Cammie and Jake, Wednesday evening

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Cammie shows up on Jake's doorstep with whiskey and donuts and does a surprisingly good job at the whole Being a Good Friend thing.



Fake IDs were wonderful inventions. While she couldn’t get drunk, other people generally could and alcohol was considered good for cheering someone up or knocking them upside the head with the bottle. Or, as her almost healed up side attested to, stabbing someone with the broken ends thereof.

So, it was with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a dozen of truly mundane doughnuts (plus a couple she had for herself, jalapeño flavored) that she knocked on Jake’s door. She had manners sometimes. When it suited her, really.

“Booze and doughnuts,” she called, “Hookers not included unless you’re willing to pay the service charge.”

"Trying to cut down," Jake answered drily as he opened the door. He looked...well, rumpled was a pretty good word for it; his clothes were wrinkled like they'd been slept in, and his stubble had grown past ruggedly trendy and was well on its way towards being able to claim status as a full-blown beard. The open door revealed that his apartment, while normally somewhat cluttered, looked more like a bomb had gone off--a bomb made of cake, perhaps, as there was a large smear of what looked like dried frosting that had been halfheartedly wiped up from the floor and wall in front of the kitchen.

Jake looked her over with a critical, if tired, eye. "You'd better not be bleeding."

"I don't smell that bad, do I?" she asked, she knew she had a general odor, and that it wasn't exactly pleasant, but it was so much more obvious when she was bleeding, "You look like hell. Booze fixes this, I'm told. Beer goggles, right?"

He gave her a half-hearted smirk. "Beer goggles. Right." He led her into the apartment, pulling a blanket off of the couch and tossing it towards the bedroom. "What kind of donuts?"

"I dunno. They all taste the same to me, so I asked for a random assortment with a couple jalapeno ones on the side," Cammie said, looking down at the box. "What do people like in doughnuts these days anyway? But yeah, basically pick your poison. Then we can play drunken Pictionary and/or Twister. I'll win."

"Custard," he said idly, taking the box, then stopped and blinked at her. "Wait. Jalapeno donuts? And I could kick your ass at Twister. Not that we're playing, mind you."

"Yeah, as in with peppers. I can kind of taste those. Spicy tastes like good," Cammie said, "So, those are mine. Like what's in my flask is mine and not yours because it could kill you and I will totally kick your ass in Twister because drunken Pictionary is only fun when both people are drunks."

Jake blinked at her for another few seconds, trying to parse that last sentence, then held up fingers, counting. "One--jalapeno donuts sound kind of gross, but I'm happy for you. Two, unless it's actively acidic--and probably not even then--whatever's in your flask wouldn't kill me. Poisoning is totally not the way to go if you're trying to marry me for my money and then off me, and besides, Jubilee's already got that job. Three, you couldn't kick my ass in Twister if you tried, and four, you're totally right about Pictionary. Except that I think it still sucks when you're drunk." He flopped on the couch and fished out a donut. "But thanks for these."

"I think I could kick your ass at anything I tried, and if you really want it - have some antifreeze. I like it. Everyone else says it tastes like acute kidney failure. And I'm totally not out to kill you, they might give this place to someone else, and then what am I supposed to do with my time," she said, making herself at home on the couch, "And yeah, you're right, Pictionary always sucks, Scrabble then? LOLcat and abbreviations count."

He took a bite of the donut, not quite sure how to respond to that, but the point became moot as he sat up suddenly and sucked in a deep breath. "Ow ow ow ow ow." He fanned his mouth with one hand and shoved the donut at Cammie with the other. "I dink dis is yours."

"Ooooh, thanks," she said, taking the doughnut and popping it in her mouth, "Geeze, don't be such a wuss. Wash it down with some J.D. or something. I did bring you booze. I spent my money on you, that should mean something."

Jake took a drink straight from the bottle, eyes narrowing as he regarded her over the whiskey. "Okay, so why are you here?" The alcohol didn't really do anything to make the burning better, and in fact, made it a bit worse, but he didn't want Cammie to mock him any more. "You haven't tried to poison me, you haven't tried to poison my building, and you brought a bribe. What's the deal?"

"What? You want me to? I don't do hits. I explained this to a guy in Chicago once. I only kill people on accident and you can't be poisoned. However," she said, putting a finger up dramatically, "Your boyfriend is on the mend and most people become mopey shadows of torrid emotions when some they have some sort of interest in is all hurt and stuff. So, I guess this would be a social call. If you WANT violence I guess we can go bar trolling and hopping, but a lot of people seem to think that isn't the best deal for me anymore."

"I'm not picking glass out of your tits, and he's not my boyfriend," Jake sighed. "And I'm not a 'mopey shadow of torrid emotions.'" He was almost proud of the fact that he'd said it like he believed it. He peered at her suspiciously in a desperate attempt to take the focus off of him. "This isn't some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome, is it? Except not Stockholm Syndrome, because believe me, I wouldn't wish trying to keep you hostage on my worst enemy. But maybe more like that lousy Sandra Bullock movie, where she and Ben Affleck survive the plane crash together?"

"Uh-huh, sure, whatever. Is that the movie where the people start to eat each other? Well, the dead, people, anyway... And you are SO mopey," she said around doughnut, "In fact, I think I need to get you some black hair dye and nail polish."

"No, that's 28 Days Later. Which I was equally disappointed to discover did not involve Sandra Bullock's career rising from the dead to eat Hollywood. And in fact had nothing to do with Sandra Bullock, undead or otherwise." He rolled his eyes. "And my hair's already black."

"Oh, that's what that movie was about," Cammie figured, "And it's not black enough. When you go emo, your hair has to be so black it's blue to really say to the world 'I am a ball of pent up teenaged - well, in your case adul...wait, no, teenaged works - angst.' This color lets other little emo goth kids know that you are one of them and then you'll be surrounded and people will start smoking clove around you."

He stared at her for several long moments. "I think I hate you."

"It's not my fault you'll start attracting clove smoking emo goth kids," Cammie said. "You have no one to blame for yourself. And perhaps some third party, if you feel like hurting that third party."

"I think the third party in question is you," he groused, although it was halfhearted--they both knew Cammie could kick his ass six ways from Sunday if she put half her mind to it. "I'm not emo." Now if only he could not sound like he was pouting when he said it.

"Awwww," Cammie said, not able to stop herself from laughing, "I'm sorry, but you are. And here I am, even though it saps coolness from me, spending time with you without even hitting you. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem."

Jake looked--well, more pouty. "So you've graduated from hitting me to laughing at me. And feeding me poison donuts."

"They're not poison," Cammie returned, "And that's the natural evolution of things. If you get your arm back, I'm holding it for long enough to have some fun with the Stop Hitting Yourself gag."

Before she could react, a half-eaten non-jalapeno donut bounced off her forehead, leaving a smear of raspberry filling behind. "This is you trying to cheer me up?" Jake asked incredulously. "You suck at this worse than I do."

"Don't you like it when things suck?" she said, laughing, wiping some of the raspberry filling off of her head, "Vacuum cleaners, other guys, no seriously, stop it. At least he's alive, right? You're way ahead of me in that department."

Jake hadn't realized how much he'd relaxed until Cammie referenced Jean-Paul again. "Yeah, I guess," he said, picking a new donut out of the box but not really having the heart to eat it. He shrugged. "I haven't even seen him yet."

"So?" she returned, "I haven't either. But you will, before me too, I bet. I'm trying my best right now to actually be out and about."

He glanced at her and sighed. "Alright. You're right." He tossed the donut back into the box. "Do you want to go get real food or something? We could introduce you to Mama Lupe. She'll love you, especially if you dare her to set your mouth on fire with her spices."

"You're too late. Angelo already introduced me. But I will not turn down her food. It's amazing, and I can taste it and she brings out hot steaming plates of tasty, tasty death," Cammie said. It made her eyes water and she could taste it. Wonderful eats all around. "And I do like food."

"Food that tries to kill you," Jake muttered, but he had what was almost a small smile on his face as he said it--it was closer than he'd come the whole evening. He stood. "C'mon. Let's find you some tasty, tasty death."