WRITING: That Time Kit Managed to Take Two Separate Requests and Make Them Both About Cooking

[phantastus]

Title: Might As Well Swim
Author: phantastus
Fandom: Silent Hill
Rating: G
Genre: Friendship
Main characters: Heather Mason, Douglas Cartland
Summary: Douglas gets a late-night call from Heather, who has been struggling to cope after the events of Silent Hill 3.
This story was a drabble requested by snarkykatalyst. The prompt was "Tarantism (driving away melancholy by dancing) + Heather Mason".
Disclaimer/Warnings: Contains gratuitously fluffy surrogate father-daughter cuteness, shameless 90's music, and comfort cooking. And also Heather's sailor-mouth.
There is a very brief mention of suicide.

Recommended Listening:
All Star



Douglas didn't know what to expect when he knocked on the door to Heather's-- no, Cheryl's, he had to start remembering to call her that-- dingy Daisy Villa apartment.

It wasn't the first time he'd gotten a call at eleven o'clock at night asking him to come over, or instead sometimes informing him that she was downstairs in the lobby and could she come up??

Tonight it was the former, and he wasn't totally sure if he was relieved or not.

The message had been brief and not particularly enlightening, so he had spent most of the ride over steeling himself for the possibility of something unpleasant. The number of late-night emotional crises an angry, recently-orphaned high-schooler could get into was, unsurprisingly, rather high. The last time he'd come over, the old television had been smashed in the middle of the living room and Heather had been sitting on the recently-installed couch, scowling in petulant silence at the wreckage.

He didn't mind picking up messes or letting her crash on his couch when she needed it. He owed her that much.

But sometimes he had to wonder if he was hurting or helping.

So he adjusted his tie distractedly and waited, hoping that the worst he'd have to deal with tonight would be a sheepish 'I got mad and knocked the bookshelf over, can you help me put it back together?'

A few more seconds passed and he had just lifted his hand to awkwardly deliver another knock when the door was yanked open abruptly.

"Sorry! Sorry," said a frazzled-looking and slightly wild-eyed Heather, standing in the doorway and waving something long and metallic in one hand. Douglas actually found himself recoiling out of pure reflex before he realized that it was just a battered-looking ladle, an instrument far more harmless than the things he was used to seeing in Heather's hands. "I was gonna answer but then the timer went off and for a second I thought the stove was on fire but it wasn't."

She paused to suck in a deep breath, moving aside to let him in as she did so.

"No need to be sorry," Douglas said, stepping into the apartment and casting a wary eye around.

His first observation was that nothing appeared to be in ruins. This was a good sign.

The second one was that... well, gosh darn it, the place smelled amazing.

"Jeeze louis, kid, what's going on in here? You cooking for an army?"

"No! ... WELL." Heather kneed the door shut unceremoniously and slapped the ladle into the palm of her hand repeatedly as the words more or less flew from her mouth like uncovered popcorn on a hot surface. "Today was shit. I fucked up another test and the teacher gave me a passing grade pretty much only because she understood that this was a--" She paused to do air quotes with her fingers. "--'rough time' for me. And I thought that was literally the stupidest understatement I've ever heard so I was thinking about it all day and getting really mad and then like an hour ago I thought, dude, it IS a fucking rough time for me, and I decided to do something nice and fun with all these freaking groceries the social worker made me buy, so I was like, YEAH I'm gonna do a bunch of cooking at almost-midnight. ... And then I realized I hadn't thought the situation through clearly enough because holy shit, this is way too much food. So I called you. Do you like lasagna?"

Douglas had held his hands up in mock self-defense under the deluge. "Whoa, slow down. Slow down! I haven't even taken off my boots yet!"

"Okay! Okay! Sorry. Jeez." She slid past him and back over to the kitchen nook, socks swishing on the floor. In stark contrast to the (relatively) sharply-dressed girl he'd met five months ago, she was dressed in baggy sweatpants and an even baggier shirt with a Space Jam logo on it. The head poking out at the top had hair that was sticking out in all directions. It made her look smaller than she was. Younger, too. Sometimes he had a hard time believing she was close to leaving high school.

The sight made Douglas's heart ache.

Not just because it was a reminder of how unfair everything she'd gone through was, but also because it was painfully reminiscent of another tousled head he hadn't seen in years-- not even in photographs. Those were all boxed up in one of the closets in his apartment, and the only time he ever felt brave enough to want to take them out and look at them was when he'd been drinking. Unfortunately, the courage didn't extend to making him brave enough to face the idea of going into it inebriated and with the full knowledge that there was a gun in the house with his name on it.

He put his boots next to the door. He never cared enough to remove them when he was in his own house unless he was going to bed or sitting down in front of the TV, but it felt polite. The little things were important when he was over here. This apartment had been desecrated once and he was partially to blame for it. So it mattered.

Straightening back up and wincing at the twinge in his back, he looked back over to the teen, who was now consulting her laptop screen for recipe information.

"... Say, kiddo... isn't this a school night?"

"Yup," she said without even looking over her shoulder.

"... No point in sayin' you should be getting a good night's rest, huh?"

"Nnnnnope."

"All right, I won't even try, then." Easing his coat off with a sigh, he dropped it on the couch and followed her over to the stove. "So... lasagna, huh?"

"Aaaaand garlic bread-- I mean I haven't made that yet because it takes like two seconds and I don't want it to be cold when the lasagna's ready, but I got all the fixins-- and I kind of baked a giant funfetti cake earlier too. With chocolate fudge frosting. Tons of chocolate fudge frosting"

She had put her hands on her hips and was nodding enthusiastically as she surveyed the landscape of crumbs, crumpled packaging, and dirtied bowls.

Douglas watched her quietly for a moment. "... It's been awhile since you last slept, hasn't it."

"YUP."

He heaved a deep sigh and rubbed at the bags under his eyes.

"I don't know how you do it, kiddo."

"Sometimes I wonder, myself. Sooo... you wanna help me cook? You know how, right?"

For a second or so, Douglas felt a flutter of panic. He thought of telling her that for the past ten years, he hadn't eaten anything but takeout, frozen dinners, and maybe the occasional steak or pork chop if he really felt like getting adventurous with self-preparation. But then he looked down at her and was met with a pair of hazel eyes with sacks of deep, bruised purple-red hanging underneath them. For eyes that he had seen filled with fire so determined and murderous that they threatened to consume everything in their wake and spit out nothing more than bone-white ash afterwards, they had an astonishing capacity to look incredibly large and pitiful.

"... Y'know, I used to make a mean garlic bread, back in the day."

A crooked grin replaced the plaintive look she'd been wearing, and she turned around to pick up a loaf of bread. "You know I'm not gonna believe that until I taste it, right?"

"Heh. Guess I'd better back up the claim, then."

Heather beamed magnanimously and handed him the loaf, which he set down on a nearby cutting board.

With a rumbly clearing of the throat, Douglas pushed his sleeves up and rubbed his hands togther.

"All right. Melt a little butter in the microwave and grab one of those garlic cloves I see over there. If I'm gonna make this bread, I'm gonna do it right. "

They set to work with a bustle as Douglas cut the bread and Heather retrieved the necessary ingredients and dropped them on the counter next to him, pausing every so often to check on the baking lasagna in the oven.

"Hey, you mind if I unmute the TV or put on some music or something? I need some background noise," Heather said after awhile, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the radio on the counter. It was shiny and new-- he didn't know what she'd done with the one she'd carted around Silent Hill with her. Maybe gotten rid of it in hopes of ditching the bad memories it was attached to. Or maybe not. She didn't throw away much from that fateful night.

"Sure. Just none of that skippity-bop or whatever it is you kids listen to. I don't have the stomach for that."

He smiled to himself as she rolled her eyes and gave him a thump in the shoulder as she passed.

"It's called hip hop, Douglas. God."

There was a rattle of knobs as she turned the radio on and a thumping electric beat started to pulse in the air. Douglas wrinkled his nose.

"You want the neighbors to think you're holdin' a dance party at a quarter to midnight, kiddo?"

"Maybe I do!"

But she shifted stations and a more innocuous rock-pop tune took the stage. Returning to the counter, she leaned over to see what he was doing. He nodded to her.

"Y'got a tray we can stick this on?"

"Yeah, hang on. We can put it in once I take the lasagna out."

She bent down to retrieve a baking tray from the clutter of pans in a lower drawer. But by the time she'd straightened up, she already had another idea.

"Oh man! You know what'd be great? I have about five billion kinds of lettuce in the fridge because I was dumb and went shopping while I was hungry the other day. We should have a salad! Caesar! With croutons and crap!"

"You can leave the crap off of mine, thanks."

"You know what I mean, you old prune. Here's the tray-- I'ma go start washing the lettuce!"

She threw open the fridge and leaned in, gathering armfuls of vegetables. Douglas watched this with a fond shake of the head before returning to his own task. It sent a pang through his chest, brushing the butter and garlic salt across the fluffy bread like he had all those years ago, back when he had a marriage and a child and a life, but it wasn't so bad. Being in a bright kitchen and listening to music he'd never willingly put on of his own volition was miles better than trying to do the same thing in his own dim, cluttered one. A timer buzzed and he leaned down to remove the lasagna dish himself, seeing as Heather was already occupied.

When he stood straight again after sliding the pan of bread into its place, he wiped the sweat from his hoary brow and looked back over to his young companion-- only to find her rocking and head-bobbing in place as she shredded lettuce with her bare hands, tossing it into the bowl in time to the punchy music on the radio. He found himself shaking his head again, this time in amusement.

"Glad you're happier than you were last week with the TV."

"Mm," she replied distractedly, snapping her fingers jauntily to the tune. "I'm not, actually. I'm just kinda faking it till I make it. You know?"

"... Oh," said Douglas, suddenly feeling guilty. "... Sorry. Shouldn'tve assumed."

"S'okay. Means I'm doing it right."

Before he had a chance to apologize further, the song on the radio changed and Heather's eyes lit up.

"Oh man! I love this song!"

She flung the last of the lettuce leaves into the bowl and started to dance even more enthusiastically (and goofily), pumping her fists in the air.

"... It sounds kind of familiar..."

"Dude, it's Smash Mouth! The ballad of the 90's! Shrek's themesong! You've seen Shrek, I made you watch it with me last month. C'mon, dance with me!"

The guilt quickly became a mixture of exasperation and panic.

"... Heather, I don't think--"

"C'mon! You don't have to break a hip or anything, just move around a little! It's impossible to be completely bummed when you're dancing."

"I was never much of a dancer--"

But Heather had already started singing along, eyes squeezed shut and arms spread dramatically.

"WELL the years start comin' and they don't stop comin'! Fed to tha rules and I hit the ground runnin'! Didn't make sense not to live for fun-- your brain gets smart butcha head gets DUMB! So much to do so much to see so what's wrong with takin' the back streets! You'll never know if you don't go! You'll never shine if you don't glow!"

Douglas closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Then started to slowly step side to side.

"--Aw man, NO. Is that the Carlton? NO."

"Hey, you whelp, don't make fun. There is NOTHING wrong with the Carlton."

"NOPE. Not allowed! My apartment, my rules! Jazz it up a lil'!"

And before he could protest, she was singing again.

"HEY NOW, you're an all star! So get out there, go plaaay! HEY NOW, you're a rock star, so get out there, get paaaid! AAAALL THAT GLITTERS IS GO-OOOLD! ONLY SHOOTIN' STAA-AAAARS BREAK THA MOU-OO-OUUUULD!"

Then the whistling part happened and she promptly puffed out her cheeks and joined in.

Finally succumbing to deep laughter, the grizzled detective found himself picking up his feet and turning in place. And, as an afterthought, even threw in some jazz hands.

After all, what could it hurt?

~*~

Title: Fine Wine
Author: phantastus
Fandom: Silent Hill
Rating: G
Genre: Friendship/Romance/Humor
Main characters: Henry Townshend, Eileen Galvin
Summary: Hoping to brighten things up on the six-month anniversary of their defeat of Walter Sullivan and subsequent escape from South Ashfield Heights, Eileen decides that a nice meal is in order.
This story was a drabble requested by micahaphone. The prompt was "Capernoited (slightly tipsy or intoxicated) + Henry Townshend/Eileen Galvin".
Disclaimer/Warnings: Contains alcoholic substances and more gratuitous cooking because the author has no self-control at this time of year. Also contains Henry, escalating the Weird Warning Level from green to yellow.

Recommended Listening:
N/A



"It's a splurge, I know, but... I thought it'd be kind of nice. You know. To celebrate six months."

She had been biting her lip slightly as she removed the sleek, dark bottle from its brown bag, but when she turned around only to be met with Henry's presence suddenly two inches behind her instead of the five feet it had been a split second ago when she'd first gotten back with groceries, she nearly bit right through it.

"Jesus, Henry, don't do that," she chided breathlessly, putting a hand over her heart. His quiet way of moving around was creepy sometimes-- not that she blamed him for it, but it was all too reminiscent of the ghost that both of them had nearly lost their lives fleeing from. It didn't help that he had a ghostly look to him to begin with-- especially after the incident at South Ashfield Heights, now six months behind them.

"Sorry," the photographer mumbled distractedly in his usual almost-too-soft-to-hear indoor voice-- his gaze was squarely on the bottle and his eyes had widened from the sleepy squint they usually sat in.

"It's okay," Eileen sighed, brushing off the brief burst of adrenaline that had surged through her veins and trying to calm her heart a little. "Anyway... you're not mad, are you? I know money's been... an issue."

"Is it red?" Henry whispered, eyes seemingly fixated on his own bendy reflection on the bottle.

"The wine? Yeah. So... not mad?"

"Mad?" Henry echoed in a hushed, reverent tone, taking the wine from her in his bony, slightly-awkward hands and turning it over in apparent mesmerization. "I haven't tasted wine since... since... Oh. I missed you, baby."

He brought the bottle to his lips and, eyes closed, laid a soft, intimate kiss on its neck.

Not sure whether to feel amused or mildly insulted that it was the bottle he first thought to kiss, Eileen shook her head. "... Glad I could reunite the starcrossed lovers. C'mon, Romeo. To the kitchen."

She picked up the rest of the grocery bags from the floor and headed into the tiny kitchen of the cramped, temporary studio flat they were renting. They'd been in and out of a string of dingy apartments and unwelcoming motel rooms since leaving Ashfield-- she thought this was perhaps the fifth place they'd stayed longer than a night or two in, and while it wasn't particularly appealing, it was passable.

Henry trailed behind her, nearly stepping on her heels.

"What did you get?" he asked, now cradling the bottle in his arms like a baby.

"Some mushrooms and tenderloin. I thought I could try at making bourbignon. Maybe it'll be impossible in this tiny kitchen, but say what you will, I cannot stand one more night of velveeta mac and cheese."

Henry fell into brief silence behind her, and then piped up reproachfully after a couple of sconds. "... I like velveeta..."

She reached over her shoulder to give him a comforting pat.

"I know, I know. Don't worry. I'm sure there are plenty of velveeta nights to come."

"... I also like Kraft," he said thoughtfully after a moment. "Kraft is good too."

Shutting her eyes, Eileen suppressed a shudder as pulled a bag of little pearl onions from the bag. She had no idea how Henry was still alive, considering that all he seemed to eat before she'd gotten to him was cereal and things that were colored a toxic, artificial shade of orange.

"You'll like this," she promised. "Hand me one of the pans that was in the cupboard when we got here, will you? I want to wash it."

He did so wordlessly, still holding the bottle in the crook of his arm. Then he proceeded to watch in silence as she set about chopping vegetables and meat. Eventually the sounds and smells of sizzling food began to overtake the depressing silence and must of the apartment and he let his eyes drift shut momentarily. The months following the incident that had sent them into frantic flight from what had previously been home had been difficult. Not in the sense that they were struggling to survive-- they'd already done that for real, and between them it wasn't terribly hard to keep a roof over their heads and assorted boxes of belongings. No, the difficulty lay in seeing specters around every corner, in lying awake at night and watching the swirling patterns his eyes created on the darkened walls, wondering which one would materialize into an oozing patch of rot or the crown of an emerging head. Eileen cried in her sleep sometimes, and he was fairly certain that he did too, even if she reassured him that wasn't the case when he asked.

The dismal rented rooms and barren mattresses they now spent their nights in didn't help. At best, they were depressing. At worst, they sent the hairs up along the backs of their necks as they called up memories of the Otherworld.

"All right, time to add the wine. Hand it over, Hen."

Startled out of his reverie, he blinked at her owlishly.

"Huh? ... I thought we were gonna drink it..."

"Well, sure, we can drink most of it... but I need a little for the bourbignon."

Henry clutched the bottle to his chest, giving her a look of betrayal-- at which she rolled her eyes.

"Come on. I won't use all of it, I promise."

Reluctantly, he handed it over-- although he was unable to suppress a longing moan as he watched the dark liquid slosh into the pan.

"Oh, stop being dramatic," Eileen chided, gently redirecting the dramatic, feebly-extended hand he had stretched towards the bubbling mixture. "The wine's gonna make it taste amazing. And you'll be ingesting it either way. It's not like I'm pouring it down the drain."

She set the bottle down on the countertop and carried on, adding a shake of salt to the mix.

"Anyway, there's plenty left, and I'm petty sure that between us that'll be more than enou-- ah, ah! Hey!"

She'd turned around and Henry had been in the process of tipping the bottle back into his mouth. He set it back down as fast as humanly possible and swallowed guiltily. And tellingly.

"Henry!" Eileen exclaimed, hands akimbo. "That's for us to share! At dinner! You don't drink wine straight out of the bottle!"

"Um..." Henry said, rubbing his nose. "Actually..."

"Henryyyyy." She had never been good at glaring-- she could count the number of times people had taken her seriously when she was angry on one hand. But Henry wilted under her sharp stare, looking like a droopy basil plant with a hairdryer turned on it.

"... I'm sorry..." Apologetically, he reached out to pick up the bottle again. This time, he held it over to her. "Here.. you have some."

"... Henry."

He nudged the bottle's lip against her mouth encouragingly. "Have some. It's good. You picked good wine. You're a good wine... picker... er."

For a moment, it was a standoff. Eileen standing with her hands on her hips and her face determinedly frozen in an increasingly-strained glare, and Henry gently and insistently poking the bottle to her lips, glassy stare unblinking and lips barely moving as he mumbled a constant stream of "Eileen try some. Eileen. Eileen. Have some. Have some wine. It's good. Good job Eileen, you found fine wine. Fine wines. Ffffine wiiiines. Eileen. Eileen. Eileeeeen."

By the time his mantra had become a steady, tiny chant of "Eileen is fine, she picked out the finest wine, hey! Eileen is fine, she picked out the finest wine, hey!" to the tune of Bill Cosby's standup cake routine, she couldn't take it anymore. Breaking into a smile, she turned her head away and took the bottle.

"Okay, okay, enough, fine. I'll have some."

Henry stepped back, mouth curling into one of his rare, tiny smiles as he clasped his hands and watched her expectantly. She rolled her eyes and took a sip from the bottle before putting it back down, pointedly on the opposite side of her from where Henry was standing.

"There. No more tasting!"

"No more tasting," Henry agreed solemnly, nodding.

Approximately five minutes had passed before she caught him with the bottle in his mouth again.

"Henry!"

He stared at his shoes and sheepishly held it out to her.

She glared, then sighed, then took another sip herself and put it down once more, at which point he was already reaching for it again.

It did not take long for her to resign herself to the fact that between them, there probably wasn't going to be any left to drink with the meal.