A/N: Sorry this took forever, I lost my inspiration (could have been the music I‘ve been listening to... old crap that's been mused-up), and I think I needed to escape the fandom for a while. Which I’ve done. Like a breath of fresh air when you’ve spent the day in the mechanic’s shop! Well... maybe that’s a bit extreme. Anywho, here’s chapter seven, nice and long to make up for lack of updates. There’s also an alternate scene... which... erm, you can blame/worship Isabel for once I post it. Contains graphic sex! Ha!I’d like to thank Isa for the fantabulous beta. I know I killed your Saturday... but thank you muchly as always!
Chapter Seven: Dinner and A Walk to Remember
They parked in the garage and opened the back gate, slipping inside without the dogs' immediate notice. A howl that more resembled a rooster's crow echoed into the sky and wind as Levonne came sprinting through the crisp grass like a greyhound on the racetrack, Rascal bumbling along not far behind, growling and barking until he saw Elijah -- the dogs leapt over to him, jumping and pawing at his legs. Sylvie stood still hoping she wouldn't be noticed, but Levonne sensed a presence alien to the norm. As before, she growled at Sylvie's feet and snapped viciously."Levonne! Stop that!" Elijah shouted. She cowered behind him, swinging her tail beneath her long body and flopping onto her side submissively.
"Elijah," Sylvie looked over at the house and saw a blonde woman standing there, who she presumed to be his mother. "When you come inside I want you to help me with dinner," she smiled at Sylvie, "Hi Kaylie sweetheart, how are you? Did you change your hair recently?"
"Oh! Mom, this is Sylvie, Sylvie, Mom." At his mother's confused look Elijah explained with more clarity. "Sylvie’s a friend. She’s staying for dinner."
"Well the rule in my household is: ‘You can eat it, as long as you help make it.’" She smiled sweetly at them, "So I'll see you inside."
"K," they said in unison. Elijah bent down and scooped Levonne off the ground. She wriggled in his arms, wagging her tail and licking his cheek. He laughed, her snout tickling his bare skin. Sylvie smiled at them, at a loss for what to do, until finally Elijah grinned at her and said, "Wanna go in?"
The house smelled of mint, roses, water, lemons, and the chicken that was roasting in the oven. It was perpetually discouraging; Sylvie just couldn’t figure out how his house could smell like water. Water. It seemed that some of the scents were stronger in particular rooms: the living room, for instance, smelled like freshly diced mint leaves; while on passing his mother’s room down the watery hall, drifted the scent of roses; Hannah’s room smelled of lemons; and the kitchen brought everything together -- along with chicken.Elijah’s sister didn’t seem to appreciate Sylvie’s odd behavioral sniffing, and before she could try to mask it, Elijah noticed and just had to ask.
"Uh, Sylvie, what’re you doing?"
Offended, embarrassed, confused, and rather amused all at the same time, she stumbled over her words. "I -- uh, your ... the kitchen smells ... like ... lemons, and ... mint ... among other things." She smiled, puzzled. "It’s interesting ... I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled anything quite like it."
Hannah had never really liked many of the girls her brother brought home, but that night Sylvie bordered on the pinnacle of abnormalities.
Hannah silently vowed to find a suitable woman for him before this ... ‘friend of his‘ could manipulate him into a snuffling sack of --
"LOLITA GLASSES!" Sylvie shrieked, picking up the heart-shaped sunglasses and examining them with the utmost enthusiasm. She looked over at Hannah, "Are they yours?" She nodded. "Can I try them on?!"
Hannah smiled casually, desperately wishing she could protest against this act without sounding rude."Sure, go ahead."
The heart-shaped sunglasses made Sylvie look like a wannabe nymphet -- Hannah pursed her lips, unnoticed, brooding over the fact that Sylvie was much prettier in them than she -- though that was probably on account of Sylvie‘s being a true Lolita. Elijah chuckled as he picked up a potato and began skinning it.
"Elijah, you’re getting potato peels everywhere!" his mother screeched as she into the black and white tiled kitchen. "Here," she said, coming over to him and snatching away the potato and the peeler, "peel them over the sink, that way you won’t get potato skin all over my clean kitchen." She demonstrated this and Elijah scowled wretchedly.
"Mom! I was peeling it over the sink!" he whined.
"Obviously you weren’t. Now, don’t give me excuses. Just do it over the sink, it’s not that hard. You make it sound like I want you to swim to India!" With that said, Sylvie watched through purple lenses as his mother handed him the potato and peeler back and rinsed her hands before turning to the refrigerator to pull out some vegetables. "Now what are you girls doing?" she asked with her back turned.
"I’ll set the table," Hannah offered. Her mother consented to this and told Sylvie she could help Elijah peel potatoes. So Sylvie removed the glasses, washed her hands, and picked up a knife and a potato, warning Elijah that she would most certainly be expelled from culinary school. Elijah, taking her admonition as a joke, laughed but soon realized she hadn’t been kidding as she mutilated potato after potato. Elijah’s mother kept staring at the chunks of potato and peels splattered about her kitchen; it almost looked as though she were about to cry, which left a very guilty sensation in the pit of Sylvie’s stomach.
Luckily, Debra Wood had been set on garlic mashed potatoes, so shape didn’t matter much. Through dinner, Elijah’s mother questioned Sylvie on all sorts of matters and was pleased to find that cooking ability was one of her lesser faults."Journalism! Is that difficult?" his mother asked in fascination. She’d come to like this Sylvie character more than she’d expected.
"Well, no, not really difficult. Interesting though, I mean, someday I could interview serial killers and psychiatrics specializing in homicidal maniacs -- that’d be interesting too. Tinkering around in people’s psyches like that... I thought about being one. But I’ve been told I have a knack for interviews and reports."
Pointing at Elijah with her fork, Debra commented with annoyance, "Wish Frodo-boy would stop dinking around with elves and fairies and get himself a good education." She took a sip of water before continuing; Elijah scowled horribly. "I mean it’s nice that he has a steady-ish job and all, but for someone who can’t even wake up early to take the trash out on Mondays-"
"I take the trash out!" He whined in defense.
"...On occasion. When I ask you to. But you don’t mow the lawn, do laundry, dishes, vacuum; you just sit in the guesthouse like it’s your own private cottage in Lake Tahoe, and then raid the refrigerator." Debra sliced some chicken.
Sylvie was biting her tongue and in any second she was sure it would be pierced.
"MINOR DETAILS!" Elijah hollered. "Anyway, you never think about all the stress I go through. All the teeny-boppers trying to molest me and Tolkien fans with a price on my head..."
"SO THAT’S THE MOVIE YOU WERE IN!" Sylvie cried. "You were the little Hobbit-man?! Ha!"
"Yes... the little Hobbit-man. Thanks. Now mom has something new to call me besides ’Frodo-boy’." Elijah rolled his eyes and Sylvie went on cackling in amusement.
Hannah brooded in a relatively "dark corner" of the table and didn’t say much.
"Gee, thanks for having me for dinner Mrs. Wood. The lemon chicken was delicious!""Oh it was no problem Sylvie dear! You’re more than welcome to come over for," -- she budged Elijah and grinned -- "SPAGHETTI NIGHT! That’s on Tuesdays."
Unsure what to say to that, Sylvie replied, "Mmm! Sounds yummy!" No wonder this poor child had never eaten Mediterranean food, if he ate spaghetti on a regular basis... Debra bustled off towards the kitchen, and she smiled at the Hobbit-man. "One of these days, Elij-ah-choo!" Sylvie sneezed.
"Bleshoo," he smiled.
"Thanks. One of these days, you’re going to have to learn how to make enchiladas."
He shuddered. "Nuh-uh."
"ELIJAH YOU DIDN’T WALK THE DOGS!" his mother nagged as she came back into the room.
"There’s only one of me! You complain that I don’t do anything but I’ve been busy all day! You know some hoochie asked for my number this afternoon. You need to take these things into perspective before you reprimand me for not choosing a career as a house-cleaner."
She eyed him skeptically, "Get off your high horse," she told him, pointing at the dogs and glaring at her son.
"Elijah..." Sylvie grinned, "Gettin’ lucky in Kentucky! Y‘know I read that off a shirt... but, get it? Like, ‘Get off your high horse‘, Kentucky derby, horses, getting lucky... betting! Gamblers! Ha!"
However, Elijah wasn’t paying attention to Sylvie as he grabbed the leashes and called the dogs. He handed her the end of Levonne’s leash. Sylvie gnawed her lip as she watched the dog jump about in excitement.
"You do get it, right?"
"Yeah. Cute." With that he turned the doorknob and off they went on yet another ‘unique‘, per say, adventure through the multi-cultured Santa Monica residential district.
Once again, Sylvie was enchanted by the architecture and dinners she could catch drifting on the wind: barbecues, steaks, hamburgers, hotdogs. It suddenly occurred to her that vegetarian food didn’t have a very strong aroma. But then, maybe she was overlooking the scent of freshly mowed grass, the roses they passed, morning glory vines draped over gates and terraces, passion flowers winding around the plain lattices, contrasting greatly with the hypnotic patterns and vibrant colors giving the illusion of an elaborate quilt design. Still, she hoped these summer-feasting-Americans were eating salad with their meals, controlling their cholesterol and reducing their high risks for heart-disease.Click. Skid. Click, click. Skid. Click. Skid.
The dogs’ nails needed to be clipped. Dogward Scissor-paws, Sylvie mused. Elijah was dragging his shoes over the pavement as though it were ice. If he continuously walked around like this, he’d sooner have a hole in the bottom of his shoe, instead of above the toe. It’s a good thing he isn’t sporty, thought Sylvie, if he played soccer his cleats would be flat in no time. What jock wears Converse’s anyway?
"So..." Elijah began, trying to break the silence. "Did you hear about that Fruit of the Loom factory that got flooded?"
Slightly thrown off by the abrupt and irrelevant question, it took her a moment to respond. "Um... No... I didn't," Sylvie gave him an awkward glance as he took a breath, tugging Rascal away from a bush he was avidly sniffing.
"Think of all the drenched, mildewy underwear that they'll be giving to the orphanage! We're not compassionate anymore, it's disgusting!"
Sylvie snorted, "'Elijah where have you been?! You look like drowned underwear!'"
They laughed and this sparked curiosity for Elijah, "What kind of underwear would I be?"
"...Boxers." Sylvie replied after a moment of thought.
"Boxers? I swore you were going to say a thong. That or a bra..."
"No, thongs aren't funny anymore, and your personality really isn't 'Miss Wonder-Bra' material... Drippy, saggy boxers ... that's what you'd be."
"Are you calling me drippy?"
"No, I'm calling you saggy."
He scoffed, hurt, "How am I saggy? Ya know I could be a lot worse with these pants..." he motioned towards the blue jeans that, unlike most boys his age, covered his toosh. "Sagging so low it's obscene. Make my movies NC-17's, and keep away all the thirteen year old teenyboppers."
Smiling albeit with mild cynicism, Sylvie mused, He really hates those teenies... "No, it's the hair," she responded nonchalantly. "It screams 'SAGGY'!"
"Well you're pointy!" He shot back in defense.
"POINTY?!" She looked affronted, "Where in the hell do you get 'pointy'?!"
"Dunno... first thing that popped into my head," he confessed. The street was evolving into a gravel path, the sidewalk dissipating slowly and becoming quite sandy. They could see ahead of them the beach roaring with surfers who were adamant that they could catch one more wave before heading home, the sky was beginning to dim and it was looking to be a foggy, misty night. "So! What kind of underwear do you wear?" Elijah asked, oblivious to the aforementioned spectacle that had lost its specter over the time Elijah had lived in California.
Sylvie’s eyes bugged and she turned to give an incredulous look to Elijah, shrieking, "EXCUSE ME!?"
"I wear boxers, what do you wear?" He answered, unceremoniously.
"I'm not going to tell you that... that's between me and my underwear drawer." Sylvie said assertively.
"What about your boyfriend?" Elijah suddenly felt stupid for asking, but all the same, curious.
"I don't have a boyfriend." She stated shamelessly. "Boyfriends take too much time and energy -- girlfriends are better. Most of the time. As long as she isn't too g'damn needy... They're better for conversation though, and they're cuter, smarter, have a better sense of style... are more open with each other, and you can TALK to them about relationships, you can never do that with guys. Also I doubt any girlfriends of mine would ever ask me what kind of underwear I wore."
"Oh, Girl Power all the way!" They began transcending down a slope that would end amongst dunes and fill their shoes with sand. At that moment, a thought struck Elijah, "It's pink isn't it?"
"What's pink?" She asked, letting go of Levonne’s leash in attempt to keep upright as she trudged through the sand, grimacing somewhat as particles clung to her shirt.
"Your underwear." Sylvie blushed and focused more intently on standing her ground -- both physically and emotionally. "Ha!" he exclaimed happily, "I was right! Purple flowers?"
"No." He opened his mouth but Sylvie interrupted him. "You're too curious, ya know that!? It's not healthy, and it's rude... walking up to random people and asking what type of underwear they wear and what color it is..." She smirked, "What color boxers do YOU wear?"
They reached the bottom of the hill, unharmed, with aching calves. "Well right now I'm wearing white ones with little chili peppers on 'em -- Here I'll show you!" He seemed a bit too enthused, and began pulling down his pants a bit. Sylvie looked away claiming to be scarred; but in fact was mildly intrigued. Movie star underwear!
She had to bite her tongue on purpose to keep from giggling, thinking happily, Ugh! White with red and green chili peppers! How dorkishly-cute can a person be? No wonder Kaylie likes him so much... Feeling suddenly lonesome at the thought of Kaylie, she remarked, "You are an NC-17 movie," her face crumpled in disgust to hide the pang of hurt.
He threw her a cheeky grin, "Awe, why thank you! I guess I'm not too saggy, otherwise no one would come see me."
"That's true... and you're safe from thirteen year olds." She added thoughtfully. They began walking towards the water’s edge, a bit like a migrating flock of geese, gangly in sizes, tripping over their legs and the sand.
"Amen to that!"
Sylvie shivered a little, it was getting cold, especially with the freezing wind blowing off the ocean at them. "So what exactly happened to the factory? Was it monsoon season? A tsunami? A flood?"
Elijah blinked, suddenly remembering how they had gotten into the conversation of underwear in the first place. "I actually don't know... I just saw a clip for it on the news but didn't watch it."
"Oh..." She sighed, "Well, it probably wouldn't have been appropriate for your feeble mind anyhow, disgusting how men are exposed to women running around in one-hundred-percent-cotton bras and underwear. Damn society. They did this. Them and their idealistic perfect models -- but le'me tell you something: No model is THAT skinny with those big of breasts; unless they're implants."
"Did you know that the average woman today in America, is a size fourteen? And that models in magazines are only size zeros to twos? A size eight is considered a 'plus-size'."
Sylvie scrunched up her nose, smiling halfway. "What have you been doing? Watching The Ananda Lewis Show?"
"Sort of... no... a little... no... maybe..." He stared at his shoes, embarrassed.
"Oh wow... that is so..." Weird? Cool? Amazing? Dorky -- not really. "Unusual to find a man who actually KNOWS a little bit about women -- aside from 'give them chocolate if they're PMSing' -- not to say we don't appreciate that! We do, we love seeing men forfeit Snickers Bars."
"You make us do that even when you're NOT PMSing though! That's just unfair! Our seventy-five cents, being lavished upon you girls with nothing in return!"
Sylvie grinned, "We're just so powerful... There was an episode of Third Rock From The Sun where Sally figured out that women outnumber men and are much more intelligent, and therefore could easily take over the planet. Make you our slaves..."
"Ha! That's what you think! We're stronger than we look," a gleam filled his eyes. "Let's arm wrestle!"
Laughing, Sylvie protested, "No-fucken-way! You men and your animal instincts... it's barbaric really."
"Oh come on! What are you afraid of? Let loose your inner animal!" Elijah pleaded immaturely.
"Or as Freud would call it: my 'Id'." She looked at Elijah, a hopeful look on his face. "No, I won't reduce myself to such beastly antics."
“Thumb wrestle then," he went on. "That's HARDLY beastly, ya know ya wanna..." He grinned, and tilted his head reminding Sylvie of a cockatiel. "Please?" His eyes wide and the color of blue-raspberry suckers.
“Alright..." Sylvie sighed in defeat.
"YES! Two out of three." He proclaimed before snatching Sylvie's hand and gripping her fingers. "One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war..." She had to laugh at the childish words; they smiled as their thumbs tackled one-another, but in the end, Sylvie was victorious. "I let you win..." Elijah shot in faux-bitterness.
She giggled, "Of course you did..."
"Fine! I want a rematch!" he declared.
The thought was intriguing, and Sylvie nodded, smiling shyly. "Yeah, alright. May the best brunette win."
"Blue eyes always beat green eyes," he stated pompously.
"Blue-eyed brunettes are so alienated, I bet they didn't even exist until scientists screwed around with DNA..."
Elijah scoffed, "I'm not alienated! You... Mara-Jade wannabe!"
"Who the hell is Mara-Jade?!"
"Star Wars! Hello!" he cried, as though it was household information. "Haven't you ever read-"
"SEE! You ARE an alien!" Sylvie roared in delight, pointing her finger into his face for emphasis.
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Come on, let's play..." He took Sylvie's hand and recited the rhyme before they began duking it out again. "I win!" Elijah’s face held imitation-triumph.
Sylvie laughed, "Awe, poor thing... He's so torn up about losing that he can't comprehend anymore!" She said to the imaginary Liz standing beside her, she shook her head and Elijah glanced at his shoes.
"Don't pity me, I like it this way," he grinned.
What was this relationship with Elijah anyway? Sylvie pondered as she came home later that evening. It was childish and amusing, it allowed her inner-child to play to the equivalent of somersaults on mats and story-time. It was giving her more to think about than the ordinary job-school-Liz-bills-mother, in fact, so was Kaylie. Maybe Elijah was a distraction. Or possibly the only fun thing in her life at the moment aside from Liz and the Discovery Channel -- but wasn’t Kaylie fun? Kaylie didn’t exist anymore than the Dodo bird, Sylvie was failing to realize. Kaylie didn’t like Sylvie, that much was apparent, but still, as all lovers with little options do, Sylvie wasn’t able to admit this. In her besotted mind, Kaylie was her Aphrodite, her elusive fairy-tale princess, her surely-meant-for-me, and thus making every sappy love song played on the radio trigger an emotion with her. So what was Elijah? The Dopey-dwarf? Cute, sweet, dopey, and rich from the diamond-mine? Elijah was a nice thought but her mind kept wandering to Kaylie’s sweet smile, and flowing hair --
"Flowing?" Liz interrupted.
"Well, you’ve never seen it, Liz. It’s like golden-brown leaves, perfectly roasted marshmallow--"
"Oh, Sylvie come off it." She yawned and squirmed into her pillow. "Is there anything else I can help you with? Or can I sleep?"
"Well... you know I told you the other night when I called Kaylie and that other chick answered the phone?" Liz raised an eyebrow, a sign to continue. "Well, Elijah wasn’t thrown by that at all... which I find disturbing."
"Disturbing? Or unnerving? Or simple jealous and angered?"
"All of the above." She hesitated momentarily, wondering how Liz would take to her suspicions -- would she in fact dub her qualms faulty and superfluous or hear her out? "Liz, I really wonder if something’s up between those two. I mean, Rosa seemed awfully defensive and belligerent."
Shrugging, Liz replied, "There could be. Or maybe they‘re just blanket-sisters."
"You and your Tori Amos obsession! Blanket-sisters! I can probably sing that entire song sans the music thanks to you!"
"Tori’s my goddess. And you’re my blanket-sister." She giggled at the face Sylvie made. "Oh come on! You like some of her stuff!"
"Some..." Sylvie complied, grating her hypothesis to shreds as she began unconsciously chewing her lip. "I just wonder about Rosa, you know? I wonder what her deal is exactly."
"Well you probably won’t find out. Unless you pursue it -- which I advise you don’t. Kaylie might put a restraining order on you." Liz joked.
"And why would she do that?"
~~~
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