting him off. The thought of her, a supernatural beacon, being anywhere around her friends on such a dangerous holiday scared the living daylights out of her. It's so hard having nonsupernatural friends...

"Sounds like a great time," She deadpanned, trying to turn her attention back to the book in her lap.

Speaking up from beside her, Logan tried, "I think I know what the problem is... You're a 'fraidy cat!"

If he even knew a fraction of the things she had seen in her 16 years of witchhood, he'd probably fall to his knees in front of her and take that back in an instant.

"Yup. You got me. I'm afraid!"

"Dude, come on," James pipped up, still chattering the teeth - Would he ever stop with that? - with a smile. "She just told us it was because she didn't have a costume.

Finally shutting her book, she dared to glance across the room at the wannabe vampire, "Fine then - tell me! What should I be for Halloween this year?"

"Easy. A witch!"

Roxy desperately wanted to ask him why, but she felt her mouth and throat dry out rendering her completely speechless.

"Oh, good one!" Carlos hopped up, brushing the lint from clothes, "Because she's powerful, mysterious, cool-"

"No. Because I think she'd look sexy in the costume."

That was the last thing James managed to get out - besides his panicked screams - as Kendall and Carlos descended upon their friend, sending a barrage of violent punches flying his way.

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

tim from The Office

Words: 2378 (AO3)

Summary:

schrodinger's clown: a clown goes behind the curtain. when he comes back out, his makeup has changed completely. he does different jokes. the others all call him by the same name as before.

in this moment, in the performance, he is and is not the same man. we don't know if he's still the same until he takes his makeup off.

"tim stoker" cannot take his makeup off, if what it has qualifies as makeup.

For Whumptober 2023 Day 9, Prompt #1: Polaroid

"That's not Tim."

It's said by a man she doesn't really know, his name something like James, or Jonah, or- Jon. That was it. Jon Sims, from Research- maybe-passes by her in the hall, and furtively whispers those three odd words.

"What do you mean?" She asks, a little incredulously, with a little bit of humor in her voice, because she's known Tim for years. They had just been walking towards the door together, when Tim mentioned he'd left something in the Archives, so she bid him a good night while he turned back and she kept going towards the exit of the building. That was when Jon had come up by her, and said that.

"Exactly what I said. You kept calling him Tim, and I know a Tim Stoker who was transferred to the Archives, so unless you've got two different Tims down there, the man you were just talking to wasn't who you thought he was." He keeps quiet, glancing around nervously for any sign of life from anywhere else around them. Sasha and Jon are alone in the lobby, though, both having stayed much later than the usual end of the workday.

She stops short, and Jon takes another step before stopping with her. He turns slightly so that they're somewhat facing each other, and they stare at each other for a moment before Sasha cracks a grin.

"Right. Of course Tim would enlist someone else to pull this kind of prank- it isn't even April, I think you're a little early on the execution." She crosses her arms in a fake disapproving way, smiling and waiting for Jon to join in, to laugh over being caught, but he doesn't. He just stands there, staring, until Sasha's grin slowly falls.

"That wasn't Tim Stoker. You called him 'Tim.' I just thought that you should know."

With that, Jon turns and leaves, leaving Sasha standing there, confused and a little unsettled. This was probably supposed to be another of Tim's pranks, a stupid attempt at gaslighting her- she'll probably get more people telling her the same thing in a few days. Tim likes those kinds of jokes, long-con sorts of things, but she wasn't expecting it to come from someone she's maybe spoken to once before. If Tim was going to attempt this kind of thing, she would have thought that he'd try and rope Martin into it before someone who's practically a stranger to her.

There's a creeping feeling that it's not a joke, though. It sits in the back of her head, something in her insistent that she's read this kind of thing in a Statement, Amy Patel and the thing that wasn't Graham, but the thing is that Tim was the one who did the follow-up for that. Maybe he took inspiration from that- she wouldn't doubt it, knowing him- but it came from one of those Statements. The ones that don't record on her laptop.

Maybe she should watch him. Just to make sure that he doesn't do anything suspicious.

-----

She doesn't see Jon around again.

Nobody else says anything about Tim.

These two things are related, she knows it. Tim's been weirdly flaky lately, too, either hanging around the entry to the tunnels under the Archives- which, okay, fair, those are weird as hell- or near Research, of all places. He's always talking to someone outside of that department, with the door wide open and in full view of the people inside who are working on their various projects. She can't get visibly annoyed at him for it, though, because he always makes the conversation about whatever he's doing follow-up for whenever she passes by, so there's at least some work being done.

Something weird is going on, she just knows it. Ever since Jon said that about Tim, the thought's been stuck in her head like an errant spider that just refuses to leave- it keeps popping up at inopportune times, practically bombarding her with some kind of paranoia that half feels like a delusion, because Tim has always been Tim. She can't imagine him looking or sounding any different, but is that because her memories are real and she's just unimaginative, or is it because the thing that replaced him won't even let her entertain the possibility of it being different in any way?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know, and it doesn't grate at her so much as it invades her thoughts, leaving her unknowing of who the hell she can trust. Jon, who's a near-stranger who she'd seen maybe once before, a gut feeling, and a half-remembered Statement? Or someone she's been best friends with for years, along with every kind of common sense she's got in her? She feels wrong for even being torn about it, but there's something telling her that something is wrong here, but she can't for the life of her pinpoint what. Tim's as good an option as any for an answer.

She thinks he knows she's watching him, though. He's started being more cautious, recently, started being on his phone more, like he thinks that Sasha would ever buy that he's "got a new girlfriend" like he's trying to convince her and Martin. Tim's never been the monogamous type, and though she can't remember the context, she could swear up and down that he once told her that if he ever dated anyone seriously, it would either be her or she'd be the first person he'd introduce them to. He wouldn't even call them his significant other, in any form, without her approval, she remembers him saying that practically verbatim. He's lying about the girlfriend, she's dead certain about that, but the fake girlfriend has got to be a cover for something and if she's obvious about knowing "she" doesn't exist, then Tim's going to distance himself even further, which is exactly the last thing that she wants.

She wants to believe that Tim's up to something. She honestly hopes that he's decided to try and screw her over or something, because the alternative... Graham Folger was dead long before he disappeared. He was dead long before anybody raised a fuss, including Ms. Patel herself.

She doesn't want to think about Tim Stoker being dead long before anybody said anything about it.

She wouldn't even know when it would have happened. Was it before Michael? Before Jane? Before even the Archives? No, it couldn't have been before the Archives, because then Jon wouldn't have said it like that, wouldn't have known that Tim-from-the-Archives and Tim-that-she-knows-now are two different people- or, at least, wouldn't have framed it in that way. But did Tim ever meet Michael, or was it a monster intrigued by a monster?

She needs to stop sending herself down this spiral, she needs to just stop. If she keeps indulging her questions, this ridiculous theory that doesn't make any logical sense, then all she's going to do is drive herself further into paranoia without coming up with any actual answers. If she wants to confirm this one way or another, she can't speculate on things that she can't prove, instead, she has to look for evidence.

Martin would probably have noticed any more unusual behaviors from Tim, especially considering that he only moved out of the Archives again recently after finally being able to find another flat, after much effort from everyone in the Archives. Pictures would also be good, as many as she can find, even though she remembers Amy Patel's Statement saying something about pictures being changed to fit the new face; maybe she'll find one that doesn't match anyway, or maybe she won't.

Maybe she should search for more Statements, too. More like this, though searching for anything specific in here is practically a lost cause.

Maybe she'll get lucky.

-----

Martin hasn't noticed anything amiss.

It's not surprising, he's been busy with work and the search for somewhere decent to live, as well as the lingering fear of the worms coming back, or some of them having survived the initial extermination, or a million other possibilities that she's turned over in her own mind and must have been even worse for Martin, since he was still in the Archives for a while directly afterwards; but it is, still, a disappointment, because she's got no new information on that front. Tim acting unusual isn't even a question anymore, so for Martin not to have noticed anything doesn't even rule out either major possibility.

As for the photographs, she's found no digital trace of anything not lining up. Tim looks as he always has, badly-dyed blond hair and freckles all over his face, with a general air of dickishness about him clearly visible even through mere photos. She's pretty sure that she took a few Polaroids of the Archives crew with her camera during the first week or so that she was Head Archivist, but she's still looking for those, so it's a work in progress on that front.

Statement-wise, she has yet to find anything. Oddly enough, for some reason she keeps trying to look in a particular drawer in her desk, even though it's locked and she's quite sure that she opened it at some point to find it completely empty. Even if she's wrong and she's never opened the drawer before, she's still fairly certain that there wouldn't be a Statement in it, considering that the only reason that there would be a Statement in there would be if this desk once belonged to someone who would put one in there, which it has not. This desk is brand new, replaced after Gertrude's old one was found covered in blood.

Sasha sighs and puts the folder that she's holding aside; it's a clearly-fake statement and its good-faith follow-up that does absolutely nothing to support the idea that anything in it could possibly be true. The damn thing switches to third person in the middle, for goodness' sake, and she almost wonders why anybody bothered to keep it at all.

She half-unconsciously reaches down to the same locked drawer in search of a Statement that could actually be relevant, and nearly groans in frustration once she realizes that she's pulling on a drawer that won't open. She lets go, debates with herself for a second, and reaches for the keys attached to her lanyard. Maybe once she actually sees that the damn thing is empty her brain will let it go.

Sasha kicks her chair aside and kneels down to unlock the drawer. The key turns without a fuss and barely a sound, betraying exactly how new the desk is, and the drawer opens easily. She sits up higher just to get a good look at the inside of the drawer, and is surprised to find that it's not as empty as she remembered it being.

Apparently, this drawer was where she'd put the Polaroids she took what feels like forever ago, though there are only three here and she remembers taking more. She probably put the rest elsewhere, though she'll be damned if she can remember where. In the meantime, she can look through these and find more evidence that her weird feeling about Tim and Jon's absurd claims about him are all insane.

The first photograph is a blurry picture of herself sitting on Martin's shoulders outside of a pub somewhere at night. She remembers that night, when she and Tim and Martin had all gone out for drinks for "team bonding," which resulted in a drinking contest between herself and Tim (which she totally won, no matter what Tim says) and a lot more drunken shenanigans following that. She remembers that her camera had been in her bag at the time, so she'd dug it out at some point because she'd been fairly certain that Tim wouldn't remember a thing from that night. She smiles at the memory, and puts the photo back.

The next photograph in the stack immediately strikes her as odd. It seems to be a more serious photo, with her standing in between Martin and a man she doesn't recognize. She's dressed in her favorite blouse and a black skirt, Martin's wearing a button-up and tie, and the man she doesn't know is wearing a black bowtie paired with a brightly-colored Hawaiian shirt. Tim is nowhere to be seen.

The man she doesn't know is tan where Tim is pale, skin clear where Tim's is freckled, naturally dark hair where Tim's is dyed lighter. There's a certain air of friendliness about the stranger, like an inexplicable resemblance to a golden retriever dog.

She flips the photo around to see if there's any written explanation on the back, and there's a little caption written in her own handwriting with what seems to be black permanent marker.

The Magnus Institute Archives Crew, 2015

Beneath that, in parenthesis, is clarification.

(Left to Right: Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant; Sasha James, Head Archivist; Tim Stoker, Archival Assistant)

Closed fucking parenthesis.

Her hand shakes as she turns the picture back over, but it hasn't magically changed to reflect what reality should look like. She doesn't recognize the man- Tim, that's Tim, that's the real Tim- no matter how much she stares down at him. He remains static and still, his goofy and lopsided smile at the camera unchanging. There's a sound like that of a wounded animal echoing around her office, and all of a sudden she realizes that she's the one making it.

How long? How long has Tim been dead? How long has the thing that killed him worn a face it says is his? How long has she just let it?

The world blurs, and Sasha puts that and the last photo back in the drawer before she can get tears on either of them. The last thing she wants is to ruin what little record she has of the real Tim. She doesn't even question the idea that the photos might not be perfectly reliable evidence, because she's got enough other things to point to all of that being real that it's just icing on the cake. She doesn't need to find more evidence anymore.

She needs to grieve. Then she needs to kill the thing that killed Tim.

[intosnarkness]

Fanfic meme from @hsavinien

How many works do you have on AO3? 98

What’s your total AO3 word count? 515180

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? The Fixed Foot - Sam/Steve, soulmarks The Law of Conservation of Pants - Clint/Darcy, 5 things Darcy thought she knew As Little Fuss - Tony Stark gen, Tony solves problems with money Care and Feeding of Your Janet - Janet gen, Good PLace instruction manual Five things the Avengers taught Steve Rogers About the World, and One Thing He Taught Them. - Steve/Tony, the one where I had to look up when ball point pens were invented

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I try to, but sometimes I get in anxious places and then get into spirals were it's been MONTHS and I feel stupid responding.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Fun trivia, A Man in Chaos was supposed to end with Jim's implied suicide, but @maybetwice talked me out of it. Maybe something in the Better Than Silence series, or A Long Day Without You.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? Maybe Where You Stand or Don't Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid?

Do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? Not crossovers, per se, I don't introduce characters from different canons to each other, but I'll write fusions where I put characters into another world. As If I'm Living is Star Trek 09/Hunger Games

Have you ever received hate on a fic? Yes. I delete it cause who cares.

Do you write smut? If so what kind? Yes, the dirty kind. Probably my filthiest is Protection Like a Wheel, Sam/Steve/Natasha pwp where Steve wants to feel powerless.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Yes, a long time ago on tumblr.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes, a couple of drabbles into Russian.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes, a few.

What’s your all time favorite ship? Chekov/Sulu is evergreen, but the fandom was toxic.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? Legit the only one I never finished was a STXI fic called "vows" that had to do with Sulu getting married young and falling for Chekov when it exploded.

What are your writing strengths? Dialogue, humor, magical realism.

What are your writing weaknesses? Starting non-dialogue paragraphs with words that aren't the charter's names, describing scenery in detail. I will never ever ever write a scene where a character orders food that includes the dialogue with the service worker.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I don't know any other languages to write with? I've done it a few times with Natasha saying words in Russian, but if it can't be made to make sense in context, it shouldn't happen.

What was the first fandom you wrote for? Published? Sailor Moon in 8th grade. But I wrote self-insert lower decks Star Trek stuff before I knew what fanfic was that which never saw the light of day.

What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to? I will probably write Tim Stoker fic sooner or later. It's an illness.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? How dare you? Let's go with Fragments this time around, it did all the things I wanted it to. But if you want to know who I am, most of me is in One to Be Trusted.

[quickeningheart]

Seventeen

   When Charley entered the apartment at the end of the day, she was greeted with the rich scent of chocolate. Her mouth watered as she inhaled deeply, and her stomach growled; she hadn't gotten around to lunch, after all. Or much of a breakfast, for that matter. "Is that chocolate cake I smell?" she called.

   The bathroom door opened and Alley's head popped out. "Better," she replied.

   "Better than chocolate cake?" Charley lifted one of the towels spread over a baking sheet, eyes widening at the sight of round, red cakes cooling on them. "Are those…?"

   "Red velvet whoopie pies. They were your favorite, right?" Alley approached with a grin, pulling off a pair of rubber gloves. The heavy scent of cleaning chemicals and air-freshener followed in her wake. "I still have to add the filling, yet."

   "Who needs filling?" Charley picked up a still-hot cake, juggling it between her hands, and took a large bite. She sighed blissfully. "Still as good as I remember!" She finished it off in two more bites, sucking the sticky crumbs from her fingers.

   "That's great, Charley, but now there's a pie without a top."

   "Oh, well, we can take care of that." She picked up another pastry and wolfed it down.

   Alley laughed. "I think those boys have been a bad influence on you," she teased.

   Her cousin just smirked. "So what brought on this rabid bout of baking?" She glanced at the four trays of cakes sitting on the table, waiting for their filling.

   Alley fidgeted. "I made them for you. As an apology," she admitted. "I'm sorry I said all those things in front of your friends. I wasn't trying to embarrass you or make you look bad or anything. I was just worried."

   Charley grinned and shrugged. "Well, no big surprise. The filter between your brain and your mouth never did work right."

   Alley stuck her tongue out, slapping Charley's hand away when she reached for another pie. "I'm being serious! I feel really bad about it."

   "Look, I'm honestly not that upset. Just my pride got a little bruised, is all. But you know I'm not the type to hold grudges. Besides, something good came from it."

   Alley raised an eyebrow when her cousin blushed faintly, a goofy smile spreading over her face. "You look like a teenager crushing on the hot guy in class," she teased.

   "He is pretty hot," Charley agreed, laughing when Alley pulled a face. "Or maybe older men are more your type," she added slyly, "given that little scene I walked in on this morning and all…"

   "That was—!" Alley blushed to the roots of her hair. "That was…"

   "Kinda hot, is what is was," Charley snickered. "Another second and the kitchen might've erupted in flames."

   "Another second and I'd have punched that letch through the wall!"

   "Hmmm." Charley eyed her cousin thoughtfully. "If you really wanted to punch him, seems to me you'd 've done it."

   "What are you implying?" Alley huffed. "That I'm giving in to his charms? No way! I'm not into furries. Especially old furries."

   Charley laughed. "So you admit he has charms, eh?"

   "What? That isn't—!" Alley pinched the bridge of her nose. "Look, if you want to date Vinnie, that's all fine and dandy. Knock yourself out, I'm honestly happy that you're happy. But please just … don't…" She faltered, not wanting to upset her cousin all over again. "I'm not—"

   "Okay, okay. Relax," the mechanic soothed. "I was only teasing. I understand. I really do, and I promise not to say anything else about it, all right?" She drew a line across her lips, turning an imaginary key.

   "Thank you," Alley replied with a sigh, opening the fridge to grab a bowl full of whipped filling. She offered it with a sheepish smile. "Want to help me frost?"

   "Only if I get to lick the spatula."

   She snickered. "You're such a kid."

   "Damn straight. Keeps me young." Charley grinned and riffled around in the bottom cabinets until she unearthed an ancient Tupperware container. She pursed her lips, eyeballing the container, then the cakes. "Ummm … pretty sure all these ain't gonna fit in here."

   "Is that the only container you have?" Alley looked horrified.

   Charley chuckled. "I'm no master chef. Never needed more than one before."

   "I'm just gonna have to buy you the whole damn kitchen and be done with it," the blonde grumbled.

   "Like you can afford that."

   "I can with the jewels Stoker left behind."

   There was a marked silence; Alley reached up to pull down several dinner plates from the cabinet, deliberately ignoring the irritation on her cousin's face.

   "I told him I didn't want his charity!" Charley burst out.

   Alley pursed her lips, setting the plates down with a thunk and fixing her cousin with a hard stare. "That's your ego talking. Can't you tell the difference between charity and a heartfelt gift? But, whatever. Since you didn't want it, he gave it to me, instead."

   "And you have no problems accepting handouts."

   "I fail to see how this is a handout," Alley replied, pulling a roll of wax paper from a drawer and tearing several sheets from it to line the plates. "He found the jewelry, didn't he? And he already took what he needed from it. The rest of the jewels are just junk to him. But they're worth a pretty penny to most humans. So, rather than tossing out some incredibly valuable rocks, he deemed it more economical to give the rest to you, so you can take what you need from them. I don't think that's charity so much as some pretty damned useful recycling."

   Charley opened and closed her mouth several times, trying for a retort, but finding none forthcoming. She huffed and picked up a well-worn spatula, using it to slap a large dollop of filling onto half of a pie. She used a little too much force, however; the pastry crumbled easily, leaving a red and white gooey mess sitting in her palm. She scowled down at it for a second, until a choked giggle had her switching her glare to Alley, instead, who was doing a poor job of hiding her amusement. "Shut up," she grumbled, flinging the mess at her. It landed smack-dab in the center of Alley's chest, earning an outraged squeak.

   The tension broke as Charley broke into giggles of her own, her irritation melting away. "Okay," she admitted grudgingly. "I suppose I might have possibly let my ego overrule my common sense on this subject, but it doesn't sit right with me to just be handed a huge amount of money like that." She sighed, turning on the sink to wash her hand off. "I busted my ass to get this garage up and running, and to keep it going despite everything conspiring to shut me down. To accept help, no matter how well-intended, just feels too much like … giving up. Like admitting I can't do it."

   "Nobody would believe that," Alley scolded, dabbing at the frosting on her shirt. "Those guys wouldn't think less of you. You mean the world to them. They just want to help, the same way you've been helping them all this time. You consider each other family, right? Isn't family supposed to support each other when it's needed?"

   "You make a good point," Charley conceded.

   "I've made a lot of good points. You just didn't want to listen to them. And I guess that was my fault, too."

   "Well." Charley leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. "I'm listening now. Do you have anything else to say about my business practices that you think I should know?"

   "Actually…" she hedged, "I think I've got an idea that might solve some of your problems. At least on a temporary basis."

   "Oh? Do tell."

   "Well, in regards to those gems, if you're that determined to keep your garage running by yourself, why not just sell them and open a separate bank account with the money? It could be like a … a disaster relief fund or something."

   "A what?"

   "Give the guys the money. They don't have any of their own, right? In that sense, they're way worse off than you," Alley pointed out. "You can set up an account for them, under your name."

   "Okay…" Charley nodded. "And doing that would accomplish … what, exactly?"

   Alley rolled her eyes. "Well, for one thing, if they put any more holes through your doors, or manage to blow up some of the much-needed equipment to do your work, they can actually pay for it, for a change. Rather than you dipping into your own savings to cover replacement parts or whatever, dip into theirs, instead." She held up a finger. "And also! Those fancy, highly-expensive upgrades you're always giving those bikes of theirs? You'll no longer have to pay for them yourself."

   "That doesn't seem right, making them pay for stuff I always offered for free," Charley protested.

   "What's the big deal? Not like they actually earned any of that hypothetical money," Alley pointed out dryly.

   Well, Charley could hardly argue with that logic. She huffed a laugh and shrugged. "I guess it's not bad, as far as ideas go," she grudgingly admitted. "It doesn't really work as a long-term solution, though."

   "Well, no, I did say it was temporary. Whatever money the gems bring in would run out eventually, but at least it'd give you a chance to catch up and rebuild your finances. Take some of the pressure off, for a while at least."

   Charley tapped her chin, staring into space as she thought. "I'll talk it over with the guys," she decided. "See what they think."

   "That mean you'll do it?"

   "I guess it wouldn't hurt to give it a try." She shrugged. "It'll get those furballs to stop nagging at me, if nothing else." She grinned and shook her head, shooting Alley an impressed glance. "Really, I dunno how you do it. First, getting them to eat something other than junk food, and now this. All these years with them constantly putting holes through my walls and now they suddenly grow a conscience about it. Did you take a class or something? Guilt Trip 101?"

   Alley scoffed. "Please. Have you met my mother? That woman's got guilt-tripping down to a science, and she's practiced on me my entire life. Those guys never stood a chance!"

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