Title: Make a Feast Out of Trouble
Fandom: The Middleman
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: I too wish you were in the woods, because it's no fun having a frustrated poet.
Notes: Set during early S1
The problem with living in a building filled with other young, photogenic artists was, Wendy knew, that idealistic rebel very easily devolved into pretentious jerkwad.
The day they moved into the building, she and Lacey made a solemn vow they would never allow that to happen. Lacey swore on the grave of her first goldfish, Jung. Wendy swore on her high score on Gutwrencher III.
"If I ever become a pretentious jerkwad," Lacey said, "you can lock me in the freezer of that Carl's Jr. across the street."
"If I ever become a pretentious jerkwad," Wendy said, "you can set me on fire."
They shook hands on it, then spat on the ground to seal the agreement.
"That was kind of disgusting," Wendy observed.
"I think you spit better than I do," Lacey replied.
On the third Sunday after wendy started working at Jolly Fats, she woke up when Lacey sprawled across her bed and started singing the chorus of "Cry Me A River." Off-key.
"Lacey," Wendy groaned, scrubbing her eyes before squinting at the alarm clock. "You could've gone with the other song, you know."
"Well, yeah," Lacey said, her hip gouging Wendy's thigh, "but the other one requires dancing. Duh."
"Of course," Wendy replied, then she turned her gaze to Lacey. "I thought you were fundamentally opposed to corsets."
Lacey rolled onto her side. "It's not real. The boning is decorative."
"Decorative boning, huh?" Wendy smirked.
Lacey rolled her eyes, then flipped over, slid under the comforter. "You're not working today, right?"
"Only if I'm lucky," Wendy said, batting away hands intent on tickling. "What are you doing?"
"Did I ever tell you how much I couldn't stand Ben?" Lacey responded.
"Only every day, and twice when he stayed for breakfast," Wendy said.
Lacey wriggled under the blankets, and Wendy caught her breath.
"I hid your weirdly high-tech watch video beeper downstairs," Lacey mumbled against the waistband of Wendy's boxers.
"Of course you did," Wendy sighed, but she held her complaints until after brunch.
Wendy slumped in front of Lacey's worktable and made the saddest, puppy-doggiest face she possibly could.
Lacey glanced up from her posterboard, snorted, then went back to PIGEONS DON'T NEED--
Wendy sighed elaborately, then propped her chin on her hands.
"Bad day?" Lacey finally said, keeping her eyes trained on an extra-bold and curly D.
"Very bad day," Wendy replied.
"Good ice cream bad?"
"Eating a carne asada burrito in front of you bad."
"Eating a vegetarian carne asada burrito in front of you bad," Wendy amended.
"Hm," Lacey replied. She painted an I, then paused. "Will you clean my brushes?"
"I will treat them like my own," Wendy said.
"Good," Lacey said. She foraged in her backpack for a minute before holding up a small paper bag. "Then I can give you this." She set the bag down in front of Wendy, and it clinked.
"Those sound like quarters," Wendy said.
"Because they are quarters." Lacey folded her arms.
"Are you going to make me do the laundry again?"
"No." Lacey rolled her eyes. "I will go with you to the arcade and allow you to humiliate me in one of those stupid zombie army games."
Wendy clutched the bag to her chest. "Really?"
"Really, truly," Lacey said. "As long as you never threaten me with a carne asada burrito again."
Wendy thought it over. "Deal." She paused. "I make no promises on my mother's behalf."
"I would never expect you to," Lacey said. "Come on, before I change my mind."
A/N: Title adapted from RJ Ellman's To A Frustrated Poet.
Linked on halfamoon.