After Effects of Mint Ice Cream

Every person has their foibles. Weird little idiosyncrasies and mad addictions that have no basic explanation besides the general tendency for weirdness that is human nature. In my case, one of those odd little addictions is mint.

Honest to the Gods, I love it. Mint tea, mint paratha, mint rice, mint chutney, mint chocolate, mint ice cream, mint cakes, mint mints, you name it. The lot. The works.

It kind of went a bit overboard today. I has three scoops of mint ice cream from the local Ibaco with an armload of topping that I'm not proud of and promptly went into an insane sugar high. Oh, and after having a mug of coffee.

Really. Went nuts. Uncontrollably nuts. I was practically bouncing off the walls; too much energy. I was watching the Avengers and cheering like a madcap at every damn scene. Much of it went along the lines of, "LOKI IS OUR KING, SO KNEEL, BITCHES!!", punctuated with "ROOAAAARRR!!" whenever the Hulk came on and general woots for Monsieur Brilliant Tony Stark. Can't blame me. It's just raw, unadulterated awesomeness and badassery.

Yep. Shit just got real. 

 You know, I know the Tony Stark is supposed to be the funny of the movie, but personally, I find Thor remarkably hilarious. Honestly, have you heard the bloke talk? It's like he takes his dialogues out of a Camelot movie and puts them in in Capslock.

THOR: Have a care how you speak! Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard and he is my brother!
BLACK WIDOW: He killed eighty people in two days. 
THOR: He's adopted.

Not to mention the hair and the hammer. The pinning under the hammer thing was just too funny.

Anyhoo, Avengers aside. I've calmed down a bit, now that the movie's over, I ran around the block a few times, did a number of jumping jacks, did a couple of rounds of impromptu drunk giraffe dances, had a few Matt Smith moments during my twinkle-toes sequences, freaked out my neighbor by perching myself atop the high garden wall and sang a slew of French songs along with 'Hey Jude' in the shower.

Now, to breathe. Hehhhhhhh-hoooooooooooooo.

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple : Long Distance

Rose was bored. She was generally one to keep herself occupied, but her boredom was less to do with her activities and a bit more to do with where she was.

It wasn’t that she disliked living with her aunt in Montana. It reminded her a bit of her childhood home in Glasgow, where she had grown up as a child, and she liked going to the parks and hiking around the mountains on weekends with her friends Jen and Mick. They were dear people and she loved them to pieces, but it still made her alternate between melancholy and aggravation whenever she went out with them.

It was simpler when we were just kids, she thought moodily as she lay on her stomach, chewing on the end of her pencil. She scrolled through her emails, sighing when she came up with nothing.

“Rose?” Her aunt poked her head into the room, glancing at the odd combination of fairy lights and origami butterfly mobile with her Sandman and Batman wall posters. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“I’m sure, Auntie Ailie,” she replied. “Jen’s mum had made meatloaf. She’s determined to fatten me up.”

“Quite right,” her aunt agreed with a decisive nod. She spoke in the American accent that Rose had never been able to pick up. “You’re really too skinny for your own good, Rosie.”

“Oh, don’t call me that, Auntie!” she groaned.

Ailie Connors sniffed from her place in the doorway, crossing her arms. “You let that John McDonald call you ‘Rosie’,” she complained. “I’m your aunt! Aren’t I allowed a sweet little endearment?”

“Anything but Rosie.”

“Specially reserved, is it?”

Rose frowned. “Auntie…” she began in a warning tone.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like how you get so mopey whenever you come back here after your holidays! It’s as if you don’t even like living here and you know how much Uncle Dave and I love you! What are we supposed to think?”

“Oh, Auntie, it’s not like that,” she protested, sitting up and swinging her legs off her bed. “I love you guys and I love living here. I just miss him, that’s all.”

Ailie stepped in and held Rose’s face between her hands. “I love you too, sweet. I can’t believe you’ll be gone next year.”

“I won’t be gone, Auntie, just…displaced. Come on, you like John!”

“He’s a little too old for you,” she complained, threading her fingers through Rose’s hair.

“It’s only four years. That’s not so much! And don’t tell him that, please. Lord knows I’ve had to beat that out of his head with a cricket bat to get him to ask me out. And you do like him. You said so yourself that time when he fixed the radiator in your car and named every constellation in the sky.”

“I don’t dislike the boy; I just get scared at how attached to him you are. Jen and Mick miss you here and even when you’re around, it’s like you leave a piece of you with him.”

Rose looked down at her slippers, feeling immeasurably guilty then. She, Jen and Mick had been inseparable ever since she moved to America after her parents’ deaths. They had done everything together, but as the years went by, Mick had started spending more time with Trisha Hill and Jen had become attached at the hip to Lizzie Night. Rose had had the occasional boyfriend, but nothing had ever been concrete until she had met John.

“I’ll talk to them in school tomorrow,” she promised. “Mick’s out with Trisha tonight and Jen’s studying for English.”

Ailie raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

“I don’t need to study that rubbish,” Rose snorted, crossing her legs on her mattress and rocking back and forth. “I know it all.”

“But you were having trouble understanding that bit in Hamlet…”

“John explained it to me last night.”

“Oh, did he now?”

Rose shrugged. “Apparently, he played Hamlet once in a school play. It was a one-off theater gig, but looks like he was a hit. He’s a closet Shakespeare nut.”

Ailie shook her head. “No wonder you like him so much. Anyway, if you get hungry later, there are leftovers in the fridge. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.” Ailie threw her a small and a quick goodnight before exiting. “Much,” Rose muttered under her breath.

Exhaling in a sigh, she flopped onto her back and kicked off her slippers, wiggling her toes. She had known that John would become a fixture in her life the day she met him. He had tagged along with his best friend Jack, who had been visiting his cousins, one of whom had conveniently been Jen. She still remembered barging into her house with a banged knee and messy hair, professing loudly about how she was never going to trust Mick ever again and that if he dared to bring her three feet within range of a skateboard, she would pound him. Jack had chortled merrily and thrown her a flirtatious wink, for which Jen had promptly smacked him upside the head. John had introduced himself with a bright grin and had quipped that even he had tried skateboards once and had decided that not everyone was made to be Marty Mcfly. She had responded to that with, “Great Scot!”, making a delighted pun on his accent.

“You know, Rosie Rose, as lovely as you are and as happy as I am that you finally installed that webcam, it is rather frustrating that the first view I get of you is that of your feet.”

Rose rolled over immediately and scooted forward to her laptop screen where John was throwing her an amused smile from the Skype window.

“You’ve got a problem with my feet?” she asked, pretending to be offended.

“Oh, no, of course not. Your feet are very much…feet-ish. I just prefer your face.”

She laughed merrily and found herself glowing at the sight of him, freckled face, messy hair, brown eyes, big smile, gangly body, all of him. They had ditched the idea of phones early on seeing the resulting bills and sent emails and chatted as often as they could with their respective schedules, but she had not seen his face in nearly two months.

“I prefer your mug to your toes as well, Indy,” she beamed, “speaking of which…” She reached to one side, grabbing something off her table. “Thanks for the hat!” She dropped a fedora atop her head.

“I knew it was with you,” he grumbled.

“I was waiting for the webcam to tell you,” she grinned. “You’re not getting it back.”

“Yes, I am. That hat is on rent to you, missy.”

“You wish. I keep the hat, you keep the name.”

“Shared commodity?” he offered.

Rose raised a brow. “You’re in a generous mood.”

John’s eyes softened at that behind his half-rimmed reading glasses. “It’s a special day, so I’m willing to be generous. I’ve missed you.”

“Jack and Ian aren’t keeping you entertained?” she joked.

“You’re prettier than they are.”

“I won’t argue with that.” The corner of Rose’s mouth tilts up a bit higher as she touches the mildly pixelated face smiling broadly at her from her laptop screen. “I’ve missed you too, you idiot.”

“Such tender endearments,” he chuckled. “It’s a good thing I know your code.”

“My code?”

“You know, the one you use on me: the one where you call me an idiot when you actually mean ‘I love you’.”

“You’re a genius detective, you are,” she replied. “You’re wasting your time at college. Quit, get a mild-mannered flatmate, a pipe, violin and a deerstalker hat and change your name to Sherlock.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like deerstalker hats. It flattens my hair and makes it look like a mushroom cut.”

Rose copied his action. “Don’t ever wear deerstalker hats. They’re evil. And the name Sherlock isn’t for everyone.”

“You just like my hair.”

“Yes, yes, I do, and not one word from you, or I will puncture your ego.”

“You exist to wound me, love.”

“We’re both masochists in this relationship,” she shrugged, breaking off with a big yawn.

“Go to sleep, insomniac. You have an English test in the morning. Did you even study for it?”

“No need to. I got Hamlet to explain the whole thing to me.”

“Nice bloke, is he?”

“The best. Bit of a royal pain in the arse, but he’s also a complete nerd and a pathetic fanboy, so I’ll forgive him anything.”

John raised an amused brow. “Should I be worried, Rosie Rose?”

“Never,” she said confidently before blinking sleepily. “I’m tired, but I’m not tired enough to sleep,” she complained. “Talk to me?”

“Are you insinuating that I put you to sleep, Miss Carmichael?”

“I just want to hear your voice. Talk to me?”

“Alrighty then. Let us conduct tonight’s debate on the age old dilemma: a TARDIS or a Delorean?”

“TARDIS,” Rose muttered.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “Hands down. Star Wars or Star Trek?”

“I want to be awake for that.”

“How about I read you some Shel Silverstein?”

Rose smiled sleepily at John’s face. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Occasionally,” he beamed. “I could always stand to hear it again.”

“I love you.”

“Good. Close your eyes, study slacker.”

“Give me good dreams.”

“Yes, ma’am. Invitation by Shel Silverstein. ‘If you are a dreamer, come in…”

Rose fell asleep with a smile on her face. The next day, she aced her test. 

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Cooking Fiascos

Rose shuffled into the kitchen, mouth wide open in a yawn as she tugged on one earlobe. “G’mornin’,” she mumbled as she scratched her head.

“Afternoon’s more the word, Rosie Rose,” John replied, tweaking her nose.

“Seriously?” She stared at the wall clock incredulously. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

“Firstly, because it’s Sunday. Sundays are officially lie-in days; doing otherwise is pretty much against the law. Also, you sleep like you’re dead.”

“I do not!”

“I’ve seen cadavers that offer better response than sleeping you. And you’re a nightmare when I try to wake you up.”

Rose smirked. “You’re just sore,” she teased.

“You kicked me in the chin!”

“You were bouncing up and down on the bed!”

“I was trying to wake you up!”

“I don’t like being woken up rudely,” she replied in a prim tone.

“You’re a violent woman. Sally called whilst you were snoring away.”

“Shut up, I don’t snore. What did she want?”

“She wanted to talk,” he replied simply. “She sounded halfway between teary-faced and flaming temper.”

“Good, she finally broke up with Rick then.”

“You mean, he broke up with her.”

“Nah, she’s been planning to dump him for ages.”

“’The A-Team’ tonight says that he left her,” John challenged.

“’Moulin Rouge’ says the other way around. You’re on. Is there any coffee?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis. “We’re all out; have to go buy more.”

Rose stared at John with an expression of abject dismay, her voice a tortured whisper. “We have no coffee?”

“Nope,” he repeated.

Rose still stared at him as if he had trampled on her pet cat. “My morning caffeine…” she whimpered.

“Hush, madwoman,” he chided, ruffling the darkening top of her blonde head. “Anyways, no coffee in the afternoon, missy. You’re going straight for lunch.”

“I want my coffee,” she pouted. “I get grumpy if I don’t have my coffee in the morning.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “the morning is long gone and you’re cute when you sulk.” He pinched her cheek teasingly and moved over to the hob to add freshly chopped peppers into the pot.

“Sadistic bastard,” she muttered at him. Strolling forward, she leaned over the bubbling concoction in the pot, giving it a suspicious sniff. “Exactly what kind of stew is this?” she asked.

“This, Rosie Rose, is an old family recipe,” replied John loftily, sprinkling salt over it and turning up the heat on the hob. “I could tell you what has gone into it, but then,” he sighed dramatically, “I would have to kill you.”

“Nah, you won’t,” she quipped. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Sadly, I’m caught in a situation where I must agree with you.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” she sighed sarcastically.

“Indeed.  Nice pajamas, by the way.”

Rose looked down at her black and white Mickey Mouse pajama pants. “You got them for me, if I remember right.”

“Yes. And we nearly broke up because of the T shirt,” he recalled.

Rose snorted. “We made up properly afterwards,” she pointed out.

His smirk stretched across his face. “Yes, we did. A proper game of Beauty and the Beast.”

“I get to be the Beast next time.”

“Oh, I look forward to it.”

“And Iron Man could kick Captain America’s ass any day and you know it.”

“Let’s not start that again, yeah?” he suggested. “You were up late last night on that project of yours which would have gone doubly fast if you had just let me help you…”

“I told you I want to try doing it myself! I won’t learn anything if you keeping doing it all for me!”

“Your loss,” he groused. “Bloody useless. You date a right veritable genius and don’t even let him help you in the teensiest little way…”

“Your modesty blinds me.”

“Anyway,” he continued, changing tack, “you lost all of today’s lovely morning slumbering into your pillow, missed my famous chocolate chip waffles and you’re finally awake in time for me to make you a wee bit of lunch. So let’s keep things nice, eh?”

Her mouth quirked in a sideways smile as he tapped her on the head with his ladle and pecked her on the nose. “Fine, no Avengers debates,” she agreed, “for now.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, the compromises of a relationship with a nerdy twit.”

“Takes one to know one, love,” she said sweetly, approaching the hob. “But really, what’s in here?”

“Can’t say,” he said simply. “Top secret. You’d have a whole highland clan on your heels with torches and pitchforks if I even breathed as much as a word.”

“Oh, come off it,” she snorted.

“Don’t mess with family, Rose,” said John gravely. “We Highlanders take our secrets very seriously.”

“Highlanders, Lowlanders, come on, we’re all Scots here! You’re seriously fussing because I’m Glaswegian and you’re neighbors with Nessie?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m fussing because it’s a family recipe and unless you marry me, you’re not allowed to know.”

Rose’s head jerked up to stare at him in mute question. He merely smiled airily and hummed an odd tune as he stirred the bubbling contents of the pot. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t need you to tell me anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what’s gone in here.” She peered closely into the pot on the hob, squinting as steam floated around her face. “Potatoes, chicken squares, peppers, mozzarella shreds, basil, oregano….” Her expression shifted into one of horror. “Oh my God, is that a…”

“No peeking.” John dragged Rose away from the pot by one of her pigtails. “If you want to help the chef, run along and grab some plates. Put a good movie on and wait for him to complete his masterpiece. Make up a few songs about how wonderful his stew will be, and if that’s too difficult for you, just do what the apron says.”

Rose threw a sardonic look at his purple ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron before trying to elbow past him to get back to the hob.

“You’re mad!” she squawked as John’s arms grabbed around her midriff to keep her away from his precious stew. “You’re completely bloody barking mad! No idiot in hell would put…”

“It’s the whole flavor!” he grunted as Rose tried to bat away his hands with a soup ladle. “I told you: it’s a family recipe and that means you’re not allowed to argue with it!”

Rose fell limp in his grasp and changed course, moving for the spice rack instead. She rooted through the bottles, muttering to herself, before grabbing one with a triumphant exclamation.

“At least add a bit of this in there!” she pleaded, shoving the bottle in his face. “It’ll alleviate the flavor!”

He wrinkled his nose as he read the label, his eyes crossing from the proximity. “Not a chance,” he snorted. “Now shoo! Go watch ‘The Lion King’ or something. Call me when the songs come on.”

“I am not eating that nosh unless you fix it!” Rose darted under his arm towards the hob.

“There’s nothing to fix!” he argued, pulling her away by the waist.

“Let go of me, you oaf! I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t need help! Give it to me!”

“I’m never marrying you if you don’t fix it!”

“You love me too much to not! Give me that!”

Rose squeaked as he tried to tickle her to make her drop the spice. She ducked under his arm, scampering out of the kitchen, bottle still in hand. He pursued her into the living room, chasing her around the furniture as they both tried to avoid bumping into the TV. He blocked her path as she tried to slip back into the kitchen and vaulted over the coffee table, pinning her to the couch. The spice bottle slipped out of her hand in the midst of the scuffle, flew out the balcony and down three floors. Silence fell between them as they stared at the spot in the sky where the spice bottle had been for a fleeting moment. 

“Well, that’s that.” Rose threw a dirty look at John’s smug smile. “Rubbish spice anyways. I don’t even know why we had it. Bad luck, Rosie Rose!” he sang.

His triumphant cackle morphed into a horrified yell as he entered the kitchen. Rose poked her head in to see him switching off the hob and batting madly at the air where the pot had started to spew smoke. He threw a mug of water over it before the alarms could go off and staggered back, staring despondently at the thick charred sludge that had once been his stew. Rose sidled up next to him, rocking back on the heels of her bare feet.

“Pizza?” she chirped, beaming at him with the sunniest expression she could muster.

He grimaced at the ruin in his stew pot before exhaling in a defeated sigh. “Pizza,” he agreed.

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Spiderman, The Musical

Say it now, say it now
Explain to me
Why this happens to me every time
Give me a clue or tell me why
I just can’t walk away…

“Ye Gods, they’re turning Spiderman into a B-Grade chick flick.”

“If you look closely, you can actually see some undertones of High School Musical.”

“I know: that scene in the second one where Vanessa gets all ‘oh, you’re being so mean’, and Zac Efron starts singing while he’s crying…”

“That’s the one.”

Rose sniffed contemptuously, sinking in her seat and grimacing at the stage where the two actors 

were singing their heart-rending duet.

“The only saving factor in this thing are the funky lights and sets,” she groused. “And the costumes; they’re kind of Alexander McQueen meets Lady Gaga. But honestly, ‘Sinister Six’? Which idiot came up with that name?”

“The same idiot who came up with a name like ‘Batman’.”

“Don’t start!” she warned. “We already did the dramatic exit sequence in the restaurant! We’re gonna be blacklisted there from now on!”

“Ssshh!” hissed a voice from behind them. John and Rose threw apologetic glances behind them and turned their eyes back to the stage.

“Broadway is supposed to be complete and utter musical magic,” Rose sighed, gazing sorrowfully at the actors, who were finishing their song.

“This is your first time on Broadway?”

“No, I came here and watched ‘Cats’ once upon a time when I was a wee lass still in primary. We 

 were visiting my Da’s sister, Marie, here in New York, and she took us. I had already seen it before on West End, but Broadway was brilliant too.”

“’Cats’ is supposed to be a classic. That explains your fascination with felines.” He made a face.

“Oi, don’t disrespect the cats!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

“I would have expected you to name them something weird then, like Grizabella or Rum Tum Tugger.”

“I did consider naming one Asparagus.”

John wrinkled his nose. “I like the name Biggles, personally.”

She poked him in the side, grinning teasingly. “You like my cats!” she said in a sing-song voice.

“I like their names,” he said defensively. “Biggles, Phantom and Haddock. Fantastic choices.”

“My favorite captain, my favorite hero at the time and my favorite drunk.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t name one Bruce.”

“It could have been after Springsteen.”

He shuddered. “I’ll stick with the Proclaimers, thanks.”

“Sssshhh!”

“Sorry!” John and Rose clamped their mouths shut and tried to concentrate on the show. It wasn’t long before John spoke up, his voice a low murmur.

“I watched ‘The Lion King’ here once,” he remarked.

Rose tuned to stare at him so fast that she nearly got whiplash. “No!”

“Yep.”

“Seriously?”

John’s smile turned smug. “Yep.”

Rose fell back against her seat, scowling petulantly. “I hate you,” she muttered at him.

“No, you don’t,” he grinned. She snorted lightly.

“The Lion King,” Rose groused. “You saw the bloody Lion King here. Ye Gods. Honestly, I think Reeve Carney over there and Bono are the only thumbs ups about this whole shenanigan.”

John snorted. “I’ll agree with Bono. Carney’s a weedy bugger.” He looked at her pointedly. “Don’t tell me you fancy him.”

“He’s easy on the eyes,” she shrugged, turning to look John up and down. “And you’re one to talk about weedy.”

“I’m not weedy,” he said loftily. “I’m trim, tall and I’ve got long legs. I do a lot of running. And you love it.” He poked her on the forehead. “Besides,” he added with a nonchalant air. “The MJ girl’s pretty hot.”

Rose laughed out loud. “Liar! She’s not even your type!”

“And how would you know my type, Rosie Rose?” He raised a brow at her.

“You’re dating me, blockhead,” she knocked him on the head with a knuckle. “The MJ girl is 

definitely not your type. She’s not even a real ginger!”

John fingered a lock of Rose’s yellow hair, glancing at the russet roots. “You’re not even a real blonde.”

“You love it,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue.

“Shut up!” the voices behind them hissed even louder this time.

“Sorry!” they whispered back, huddling lower in their seats. Rose scooted closer to John’s side and let him put his arm around her shoulders.

“At least someone seems to be enjoying this clown show,” she muttered.

“If they fancy seeing a guy in a green Power Rangers mask masquerading as one of the most brilliant 

villains in Spiderman history while belting out jingles on top of the bloody Chrysler building…”

“At least he can sing.”

“I’ll give him that.”

She turned to look up at him. “John?”

“Yes, Rose?”

She blinked her large eyes at him. “Do you like Spiderman?”

“Yes, Rose,” he said gravely, “I do like Spiderman. Do you like Spiderman?”

“Yes, John,” she nodded seriously. “I do like Spiderman.”

“Even though he has powers?”

“The fact that he’s a kid is appealing. New angle.” She smiled brilliantly. “Glad to see we agree on 

something.”

He leaned in closer to her. “Then what the hell are we both doing here?”

“This was your idea, genius.”

“Want to bust out?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she beamed.

“And bowling green you’ll see with meeeeeee!” John suddenly howled along with the actor’s singing. The crowd ruffled angrily as people wheeled around in their seats and yelled at the two of them to shut up.

“We’ll bathe in Brighton,” Rose sang loudly, trying to stifle her giggles. ”The fish you’ll frighten!”

“When you’re in your bathing suit so thin, will make shellfish grin from fin to fin!” John grinned broadly at Rose, doing a little jig as he winked cheekily at her.

“Only the shellfish?” she demanded over the irritated protests of the crowd around them.

“Oh, I’m a shellfish, love!” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “Here come the ushers.” He held out his hand. “Ready to run for it?”

She grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers tightly. “As ready as ever!”

Even as the ushers tried to grab them to escort them out of the theatre, John and Rose vaulted over the seats and slipped around them, running past the angry audience. They didn’t stop until they were out of the theater and far away. Backing up against the wall, they panted for breath, chests aching from giggling. John hoisted Rose up by the hand, which he had not released, pulled her to him, tangling one hand in her hair, and kissed her soundly.

“I love you,” she sighed as she broke away, her arms coiled around his neck.

He winked, pecking her on the nose. “Don’t I know it.”

She slapped his chest playfully. “So what do you want to do now?”

“You want to go back to my apartment?” he asked. “I just got the Avengers DVD. We could watch it to make up for the nosh back there.”

“Just the Avengers?”

“Well,” he dragged the word out, slinging his arm around her shoulders and tugging her against his side. “I’m sure there are plenty of things we could do after to keep us entertained.” He looked at her with a broad grin and waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.

 “Sounds like a plan,” she beamed. Rose looped her arm around his waist and they took off at an easy pace.

“The Avengers are pretty brilliant,” John quipped as they walked, “but everyone knows that the real core of the team is Captain America.” “Iron Man,” Rose said at the same time.

They stopped and stared at each other, eyes narrowing.

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: The Age Old Question

“No. No way. Not possible.”

“Yes. Yes way. Yes, possible. And completely true.”

“You cannot be serious!”

“Oh yes, I can.”

“Really? You honestly think that?”

“I honestly know that, and you’re mad to think otherwise.”

John stared at the girl sitting opposite with an expression suggesting that he had been struck over the head with a sledgehammer. Rose sat placidly in complete contradiction to his horrified stance, watching him with a mild expression. She popped another forkful of fettucine into her mouth, chewing methodically. John sagged in his chair after a moment, turning his eyes to the ceiling, looking despondent.

“I should have known,” he said mournfully. “It was too good to be true.”

“Oh, come off it,” she scoffed.

“It was all a lie. Everything I ever believed was a lie.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Drama queen, she says! Hah!” He barked out a bitter laugh. “It takes me the better part of a year to ask you out…”

“Because you were being idiotic about a number of stupid reasons, which shouldn’t even be reasons at all.”

“And not once in the midst of all that did you care to tell me this!” He pointed an accusing finger at her.

Rose leaned forward and bit at the air, making him draw his finger back. She settled in her seat, a smirk dancing on her lips. “You’re a right mad hatter, you are,” she declared. “At least you’d be a hatter if you were wearing that Indiana Jones fedora of yours, which I am going to steal from you one day, mind. That aside, you’re completely mad.”

He arched a brow at her. “Number one, you’re not getting that hat. It’s worth its weight in gold and you can’t afford that.”

“Thus explaining the usage of the word ‘steal’.”

“You can’t even steal cookies from the jar without getting caught. You breathe through your mouth when you sneak. And number two, I’m mad? This coming from the girl who prefers Bruce Wayne to Clark Kent?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Wayne’s got sharper suits.” 

“Sharper suits?” He straightened and his voice rose to a near squeak. “You’re discriminating based on fashion sense?”

“Sit down, John,” she hissed, her eyes darting around the restaurant. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare! They don’t realize that I’m a Superman worshipper who’s dating a bloody Batman fangirl! And you think that Superman’s useless. How the hell can you possibly call the leader of the Justice League ‘useless’?”

“Duffer in a clown suit,” she said nonchalantly. “Honestly, John, blue and red? He’s like a walking target, practically begging to get caught. At least Batman knows how to hide in the shadows.”

“Superman doesn’t need to hide, that’s for sneaky bastards like the Bat!”

“Stealth is key, love. Batman knows how it works.”

“Cookie jar, Rose,” he reiterated, making her scowl petulantly. “And Batman doesn’t have powers!” He smirked broadly at her with a triumphant look. “Beat that!”

“Batman doesn’t need powers.” She shoved a forkful of pasta into John’s mouth, cutting off his retort. “He’s a normal man who fights crime without having to have fancy-schmancy magical abilities.”

John swallowed the pasta before replying. “Did you seriously just say ‘fancy-schmancy’?”

She shrugged. “You say ‘wibbly-wobbly’.”

“That’s a Doctor Who reference.”

“If the Doctor can get away with ‘wibbly wobbly’ and ‘spacey wacey’, I’m allowed to say ‘fancy schmancy’.”

“Fancy schmancy.” John snorted. “You make him sound like some pixie princess.”

“Don’t pixies like blue?” she asked innocently.

“Treading dangerous grounds here, Rosie Rose,” John warned.

“But honestly, having no powers is a thumbs up. And Batman has a purpose. His parents died right in front of him, showing him the cruelty of the world. He swore his life to fight that.”

“Oh, yes, normal man,” he said dryly. “Trained by ninjas, gear supplied by a quasi-trafficker who nicks technology from the army, bloody huge cave under his manor and behind a waterfall, has a Lamborghini on top of the car, the plane and the bike…”

“A bloody awesome bike.”

“Oh yeah, Rose, normal man. I’m really feeling it.”

“Any normal person can rise up to something like that. Normal people can’t fly or see through solid structures. It’s not relatable at all.”

“And for a reason!” John argued. “If normal blokes had x-ray vision, we’d be stringing up Peeping Toms like sausages! Superman is an honorable gentleman, so he won’t use it for that, and…”

Rose snorted. “Like he hasn’t tried to peek into Lois Lane’s knickers at least once!”

“He’s still a bloke.”

“Thus demolishing your argument.”

“But Lois Lane is his girlfriend!”

“And I’m yours,” replied Rose. “But if I caught you trying to peek at my knickers without my permission, I would beat you with a cricket bat.”

“Rose, if I ended up doing such things when you were not in the mood, I would hand you the bat myself.”

“That’s sweet of you,” she beamed.

“That’s also why I don’t have x-ray vision; so that I don’t have to hand you any cricket bats for peeking at your knickers through your clothes. I fight college professors, not mob bosses and diabolical aliens. Lois Lane is the woman Superman loves, the woman he fights for and I think he’s entitled to glance into her knickers once or twice for all the trouble he goes through. Meanwhile, Brucie Boy parades around Gotham with a different chick on his arm every other hour!”

“It’s an act to protect those whom he loves. Eat your pasta.”

“That is the most terrible excuse I have ever heard. He’s still using women.”

“They know that he’s using them. They’re either twits or they go with it. And he’s a billionaire playboy!” She shrugged. “It’s attractive.”

“So that’s what it is,” John grimaced at her. “It’s because he’s a rich pretty boy. Is that your type, Rosie Rose?”

“Nah, they’re too high maintenance in reality. And your prof calls you ‘pretty boy’.”

“I’m not pretty.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m manly. You all make me sound like the Easter Bunny.”

“You’re as much of a softy. I just like the fact that Batman has no powers. Superman is just a hop and a skip away from Space Ghost, who has six buttons on those wrist thingies of his that do bloody anything in the universe.”

“Superman is alien. A-li-en!”

“Thus validating my point!”

 “Superman lost his whole planet! You want a personal tragedy, it doesn’t get worse than that!”

Rose sniffed. “Meh.”

“You cried buckets when the Doctor said that Gallifrey was gone!” he argued. “Are you planning to eat that?”

“Nah, you can have it,” said Rose as she handed him the garlic bread off her plate of pasta. “That was a tragedy,” she told him. “The Doctor didn’t just lose his planet; he was forced to destroy his home along with his people thanks to the Time War, forcing him to a life of utter loneliness in the great big universe. Superman here lost his planet when he was a wee baby and far too young to remember.” 

He stared at her, mouth half full of bread. “You are so Scottish!”

“Hello, pot, my name is kettle and we’re both black.”  

“His whole planet, Rose,” he reiterated. “His whole bloody planet! All his people! They were all gone, destroyed!”

“And he found out about it after years of blissful oblivion and the only useful thing he really found out from it was that he’s allergic to a green rock from there.”

“That’s it!” He rose to his feet, skittering his chair behind him, and pointed a finger at her. “This is not going to work, Rose!”

“John, I…”

“We can’t be together when our ideals are so different! Goodbye!” Tossing his napkin onto the table, he stalked away.

Rose sighed lightly, throwing an apologetic smile at the people staring at them. She dropped some money on the table, picked up her bag and moved over to stand expectantly at the door, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. A moment later, John ambled towards her, scuffing his converses sheepishly on the ground.

“Yeah…the door…” he mumbled, ruffling his brown hair as her smile widened on her face.

“Uh huh.”

“Wrong way.”

“Yep,” she smiled widely. She took his hands away from his head and patted down the unruly tufts of hair, in spite of their seeming insistence to remain sticking up.

“I can never make a dramatic exit,” he complained.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she sang.

“I never should have signed up for drama club,” he groused.

“You’ve been on stage before.”

“These guys don’t do Shakespeare.”

“More’s the pity,” she chuckled, kissing him playfully on his pout. “You owe me twenty bucks. And I suppose Superman has nice eyes.”

“It’s a start,” he conceded. Throwing a salute to the staring people remaining in the restaurant, they sauntered to the night, holding hands and chortling like loons.