YummiYAMZ

"Don't tell me someone like you would rather be stuck behind a desk on a Saturday." He frowned in mock displeasure. "You gotta get out more. Live a little. You don't want to end up like me, now, do you?"

And you would just giggle and shrug, saying how you didn't see the issue. You'd tell Clark that you thought he was a perfectly nice guy and there was nothing wrong with preferring some peace and quiet. That you were more of a homebody anyways. He didn't believe that for a second, though. It was the same excuse that he used to give out and sometimes still did, when someone bothered ask.

They rarely did anymore.

He was well aware that the world tended to pass people like you by, so he made sure to check up on you without making it too obvious. But when he found out you didn't have any plans for your 21st birthday? He wouldn't let that slide. He couldn't.

"Hear your birthdays coming up." He raps his knuckles on a lovely side table (walnut brown, only $99.98 for the set), sauntering up to you.

"It is." You smile, straightening up a living room display.

"You going out? Any crazy plans I should be worried about? Terrorizing the town?" He teases, knowing damn well you're probably going to spend it at home.

"Something like that." You shake your head, scoffing. He knows full well you're intent on spending the day alone. Like last year. Like him.

"No bar? Really? Most people jump at the opportunity to get their first legal taste. What's your drink of choice, anyway? You into beer? Tequila?" He tilts his head, assessing before he claps and points at you with a triumphant finger. "I know. You like a good cocktail, don't you."

"Maybe." You say, straightening one of the display pillows on the sofa (Continental, $600.00). "I wouldn't really know, I've never tried anything before. You're not supposed to drink until you're twenty one, you know." You give him a rather pointed look.

"Everybody does, though." He sits down on the pattered sofa, clasping his hands between spread knees. "I did. Kat and Bobby did. I'm sure you didn't, though. Too much of a rule follower, huh? Hey — let me buy you your first drink, then. If you haven't already got plans."

You laugh as if you think he's joking, sobering when he doesn't join you.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Why not? Unless I've overstepped. In which case I thoroughly apolagise and—"

"No." You cut him off softly. "No, you didn't overstep. Um... yeah." A small smile hides in the corners of your lip. "That would be nice. Thank you."

.

The bar Clark takes you to is respectable. It was his usual spot, just off the main road and not too seedy. He pulled out a small, wrapped gift and handed it to you when you were settled next to him on the high stool.

"Happy Birthday." He murmurs over the old country music twanging through the speakers. "Got you something."

"You didn't have to!" You exclaim, accepting the present as if it were far more valuable than the retail price he'd purchased it for.

"Go on. See what it is." He sits back as you carefully tear away the paper, watching your eyes light up when you see the latest CD you'd been wanting.

"Oh my god, Clark! How did you know!?"

"Heard you talking with Kat the other day. Did I get it right?"

"Yeah, this is so thoughtful." Your thumb runs over the tracklist on the back of the plastic case. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." Pride warms his chest at being able to make you smile so genuinely. He didn't have much to feel fuzzy about recently, but somehow you always managed to bring a little bit of sunshine to his life through the seperation.

"How is it?" He grins as you take your first sip of beer. He watches you mull it over, the dull, fermented bubbles sliding down your throat and he can tell you don't like it before you can.

"It's... fine." Your nose wrinkles.

"Here, we can trade." He switches the glasses between you so that you can try a different brew. "This one's darker, maybe you'll like it better."

Another sip. Another wrinkle of your nose.

"Yeah." You say uncertainly, licking your lips. "It's good."

"You don't have to lie to me." He chuckles fondly, taking back the drink. "Beer's not for you, noted. You got a sweet tooth, right?"

"I do." You nod, but he already knew that.

Sometimes he'd bring some of those grocery store cookies he knows you like to work — the soft ones. The ones that were so full of sugar that his wife insisted would give him diabetes. It was cute to watch your eyes widen every damn time he offered you one, as if you were intruding just by being in the same room as them. As if the only reason he bought them wasn't for you.

"Gotta get some shots in you, then. A Burt Reynolds. Lemon Drop. Jelly Donut. You'll love em, trust me."

And you did.

Love them.

Trust him.

By midnight you were buzzed. By 1 am you were happy just to be there, seeming more relaxed than he'd ever seen you. By 2 you were getting dozy and he figured it was time to get you home.

"Must be past your bedtime, huh?" He ribs as he collects all your belongings, making sure you've got your coat on properly before paying the tab and guiding you out of the pub. It was getting rowdy now. It was that part of the night when fights started to break out amongst patrons and security would be earning their salary. You didn't need to see all that.

"C'mon." He positions himself between you and a particularly drunk, slobbering buffoon of a man near the bar on your way out. He knocks into Clark instead when he sways, him being the physical barrier between the man and you. You'd've be crushed otherwise. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mm, thank you, Clark." You wobble out on the sidewalk, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "I'had such a'nice time."

"Yeah? I'm glad to hear that, sweetheart."

The two of you catch a cab and once he's got you settled in the backseat with him, he realizes that he doesn't know your address. You're a little too borderline drunk to relay it to him with any coherence, which provides a bit of a conundrum when the driver asks:

"Where to?"

It's not like he can take you back to his place, exactly. Not with his wife who already seems to hate him enough as it is, and not when she's on the verge of serving him divorce papers already. The next best option (and really the only one) is to let you stay over where he's slept every night since his marriage began unraveling in earnest.

"Cap'n Clark's Ottoman Empire."

The parking lot of some gone-under furniture store is an odd place to deliver a grown man and someone half his age at nearly 3 in the morning, but the taxi driver isn't paid to ask.

You're stumbling a little and singing to yourself when you try to get out of the cab, only to slip right back on the seat with an uncoordinated yelp.

"'M stuck." You scrabble, legs flailing and arms grabbing at the passanger headrest.

"I can see that." Clark shakes his head and suppresses a laugh, taking your hand and helping you upright. "I got you."

"Why 're we'at work?" Your words are slurred, slouching against his side while he fishes for his keys to the front door. The taxi peels out of the lot and drives on down the street. Slowly, as if the cabbie was curious to see where you'd go.

"Because you need somewhere to sleep and I don't know where you live."

"I don't know where you live." You mumble. "You prob'bly live 'n the back now. 'N the back rooms." A new fit of laughter comes over you so hard that you need to squat down.

He wasn't sure what was so funny about living in a retail store. Pathetic? Absolutely. But funny? He didn't think so. How did you know, anyway? He purposefully handled the closing shifts himself so that none of you would find out that both his home and career lives were collapsing. Hopefully it was just the mindless rambling of someone who'd had one too many drinks and you weren't truly aware of the accuracy to your statement.

You're pretty much asleep on your feet by the time he's ushered you inside, found the light switches, and then locked up again.

"Maybe I should've gone easy on you for your first time." He says to himself, guiding you towards the mattress department. He feels you tense underneath his palm, realizing in hindsight what he'd said. "I meant, having you stick to just one shot." He clears his throat. "One drink."

"But I liked them... all." You defend.

"That's for sure." He steadies you with his warm hands on your shoulders and you try to lean back against him. "Go on then. Choose a mattress, any mattress."

"T' sleep on?" You blink slowly.

"Yeah, to sleep on. What else are you going to be doing on it?"

"Not sleeping." You muffle a snort. That little comment raises his eyes to the ceiling, fixing on the sign that promises MORE DOWN STAIRS and he has to pray to keep his mind from wandering to what 'not sleeping' with you could entail. "A mattress for me?"

"Yup." He has to clear his throat again. "Yes. We'll sleep in the same room, but not on the same bed." He assures you, but perhaps it's more himself that he's needing to placate.

"Like a sleepover." You cackle at the absurdity of someone as old as him engaging in slumber parties.

"It's not a sleepover." He rolls his eyes, pulling back the duvet to his usual bed (a twin mattress and solid softwood frame, marked down to $459.99). "It's a... a... hm. Okay," He relents, "It's a sleepover.

You settled quickly after that. All it took once getting you into bed was to turn on a late night weather channel to a low volume and you fell right to sleep. The soft, even rhythm of your breaths just a few feet away were a soothing balm to Clark's fraying nerves these last few months. He found it all too easy to close his eyes in the dim of the store and soon, he was out too.

.

"–could be headed for the San José area in what experts are calling an Asynchronous Flurry. Heavy rains and even snow are in the upcoming forecast despite temptures having been up to seventy one degrees Fahrenheit or twenty two degrees Celsius this past week." The television set clicks on at exactly 4:44 in the morning, startling the two of you awake.

"Clark?" You whisper, his name thick with sleep.

"Mm?" He grunts, cracking open an eye.

"TV."

"I hear it."

"Turn it off." You grumble, pulling the sheets over your head.

"I thought you turned it on." His eyebrows crease together. He hadn't touched the thing and the remote was gone from the dresser displayed between your two beds.

"No. Just turn it off." You flop a pillow over your head. "Wanna sleep."

"Okay, okay." He rushes out of bed to power off the staticky screen. "There."

You mumble a half cognisant 'thanks' as he settles back on his mattress. Before he can close his eyes again, however, the lights come on. Every single overhead flourecent hums to life, the floor lamps and side lights all surging brighter than he thought was possible.

"Clark?" You say again, alarmed this time as you unearth from the colour blocked duvet. "What's happening?"

"Huh? Oh. Nothin'" He says slowly, scanning the furniture shop for anything that looked out of place. But there's nothing astray. Not a single thing. Everything looked proper. "The lights just act up sometimes."

The bulbs flicker out of sync and in a strange, staccato pattern before plunging the warehouse store into darkness — save for a single lamp downstairs. The glow is menacing. You found the basement to be eerie at the best of times, but the ominous light made it seem even more... wrong.

"What's going on?"

"Wiring issues." He tells you, unconvinced of the explanation himself. "The building's old."

As if on cue, the lamp downstairs blinks out and your breath catches in your throat.

"I'm scared." You admit, and the shakey whisper tugs at his protective instincts for you.

"Don't be scared." He says warmly, feeling his way over to your bed. "I'm right here. Nothing's gonna get you without going through me first. That's just how it goes." The mattress dips under his weight when he sits and his hand finds yours under the covers.

"Are you sure it's just the wiring?"

"A hundred percent." He soothes. "Scoot over. The heating might have gone too, and it can get chilly at night without it.

Clark remains above the blankets all night but that doesn't stop you from cuddling up to him. He wakes with you tucked under his chin, an arm of his slung over your waist and your breath tickling his neck. It was a casual intimacy he thought he might like to get used to again. A warm body. The silent companionship. He hadn't realized just how long it had been since he'd felt like this with someone, or of how much he'd wanted it again.

When you sighed and inched impossibly closer he tightened his hold and let his lips brush along your hairline.

"Just sleep." He murmurs, barely a whisper. "Just a little bit longer."