Yellow Gatorade Vignette [GUANO]

(That time jenni gets the flu and kevin breaks into her house as a metaphor for breaking down each others walls/boundaries smthn smthn jenni just rly likes yellow gatorade and kevin likes breaking the law. Timestamp for this event will come later ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀) !!)

It started with a cough.

Not the normal, itchy smokers cough Jenni had gotten used to, this was something deep in her lungs, rattled her chest and almost made her fumble an entire pot of freshly brewed coffee. 

“Oh God…” Annette’s face scrunches up at hearing the gross cough come out of Jenni, the older woman leaning away from her. “You okay?”

“Yeah...yeah I think so.” Jenni rubs at her throat before moving down to tap her knuckles against her sternum “I dunno where that came from.” Taking a deep breath, she feels something now caught in her lungs, shaking it off with a shrug of her shoulders. “I just need some water.”

“You need to stop smoking.” Annette chides her with a stern look, turning her attention back to organizing freshly washed mugs and dishes.

“Yeah, Uh huh.” Is Jenni’s catch all response to being told to stop smoking for the thirty-sixth time that week, pouring herself half a glass of water then mixing it with house made lemonade. Drinking it does clear her chest, but she can still feel the itch in her throat, just barely there but easy to ignore.

“I’m serious, that stuff is not good for you.” The older waitress huffs out, getting on her tippy toes to slide a stack of plates to the back of the shelf, coming down on her heels with yet another huff and patting down her stained apron. “Imagine how your little friend-”

“Not my friend. Definitely not little either.” Jenni quickly interjects, pinching her thumb and pointer finger together in slight annoyance that the fucking Bay Area Phantom could even be considered her friend. Of course, Annette and her other coworkers don’t know who he is, they just think he’s some drifting logger and not a serial killer who’s decided to stalk her for the last three months at her new job a year after…

Jenni shakes herself out of it, latching onto Annette's words to drag herself out of a regression spiral.

“-Your friend who you love to sit across from-” Jenni’s eyes rotate into the back of her skull, leaning against the kitchen wall. “-Would be very upset that you’re killing yourself.”

‘Yeah, because the tar will get me before he can strangle me himself.’ She thinks, head lolling to the side as she takes in this latest lecture. 

“He doesn’t give a shit, he’s only here for the free coffee. You gotta lay off the daytime soaps, man.”

“I’ve seen him walk you home! SO! What was that?” The smug smile on Annette's face coupled with her hands on her hips makes Jenni deflate, wishing to crawl under the dessert fridge like a roach.

“It was dark. And I told him not to, but..” Jenni vividly remembers when he…when Kevin, what kind of fucking name, silently stood up and followed her home the one day she left the diner early in the pitch-black morning, almost yelling at him ‘PLEASE DO NOT FOLLOW ME HOME SIR.’ She won’t admit she hates the dark despite her hardened goth exterior, and she was...scared of the relatively short walk home. It’s not like he made it better, towering over her even at a distance and making not one sound. Not even his footsteps made noise, as tall and broad as he is. And yet, despite the absurdity of being walked home by a literal murderer, she felt...okay, she got home safe and he had enough respect to not follow her up the stairs to her street side apartment. 

But he did stand outside for WAY too long, Jenni spending five sweaty minutes peeking out the curtains to pray that he just fucking went away, and when he did finally leave it took everything in her not to start screaming.

“Bu~t…?” Annette asked, still smug and smiling, and Jenni could see the soap opera plot working itself out in the older woman's brown eyes as she worries her lower lip with her teeth.

“...I’m gonna go smoke.” She says flatly, peeling off the wall and taking her lemonade-water with her.

“Jenni!” Annette calls after her, Jenni quickly making her way outside as her fingers worked into the pocket of her apron for the half empty carton of Camel lights.

It took this one smoke break and three more hours of running around a hot diner for Jenni to accept the fact that the thing caught in her chest was a cold. The sun was coming up, the end of her shift approaching, and she could feel the low grade fever creeping down her face, chills racing up her back. Annette all but demanded to take her home, after finding Jenni slumped and sweating over a plate of toast and sunny side up eggs. She could barely remember the ride, laid out in the backseat of Annette’s car except for flashes of sunlight in her eyes and erratic turns, but remembers the very long and loud anti-smoking lecture Annette decided to slam down on her in her most vulnerable state. Jenni’s cowboy boots hadn’t even touched the concrete outside her apartment before Annette was snatching the unfinished carton out of Jenni's pocket.

“You’re paying for those.” she muttered, starting her shaky journey up the stairs.

“I can come up there and take every one of them if you want.” Annette threatens from the pavement and Jenni can only treat her to a scowl. “Love you too, girl! Drink some soup!”

Jenni couldn’t even muster a middle finger for her, trudging her way inside her dark apartment and fighting to kick off her boots with only the heels of her feet. Once that’s accomplished and they are ceremoniously kicked to the door, she doesn’t hesitate in stripping on her journey to the bathroom. Her only thought was taking a warm bath to shake this head cold off so she could get back to work tonight. 

None of those thoughts translated, though, as all she did was turn the shower on to scalding hot, crawled into the tub and promptly fell asleep.

________________

Jenni comes to, pruny, cold and feeling no better. 

That figures.

It’s an even longer process, dragging herself out of the cold water and porcelain into a towel and to her room. She spends another thirty minutes as she air dries on top of her comforter remembering how to breathe and think through the sickly haze then makes a call to the diner. Her manager politely comments that she sounds like shit and blessedly takes her off the schedule for the next three shifts. 

Jenni thinks about calling one of her exes to drop off some soup as a favor, or even her cousins in Portland for a pot of ajiaco. But again, it stays a thought, as she only manages to dress herself in sweats and an unwashed band tee then crawl under her covers, matching her breathing to the sound of her alarm clock, every handful of ticks a gentle wheeze until she falls asleep again.

The next time she wakes, it's dark. A glass of water and some half warmed up takeout is all she manages to get down before the dizziness and shivering have her stumbling back to the safety of her bed. Jenni shoves two cough drops in her mouth then cocoons herself in her sheets to sleep past midnight, morning and afternoon.

She knows she should be taking better care of herself, but she's tired and feels like shit and just wants to not move. She wants someone to feed her soup and scrub vaporub into her skin and scold her for getting so sick and not being careful. She wants to be a kid again, too ill to go to school, wants her parents by her bedside, but that’s all gone. It’s been six years and she still wants and aches for them like it’s fresh in these moments of vulnerability. Hot tears well up in her eyes and she coughs to cover them, quickly turning into a fit that shakes her entire body.

She wants this to kill her.

___________________________________________________

Jenni wakes again that evening, bleary and uncomfortably hot. She weakly kicks her top comforter down and off her chest, letting out a wheezy groan as she turns on her side to face her room. 

It’s dark again, everything is hazy but she sees it: The figure in the far corner of her room practically scraping the ceiling. She instantly goes cold, fear seizing every muscle. Then, it shifts and moves towards her and she scrambles back onto the bed, so quickly it’s like her brain and body forgot she was even sick. But she's promptly reminded with a coughing fit, unable to get enough air to scream or call for help as it approaches, breaking through the shadow of her room to tower over her at her bedside. Gripping a black convenience bag.

'What the fuck?' Is all Jenni can think as The Bay Area Phantom digs through the bag and pulls out a yellow Gatorade, offering it to her. She blinks, holding her mouth and looking at the drink, then to where she thinks his eyes are through the fencing mask, then back to the drink. He wordlessly offers again, pushing it closer, gloved fingers wrapped around the cap. And, well, she takes it. Doesn’t want to know what happens if she refuses and she hasn’t drunk anything for at least twelve hours. Her mouth feels fuzzy and she's a bit dizzy from dehydration. He stands there, looking down at Jenni until she opens the Gatorade shakily and drinks at least half of it, at which point he turns and heads out her bedroom door and into the kitchen. The sudden movement makes her jump, watching the light flicker on and listens to him rummaging around.

‘He broke into my fucking house.’ Is all she can think as she takes slow sips. Repeating this horrifying fact somehow helps her to self soothe. A new thought enters and makes her frown. ‘He’s wearing his shoes indoors, on my carpet.’ In hindsight, she shouldn't be this nonplussed about a serial killer breaking into her house while she's at her most feeble. Maybe it’s the shock and absurdity of the situation. But he hasn't killed her, yet, and even brought her yellow Gatorade, her favorite flavor. The bar might be in hell ...but she can smell the scent of chicken soup coming from her kitchen, so she just wants to play this by ear for now.

This flu or whatever has turned her goddamn brain to mush. Jenni glances at her phone on the windowsill, then back to the kitchen entrance. Calling the cops right now would be too obvious, he’d probably bash her skull in before she could get a sentence out. She grips the bottle in her hands tightly, a mini coughing fit taking over. 

Play it by ear.

She jumps when he enters the room silently, the soft crush of carpet under his boots the only indicator. Weird. He pushes one of two mugs he’s carrying into her face, this one filled with soup, the spoon inside clinking along the rim as she takes the warm mug into her hands. The other she guesses is filled with tea, from the paper tag hanging out the side by a string. He places that one on her windowsill, right in front of her phone. Maybe on purpose, maybe because it’s just easier to reach as it’s closer to her bed. Jenni believes it's on purpose; she needs to be willing to scald herself to the bone to even think about calling for help.

The soup tastes good, though, nowhere near as hot as the steaming tea. She eats quickly, and regrets it as he’s still standing there, a spectre waiting for...something.

“Uhm. Thanks.” She says after a few moments of scraping her spoon along the bottom of the mug. The moment those words slip out her mouth the air becomes awkward around him, he even shuffles in place a bit and it brings to mind a couple weeks ago when she confronted him after a solid three months of stalking her at the diner. How he jumped at her sliding into the booth and immediately started drilling him with questions which he half answered with napkin scribblings. 

Jenni has a new barrage of questions, such as: Why did you break into my fucking house? Why are you doing this? Were you watching me sleep in the corner? And most importantly: Do you always wear shoes indoors?

He -Kevin, that’s right, it's too ridiculous to forget- regains his composure quickly and sets the plastic bag on her bed. There's enough moonlight to tell that there's more Gatorade, a bag of cough drops, loose tea bags and some generic cold and flu medicine inside.

Oh wow.

Jenni carefully exchanges the mugs, her eyes lingering on the phone as she takes a sip. It's comfortably warm, the taste of chamomile and mint becoming outweighed by the disgustingly sweet taste of clover honey as she drank. 

Annette definitely told him she was sick. Unprompted, as is her style. But there's a feeling that he asked about her, or rather, came in for his usual midnight coffee and was confused at the now acrid taste and not seeing her around. And thus, Annette gets to live out her soap opera fantasies by painting her as dying in bed, needing to be rescued by a mysterious and kind stranger.

"Ugh…" she hisses under her breath and proceeds to chug the entire mug of tea, the liquid scalding her tongue as she lets the handle of the spoon rest along her nose. 

Jenni almost doesn't notice that he starts to recede into the shadows again, towards her door.

"Hey." She calls after him, wiping her mouth "If you decide to break in here again to kill me, at least take off your shoes."

If she wasn't looking, she would have missed the falter in his step and the twitch of his left hand before he disappeared through the doorway. Four shaky breaths and she hears her front door open, lock from the inside and then shut.

Jenni's eyes focus on the bottom of the mug, the wet tea bag and spoon greeting her with glints of moonlight.

Not the stupidest thing she's said, but definitely the most dangerous.