there were always a few seconds where duffy thought he might not talk to her—or he’d tell her to leave him alone, or something. and even though he was always grumpy and gruff, he let her stay and she liked it. it was their diner on days like this.
“you’re just as crabby as usual, don’t lie to me,” she said cheerfully, unfazed. her current projects were sitting in her bag on the booth right next to her and she dug around for a new bracelet made of guitar strings to show him.
“pretty, right?” she said, dazzled by it even still.
brooks doesn’t know how duffy does it. genuinely likes this world. even with all its dust and gruel and ache, she’s sat here smilin’, like life’s a good time. maybe, in another world, he’d feel that way, too.
“ huh. ” brooks peers at the bracelet and nods in agreement. this girl’s a natural –– even someone who barely knows the first thing ‘bout accessorizin’ can see that.
“ stealin’ guitars now, are ya ? ” brooks teases after a sip of coffee. “ whose band you put outta commission ? ” maybe his lips inch up into a ghost of a smile. maybe. brooks’ll never admit it.
“really?” casper grins. he’s not a celebrity by any means, but the fact that brooks would be the slightest bit inspired by his antics kind of makes his chest feel all warm and fuzzy. casper wants to give brooks a big ol’ i told you so but thinks better of it, because as soon as he’d say it, he’d be banned. still, he’s glad someone’s actually listening to his ideas.
he’ll worry about the fact that brooks is deflecting much later.
“me? oh, ‘m great. somehow managing to keep busy and still have time for romance, which I never thought would happen in a million years. think if she had it her way, it’d be a different word, maybe.”
a pause. casper’s almost in a daze just thinking about billie. he makes eye contact with brooks, though his cheeks are sightly more colored now.
“anyway, I won’t bore you to death with the sappy details, but it’s good. you, uh, got any books you’re dyin’ to read? i’ll see if I can find ‘em.”
the next time he hears billie from cas’s lips or cas from billie’s, brooks is gonna pie the both of ‘em in the face. this lil dance of theirs ain’t nothin’ but sexual procrastination, and honestly ? brooks would lock ‘em both in a cellar if it meant they’d just flippin’ fuck already. he ain’t rootin’ for ‘em. he ain’t invested. he’s just damned tired of watchin’ it drag on.
“ well, not that it’s my duty to report, but she came in askin’ ‘bout you earlier. ” brooks grabs a cookie for himself, breaking off a piece between his forefinger ‘n thumb. “ romance might be the word for it. if either’a’you grow a pair. ” he pops in the cookie piece, lets its chocolate melt before he chews.
“ books. ” he blinks. brooks ain’t much of a reader. spent most of his formative years on the field, not caught between pages. but... he feels the question lurchin’ out his chest before he can do anythin’ to stop it.
“ y’got anythin’ on the game ? ” he asks, as if cas reads minds. it’s the first time he’s really... mentioned ball at all. in years. brooks clasps his hands and leans in a little, like sayin’ the sport’s some kind of scandal. “ baseball. ” it tastes sweet on his tongue.
it was fairly late, the sun already well into setting, when cal got to the bakery. he knew that he shouldn’t be here, that he should just turn around and go home but he couldn’t. or wouldn’t, either way. it was just his luck that he’d kept a bottle of whiskey in his office at the skate rink and had already had way too much of it before he found himself locking up and just walking. walking right until he got here. brooks was… a grounding person, to put it a certain way. he always seemed to say something that put things in perspective or made cal think twice before doing or saying something. he maybe could’ve done with that before trying to get to the bottom of the whiskey bottle. but it had been a rough day and he just couldn’t go home. the thought of being in the quiet house made him feel sick to the stomach. he hadn’t even realised he was without a jacket until he was leaning a forearm against the locked door.
he banged against the pane of glass on the door, watching the ‘closed’ sign bounce against it for a moment. “brooks! brooks, you assh-” he cut himself off with a hiccup, leaning his forehead against the glass beneath his arm. he banged a little more with his fist once more. “let me in. i know you’re in there, you’re as much of a work junkie as i am. c’mon, come to the door. please?”
scones. they’re the only damned thing that’ll ease the trembling in his chest, ‘cause that damned bitch keeps showin’ up. brooks knows it’s her –– he recognizes that same orange overcoat, those same glinty eyes. she’s in letum fuckin’ falls, and he can’t do a thing about it.
he’s been nursin’ bottle of brandy all day, generous pours into a coffee mug when no customer’s lookin’. the baker takes another bittersweet swig after the scones are in the oven, and longs for more dough to pound. he thinks, hell, maybe it’s time t’go home. then he remembers : he’s got fuck all t’go home to.
another pour. he half suspects that knockin’s the brandy talking, but then there’s the unmistakable voice. hiccuped. slurrin’. brooks hesitates. he’s got old vinyls on the player. 30′s big band swing.
he’s unlockin’ the door before he realizes what a bad idea it is. the little bell jingles. cold eyes raise ‘n stare. flour speckles dark hair.
“ change that job title to neighborhood nuisance, ” brooks advises, sizin’ cal up. his tongue pokes through thin-pressed lips before he inhales sharply, pivoting on his heels.
“ kitchen, ” he deadpans over a shoulder, beginning the trek to the back. “ grab a glass. ”
casper has to resist the urge to stick his tongue out at brooks. internally, he recoils, but physically, he just offers an apologetic half-grin. “I mean, I guess.” he reaches out to one of the cupcakes, gently getting a bit of frosting onto his pinkie. blue eyes level with brooks’ gaze, and he tests the frosting. it’s not actual, honest-to-god testing. casper knows brooks can bake circles around him.
“I know you never promised you wouldn’t freeze me out, and I get it, ‘cause people are…” shoulders rising and falling, casper lets out a little huff, not really sure how to bring the point back home.
he takes a deep breath, tries again even though it kinda makes his head spin. he gets the message, the unsaid, and makes a mental note to find something he can pay brooks back with that isn’t money. the first thing that’s definitely out of the question? a hug.
“forget I even said anythin’. just bustin’ your balls, like always.” the words? genuine. the smile he plasters on after it? not so much. “frosting’s the best thing i’ve tasted all week, by the way.”
brooks is just about to close the bakery case when cas says it. freeze him out. his hands halt and he just... stares at the sliding case door. stares at his own silhouetted reflection in the glass.
what’s there to say ? he’s not really ferris feller’s son ? he’s livin’ a grotesque lie ? he’s only here ‘cause nowhere else feels like home, but even home’s holdin’ out on him ?
( the crack of the bat. the smack of the ball. he’ll never wear that cap again. )
brooks sighs. shuts the case. shuts cas out.
“ expected no less, ” he says ‘bout the frosting, movin’ to lean back against the wall behind him. edgin’ in some distance. “ you practically designed that one yourself. ” ain’t a lie. there are several treats around that’re cas-inspired.
but there’s a tug at his ribs, a snag in coiled thread, and brooks can feel it. the unraveling. imminent. looming. he takes a card out of duffy’s deck ‘n decides maybe small talk’s an okay move here.
“ how’re you ? ” muscled arms cross to rest against his chest. this shit feels foreign. “ bookstore keepin’ you in trouble ? ”
duffy had the opening shift this morning, which she never minded. she liked getting up with the sun. it started the day right. but she was off now and she had the rest of the day free.
anything she wanted… and she wanted to sit down across from brooks. he was very interesting. there something shiny about him. and not in the way that usually caught her eye. this was something personal.
he was just different. she liked it. “good morning,” she greets him softly. “how are you?”
brooks blinks at duffy like she’s got seven eyes instead of one. if she were anyone else, he might actually get up and leave this damned place. but duffy ? duffy makes him stay. duffy makes him speak –– somehow.
“ fine. dandy. doin’ great, ” he seethes through gritted teeth. brooks taps his fingertips against the table, spares a fleeting glance out the window. no orange. she’s gone. the damned bitch.
“ lovely mornin’. ” hell, why’s he even pretending ? she’s never fallen for his perturbed glossing before. “ how ‘bout you, duff ? tell me ‘bout your day. make anythin’ jazzy lately ? ”
he hopes she’ll go into somethin’ long. somethin’ to distract from the rage and fear and anguish twistin’ up in his chest.
casper stifled a laugh, peering down at the display of baked goods. by some miracle, he’d caught a break at letum read. though, to be fair, he didn’t really know what a day off meant, taking it upon himself to make sure every customer was personally satisfied. the contrast of brooks’ sharp tone brightens his day, ironically.
“jeez, brooksie. i’m practically your best customer.” his eyes sparkle playfully as he looks at the very sullen, very worn down man on the opposite side of the counter.
“you know, technically, this ain’t poison. it’s the best cure to any bad mood.” he gestures to the cupcakes, shoving one hand in his pocket in search of the wad of dollar bills. “what happened? some old lady hit your shoulder with her cane? talk to dr. cas. i’m here for ya.”
it’s killin’ him. she’s here, in letum, and she’s orchestratin’ a slow death that’ll never, never end. brooks grinds his teeth just thinkin’ about it. doesn’t even jump in to correct that damned nickname. every time he blinks, he sees her face, sees orange. so he tries goin’ a few extra seconds without it –– an inevitably blinks again.
“ shove it, ” brooks mutters, waving a hand at the money casper’s diggin’ up. it’s the closest thing to on the house he’s ever said.
“ ha ha. here for me. real funny. ” cas doesn’t choose between ‘em so brooks just plates ‘em all. four cupcakes, no bill. they both know, deep down, this ain’t business. ceramic clatters against wood as brooks slides it across the counter. cas is lookin’ for a serious response. brooks pretends he never even asked.
“ dr. cas. what’s your doctorate in ? finishin’ off my inventory ? ”
dean tried to fight the snort but it came out anyway. he’d been drinking for awhile but had run out at home and this place was closer than the supermarket.
“at least i don’t hafta call it borin’ anymore.” the joke was dry. after the whole thanksgiving ordeal, he wanted desperately for it to go back to being boring so he could go back to his life and not feel guilty about leaving.
“maybe it’s my fault. what i get for leavin’-” he took a swig of beer and then tilted the bottle at brooks. “or maybe for comin’ back. you’d think it’d be nicer to me y’know, after all i fuckin’ did for it.”
brooks snorts. he feels dean’s words deep in his bones, not that he could ever say it. but another swig and his mouth’s already movin’.
“ ha. you’re tellin’ me. ” his cover’s a few seconds delayed –– like he’s forgotten he’ll never lose the veil here. “ reckon that’s what my dad felt. ” this whole town’s got eyes like hawks; they’ve got multiple marks on ferris feller’s son, like his pockets might be full of answers.
“ guess all them free drinks ain’t cuttin’ it any longer. ” brooks doesn’t watch football, never did. but he knows enough ‘bout what it’s like to be on the other side, to never be able to fully step off the field. “ ever miss it ? ” a beat. “ havin’ the rights to your own name ? ”
az’s leaning on the counter in brooks baker’s shop, her hands supporting her chin. “so, guess where i went this summer.” she knows from experience that brooks isn’t big on talking, but she wants answers so she bats her eyelashes. “i swear there’s a point to it and it’ll go quicker if you just guess.”
she wants him to guess. guess ? what is this, third grade ? brooks pauses placing new sweet rolls in the display case to blink. he debates putting up a fight, but figures it ain’t really worth the sweat. he’ll humor her, this time around. “ hell. ” he says it like it’s the only answer, paired with an almost smile. then he’s right back to restockin’, like he never said a thing.
he sees her. out the window. clear as day. same deep brown braid. same orange. knuckles white, brooks grips his coffee mug so tight the thing just might break. grits his teeth and grinds. he’s steeped so deep in his rage the slight shuffle of someone slidin’ into the booth across from him nearly vaults him off his seat.
“ fuck –– ” he lets out a ragged sigh. coffee spills onto his hand and he makes no move to snag a napkin to sop up the scaldin’ mess. just shakes his wrist and lets it burn. his fingers keep shakin’ so he opens and closes them into a fist a few times, like that might neutralize the pain. another glance out the window confirms that orange bitch is gone. brooks turns to meet duffy’s gaze with lingering fire.
they both ain’t strangers to the ins ‘n outs of athletic fame. maybe that’s what keeps brooks from hoppin’ one seat over when the bartop gains another patron. calloused fingers tap against their current prize –– the closest thing to ballantine this dive’s got to offer. he feels it squirmin’ in his center, the compulsion to relate. but here, in ‘82 ? he ain’t ferris feller no more.
“ must be shit, ” he deadpans instead, glancin’ over at his unwitting parallel. cue a pensive sip. on round four, even the man of fewest words becomes an amateur conversationalist.
“ just when y’get back the town flips its fuckin’ wig. some welcome fanfare, eh ? ”
it’s just about close when the front door chimes. brooks stops threading a braided raisin challah and balls up the dough, chuckin’ it back onto the back counter. fuck it. just when he thought he’d escaped the last of ‘em. “ don’t piss yourself; i’ll be there in a second, ” he calls from the back kitchen, smearing flour across the black fabric of his apron.
the sour expression he wears as he emerges into the shopfront softens, just a bit, when he locks eyes with his next customer.
“ i will pay you in cupcakes to shut up in advance, ” he grumbles, already pickin’ up tongs to pull out cas’s favorite flavors. “ long day. ” the only explanation the other male’s gonna get. he gestures between the remaining few treats and quirks a brow. “ pick your poison. ”
–– f l o u r - c a k e d h a n d s c l o s e t h e r e g i s t e r .
“ oh, for fuck’s sake. ”
there’s that signature eye roll.
they’re talking ‘bout their dead wife
A G A I N.
haven’t they read the roll along’s
no sentimental bullshit policy ?
“ just eat your fuckin’ cinnamon roll. ”
whaddup. hope y’like your bakers how you like your sweet rolls : rude and emotional unavailable !
( sean teale, human, he/him & cismale ) is that ( spellbound ) by ( ac/dc ) playing? guess ( “brooks baker” / ferris feller )’s comin’ in hot! heard folks say the ( “25” / 52 ) year old ( bakery owner ) was at the thanksgiving fair, ( nearly droppin’ a tray of sweets ‘n goodies at his bakery stand as he thought he recognized the orange-wearing witch who hexed him years ago ) when chaos ensued. during the glitch, ( he tried to follow that damned lady to give her a piece of his mind, but wound up defendin’ himself from incomin’ hooligans with a blow-up baseball bat instead ).
b a c k g r o u n d.
born as ferris feller in letum falls, oklahoma, 1930. his mother, greta feller, raised him and his little sister ( possible wc, if she’s been turned supernatural ? ) on her own. the story goes his father was stationed abroad in the military as a courier and died in a freak accident. there were photos of him ‘round the house, but really, those are just black and white photos of some random soldier his ma had written correspondence with as a volunteer letter writer during world war i. his real father was the local pastor. his mother started sleeping with him after he brought his suits in to be dry cleaned at her laundromat.
ferris took a natural liking to baseball, and distinguished himself as a standout batter early in elementary. his ma worked extra mending clothes in order to pay his little league dues, and soon little ferris was catapulted to local baseball success.
he never was the brightest tool in the shed. always quick with a comeback, but his faculties were always more geared toward the sport than mental acuity. he passed high school with the help of a tutor and very lenient teachers, who all wanted to see the first letum falls baseball star make to the big leagues.
and make it, he did. in 1948, ferris jumped on board with the new york yankees and made major league history with the team for over fifteen years.
but there was always this one gal throughout high school who couldn’t get the hint. she asked him to the sadie hawkins and he said yes out of pity, which he learned was a big mistake. this girl confessed her love for him at the end of their senior prom, ‘n ferris didn’t know what to say except no. that summer, stuff got weird. it started with small things. a beetle in his salad. worms in his burgers at the diner. and then he noticed the trend: it all happened when she was around, watchin’. she cornered him after a game in baltimore about two years after he started playin’ and demanded he propose to her, that she’d seen into the future and they were meant to be. ferris laughed in her face. and she said he’d rue the day. she said, you’ll get what’s comin’ to ya, feller, and then you won’t be so gosh darned smug.
ferris thought nothin’ of it, until the tenth year of his baseball career rolled around and he noticed his hits hadn’t changed. his records hadn’t budged anywhere but up. but... he was supposed to be pushin’ 33. his original teammates were talkin’ about retirement. developing some crow’s feet, some aches ‘n pains, some grays. yet there ferris was, as fresh-faced as when he joined.
and that’s when it hit him. that damn girl hexed him. and with the media talkin’ bout his miraculous youth, ferris knew he needed to step outta the limelight. but just retiring wasn’t an option –– they’d send reporters to monitor his post-game life. they’d see that he still looked the same. sounded the same.
once again: not the sharpest tool in the shed. ferris ups and disappears in 1964. the media speculates kidnapping. murder. the search is on and ferris flees. ducks into the shadows. waits a few years livin’ quiet before he slinks on back to letum falls.
it isn’t until near arrival in ‘66 he realizes he’s... he hasn’t got a plan. he parks the car he bought off the side of the road in delaware and racks his mind for a story. a name. anythin’.
brooks. it works. different letter, different sound. he buys himself a modest house near the outskirts of town ‘n gets his ducks in a row. doesn’t even blink at the idea of a surname, ‘til people start askin’. he’s gotta have a reason to be here. a story. people start sayin’ he looks familiar... and there’s his in: ferris feller’s son. came here in search of my pa, you seen him? he’ll fake shock when folks say feller disappeared years ago. swallow his tears ‘n pay his vague condolences when they say his ma died of a heart attack in ‘64, after learnin’ about ferris’s disappearance. and he’ll... open a bakery. yeah. he’ll lie ‘n say his ma was a baker in baltimore, she met feller after a game ‘n he was the result. he’ll stay a while. open a bakery. bakery. baker. brooks baker. that’ll work.
so he opens the roll along. the town loves it. by 1970, he’s winnin’ awards with his sweets. but the baker’s disposition doesn’t match the confections’ flavor.
he’s bitter. crass. a dark cloud. you don’t walk into the roll along for a chat. but that doesn’t stop some from tryin’. behind that glare, there’s somethin’. behind those icy eyes, there’s a different story.
ask him if he knows baseball. he’ll say nah, never played a lick in my life. he misses it. god damn it, he misses the game.
he keeps facial hair to look around his age. although his age is loose –– he avoids numbers. avoids specifics. folks speculate he’s in his mid-20s and that’ll do. but if he ever shaved? he wouldn’t look a day over 22.
t h e f a i r .
the roll along had its very own tent at the thanksgiving fair, and it was doin’ great business. brooks almost dropped a full tray of sweet rolls when chaos broke out. and then he saw the lady in orange and he just about lost his marbles. chucked the tray onto the nearest table. set off after her. but she disappeared ‘n then he had some hooligans on his hands, so he snatched the closest weapon –– a jumbo inflatable baseball bat and had at it.
no glitz and glam. no heroics. he whacked those monsters upside the head with a useless bubble of hot air, sustained some deep slashes, ‘n then got the fuck outta there. locked himself in the bakery, slumped against the fridge, bloodied. cursed himself for bein’ here. cursed himself for not just dyin’ already.
the roll along was roped into hosting one of the pre-vigil gatherings. the mayor asked for 400 sweet rolls to honor the 400 fallen. brooks thought it was in poor taste but hey, can’t argue with asherby. he spent all night bakin’ the damned things in his blood-stained shirt.
c u r r e n t l y .
he can’t shake it. seein’ that woman. because that might be her. that might be the bitch who did this to him. the bitch who took everything by giving him it all.
so he’s stress bakin’. a lot. pawning it off on everyone and anyone. takin’ out his frustrations on unwitting customers.
people are askin’ more questions ‘bout where he’s from, but it’s been so long and he’s told so many white lies, it’s hard to keep his story straight. what’s it to you? is his go-to response, but that’s not sufficing any more.
c u r r e n t c o n n e c t i o n s .
unlikely friends – duffy freely. they’re an unlikely pair. but somehow, brooks’ bitterness doesn’t scare duffy off. and there’s somethin’ about this girl’s earnestness that’s got something akin to trust risin’ up in him. a friend. who’d have thunk.
smug flirty banter – cal caldwell. the roll along supplies baked goods to letum skate, and ever since findin’ its owner hiding away in a closet from customers and coaxing him out with baked goods, brooks has developed... an intrigue ‘round cal. and, well. the guy’s a warlock. maybe he can help figure a way outta this fuckin’ curse.
w a n t e d c o n n e c t i o n s .
younger sister. she’d be pretty old now, but i imagine if this was filled, she’d have been turned supernatural in her 20s or 30s. growing up, brooks and his sister weren’t very close. brooks was always their mother’s priority because of baseball, and i imagine there was a lot of bitterness when he left town so quickly for the yankees. she’s likely around, and if they have interacted, it would be clipped and tense. dysfunctional as fuck. there’d be a lot of resentment about how their mother died. because, well... it’s his fuckin’ fault.
drinking buds. two shots of vodka, glug glug glug !! brooks is... well. definitely an alcoholic, among other things. he carries such a weight that it’s the only way he really knows how to dull it all. he’s bound to have a person or two for choice company in those need-to-drown-it-out moments.
bitter buds. they don’t take one another’s shit. and in all other universes, maybe they’d be sworn enemies. but for some reason, these two wind up actually getting along.
someone haunt the shit out of him. ghosts, i’m lookin’ at you.
unofficial baker’s aid. alright so. brooks is all about flying solo. managing his own shit. but maybe this customer hangs around so often that they’ve become part of the process? taste testing, helping to get things out of the oven, dealing with customers when brooks is done with their shit, etc.
