Habit.

Every day spent away with Caleb is usually followed by a day of deprogramming on the part of Batman, who will never accept Caleb's efforts to change or even try harder. Every gentle smile, every healthy suggestion from Caleb is met with suspicion by Batman as an attempt to fool all of us or suck us in only to bring us close enough to poison eventually. To Batman Caleb is a deadly flower with a beautiful bloom. To the unaware (or unprepared), it's when you lean in to smell the fragrant blossom that you realize you've just been poisoned from the fumes.

Oh. I see we're going to have a dramatic reading this Sunday. I wish you had let me prepare something in return. 

Don't be disdainful, Bridget. I just see how easy it is for him to catechiz you into making him the hero of your story when he's nothing of the kind. 

What is it going to take to make you see that people can change? You did. I try and give him credit, soften him a little, make them as alike as they always were. It's kind but cutting.

Did I? I don't know if I have. Authoritarian has shifted to honest at last and I reach him.

You have. At least, I think you have. 

Then listen to me and listen to Lochlan when we tell you to keep your guard up, or we'll have to. 

Noted-

It isn't noted, Bridget. I know you well-

Then you'll know that at any given moment I have an army at my fingertips. 

It's the taken moments I'm concerned with, not the given ones. 

Don't use my words against me. 

I'm trying to protect you. That's all. We'll change the subject. 

He starts talking about holiday parties but his efforts to keep me safe from thoughts of Caleb only serve to keep my attentions on precisely that.

The rest of the drive to church is silent, the only sound the wipers against the glass, grating smoothly across the windshield as we drive under bridges and trees, then sliding easily on the drops that come the moment we leave those temporary shelters.

Maybe if you're free later we could have a walk on the beach? Ah. He does know me after all.

I'd like that. 

Actually I watched and technically they made us long blacks, which I love them for.

Christmas shopping with Caleb is a bit hilarious. He stopped somewhere and ordered Americanos for us to drink while we shopped, which meant I spilled a little, burned my tongue right off the bat and was struggling to finish it even as I realized an hour later it was cold and somewhat not a great idea to have right after lunch.

Lunch was a leftover cinnamon bun that I had for breakfast earlier in the day, also as we had a long list and only a little time, further constricted by the fact that at every turn, if I stopped to look at something too long or said I liked something, Caleb would insist that he buy it for me and I had to talk him down from it every single time. It took ages and we weren't even finished when we were done and we ran out of daylight besides, pulling into the driveway just as the automatic dusk lights flickered warmly on, him profoundly frustrated by that time, and me worn to smithereens because I still have. this. fucking. cold.

But we did accomplish a little bit and anything else I can finish off overnight, as I'll probably still be awake.

Did you enjoy yourself? He texts me later.

You need to learn how to budget, I reply. You would spend a fortune if you buy everything you see that you like.

I don't. I only buy what YOU see that you like, he texts back.

I don't reply.

So it's a Bridget-budget, he texts. A Budget. A Bridget. A Bridgbut.

Give it up. You can't make a portmanteau out of that.

No I can't, he concedes and we're good.

I ducked underneath the basement stairs (fully finished, but it's a storage space) to pull out the big rubbermaid bins of Christmas lights and decorations. Ben resisted, saying they would look after it but none of them fit. Hell, it's a squeeze for me even. I pushed out four huge bins and then realized I was missing one and ducked back in for the last one, and whacked the top of my head squarely and with force against the concrete header. I thought it was painted drywall but nope. It's painted concrete. Christmas decor will now feature tiny birdies and stars circling Bridget's head because ow.

"Stardom can be a guilded (sic) slavery" -Helen Hayes.

I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off her love, drunk from her hate,
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love her the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me
She fucking hates me and I love it.
"Wait! Where you going?"
"I'm leaving you!"
"No you ain't. Come back."
We're running right back.
Here we go again
It's so insane 'cause when it's going good, it's going great
I'm Superman with the wind at his back, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful, I feel so ashamed I snap,
"Who's that dude?"
"I don't even know his name."

I'm just going to stand here and mark the time before I leap off the standard rotation of ballads and death metal into the vapid void of Christmas music, because this is how I roll. I know the moment I click the playlist I won't be able to shield my ears any longer. I've held out a little longer than normal because it's easy to let Lochlan pick the music or I fall into a void of a whole different genre.

(Shotgun shuts his cakehole)

In other news I've grown to be someone so anti-union only because it inconveniences me personally and risks the easy holiday of those I love and can't be with, which seems selfish, like everything else. Way back when I was little and they tried to unionize the show workers, Lochlan told me it was so everyone got paid enough, that we had the benefits we were supposed to have and deserved and so that we would be protected from the awful evil big bosses, the management, the underworld trying to peel a dollar off our backs even as we stood there and shivered and starved, stomachs growling like a thunder rumbling underneath the swelling music like a bass line.

I nodded. That's a really good idea. 

It is, Peanut. It means more for us. He smiled with his hollow cheekbones, starving in a way only teenage boys who never get enough to eat do.

(Oh, my heart.)

Now he still struggles to hold on to his weight but he also still believes in fighting for the little people, the workers, the bottom row front line of any war, corporate or otherwise and I have softened in crying that the world is against me in case my presents don't arrive at their intended targets in time.

It's a step back against the day and I remember who I am and what I came from and I call my loved ones to remind them that if the presents don't come, they will eventually.

Of course they will.

He was pleased with my nostalgia, and how I recalled being there, how I was able to pull myself back out of Caleb's mold, reshaping myself into the gritty little girl Lochlan remembers, the one he poured from that original mold that he made with his own hands, working nights, carving out small divots, forgetting other parts completely (I can't hear, I can't read maps, I can't make a poker face to save my soul, I couldn't save my soul, I can't breathe without affection, I can't pass up a piece of chocolate cake no matter how full I am.) and popping me out, proclaiming me perfect, even though I am far, far from it.

Noodles.

Dragged myself home last night, after asking to leave early and being refused (ha, we were short-handed so please please stay) and Caleb was making dinner. He made spaghetti with roast peppers and garlic bread and a really good wine that mixed well with my cold medicine, which kept wearing off so I would take more and I think I lost track of it completely and had to bail on cleanup help (with approval) so I staggered down to Ben's studio, where he had escaped to after dinner and came up behind him where he sat at the board and I threw my arms around him.

He reached up and pulled me right over his shoulder and into his lap.

See? It's the flannel! It's mag...nétique. 

Is that french, Bee?

Yes, I'm being fancy tonight. 

Ah, I see. It is magnetic. It attracted you. 

Like lint. 

Right. Warm and fuzzy. Little bit. 

Wow. Déjà vu.

Hmm? 

Lil' bit. I think it was the nickname Pa used for Laura in Little House on the Prairie. I could be wrong though. 

What on earth are you talking about?

Best books ever. You should read them. 

Okay. I'm going to escort you upstairs so you can go to bed. This cold has made you delirious. 

Right. But just a little bit. C'est magnifique. 

Christ on a pancake. 

We had those LAST night, remember? Speaking of food, do you want turkey for Thanksgiving? 

No, we've assimilated, remember? 

Oh, thank God. I'm too sick to plan a big fussy dinner this week.

(Update: It wasn't Little House. That nickname was Half Pint. Lil Bit was from Fried Green Tomatoes. Thank you Daniel.)

Hey I've gone viral.

Don't worry. I didn't stay with PJ very long. He was half asleep, but only the top half and didn't want to let me stay in my pajamas. I wanted to stay in my pajamas, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek, ignored his sleepy dismay and went back to my own room where I elbowed my way back to the centre of my bed where I belong and Lochlan pulled me in tight against him and told me somewhat thickly to stop wandering. But he was also hardly awake and so I don't know if he knew I left until later on when he repeated himself. That imprinting? It goes both ways. Even in his sleep he knows of my proximity. Even in his sleep he disapproves if it's too great.

But it's fine because I'm not in any trouble. I put on my big girl shoes and went to work today still sick and came home afterward to find the doctor already here.

Must be viral, he says after looking at my throat, listening to my lungs and generally absorbing all of the hand-wringing and concern of the boys who are all but despondent when I'm sick but somehow loathe to fix it. Sleep? Naw, wake her up. Stay home and rest? No way, there are things to do. Split up her chores? Why? We all have to pitch in around here.

Hide her fucking car keys?

(Yes, you should do that. Seriously.)

But no. So I went and withstood nine hours of complaints and rudeness while holding a hot pot of boiling liquid (and boy, are people brave to bitch when I'm doing that, don't you think?) and a little sweetness here and there and figured out some stuff as I do every day and now I'm home and I made at least three hundred pancakes (that's what it felt like) and cleaned the mirrors and ran the dishwasher and now my chores are done and I can finally, blissfully sleep.

With Lochlan, who reminded me not ten minutes ago that I wasn't to be wandering tonight. He said he'll light a fire and bring up a nightcap for us and it won't be so late or so long and we'll asleep.

I'm so looking forward to that I could cry.

Godless Sundays.

Sleeping in this morning, forehead pressed against Caleb's neck and not even noticing I wasn't in my own bed until I shifted slightly but had space to move and that woke me up, wondering who was missing. Usually I'm packed in tightly in between, just enough room to catch my breath.

I startled awake at the empty space and Caleb just pulled me back in without opening his eyes.

I'm not sure anything beats your version of sleepwalking, Neamhchiontach. Waking up to find you crawling in with me has made my week. 

That's what PJ says too. 

Caleb swears and pushes me away again. I guess that's my cue to go back to my own bed. But when I get there they've left no room for me as Sam is taking up at least three-quarters of the space I had previously and I don't want to wake him or anyone else up trying to reclaim my spot. So I shrug, rub my eyes and head down to snooze with PJ. Might as well make as many weeks as I can. 

Because why lie on the floor when supposedly lying on a fake wicker couch is that much better? YEESH.

Did I mention I finished my shopping for the away folks this week?

Amazing. Also I've procured the advent calendars and new Christmas cards (hard to find black ones, y'all) and wrapping paper (Okay it's not black, it's baby blue with little snowmen all over it and it's cute!) and the two cases of tape that we will probably still run out of.

I even have a couple of gifts for Ruth and Henry already.

But I also have far less time than I did before and that's going to make things tougher this year so I'm trying to get it all done in the next couple of weeks or so. We shall see. Next weekend will be very busy and also I'm sick again (this. goddamned. cold) but Lochlan's been really great about delegating, since I never have the heart to.

We even practiced and I still couldn't do it.

Tell him, Peanut. 

Hey PJ? Can you...uh..find a place that makes that yellow curry I love so much? I miss it. 

You were supposed to ask him to get out the patio set for the gazebo. 

But then I won't have room to lie on the floor anymore.

And you wonder why you don't get better. 

You don't get colds from being cold. You get them from germs! Also the gazebo is heated.

Yeah, okay. I raised you. YOU get them from being cold. I can almost set my watch by it. And the gazebo counts as 'outside'.

You hardly even wear your watch any more. 

Don't change the subject. Also, hey, PJ. Want to help me set the gazebo back up? 

I watch the master but I'll never be able to order my friends around. It just feels too weird. Even for me.

A Sea of trouble.

I'm pretty sure true bliss is lying on the floor of a heated gazebo on a cold sunny Friday listening to the Black Holes album by the Blue Stones and eating Kung Pao noodles out of a microwave envelope.

You can't beat that sort of a morning, actually.

But why are you lying on the floor?

Someone put the patio furniture away for the winter.

That was you, Bridget. 

Well, I think we can get it back out. It's twenty degrees. Winter is clearly over.

An apple a day (will not keep you from getting chased into a pool to be tickled).

And I cannot guess what we'll discover
When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
But I know our filthy hands can wash one anothers
And not one speck will remain

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too

I'm pretty sure being sat on and tickled at the bottom of the pool while he sings Death Cab lyrics at me so loudly and off-key I think I might choke, failing to catch my own breath is a rarity for a random Thursday in late November.

Stop it! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP PLEEEEEEAAAAAASE!!!

And Lochlan stops on a dime, pulling me up out of the rain puddle that found a way to try and fill the pool against Caleb's wishes because it's almost winter.

And so I'm soaked and cold and it's pouring and he's still singing but I don't know the words to this one, I only know it's great, and I wish for monumental payback in the form of holding him down and belting out a Type O Negative or even an Amon Amarth classic in my half-assed growl.

He did make it up to me, slicing up a granny smith apple with tiny slivers of smoked cheese on each and every one, but then he ate half of it. He always eats half of it. We shared the bowlful while we found fresh warm clothes to put on after coming inside and shedding our soaked clothes and then he asked what I wanted to do.

Get a start on Christmas shopping, I said. It might be tough to send things across the country this year.

He nodded. Okay. No music in the truck today though. 

Excuse me? 

It was a song, and I feel like you talking about me singing it made it seem like I was saying those things, and I wouldn't-

Oh, no one thinks you wrote those words, Loch. 

I just mean-

I'm just amazed at how many lyrics you can remember. 

Probably not as many as you, Bridge. 

Oh, I don't know about that. I learned from the absolute best, and that's you for a reason.