❧ prompt: stolen ❧ characters: pepper coake; monica imahara ❧ warnings: ableist language
She's had time to scatter on her bed (where her workspace has been relocated to, messier than ever) all the cargo she brought from Coake Mechanics and then get bored with it when sure as rain, it's Pepper Coake himself calling from the other end of the line when her phone rings.
She sounds bored when she greets him, a drowsy "Hello shitstain, what's up? You sound like you're dying... are you?" accompanied by a yawn, even though she is more than a bit interested and can more than guess what's up.
This is her side of her conversation, said in a droning, low voice punctuated by hmms and 'kays:
"Well I have no fucking idea where you left it so, bye."
"Why the fuck would anyone steal it. Why would anyone steal from you, full stop. You're the one who should be mugging people."
"You have to wait more than that to fill a missing person report, though."
"Pepper, don't cry, I'll buy you a lifetime supply"
"Yeah shitlord, I could even make you one with paper maché and spit and it'd still be better than that stinky wrench"
"Don't cry, Pepper,"
"I'm going to roll up tomorrow and if you're still crying, I'll find it just so I can beat you to near death with it."
"I know you're crying, I can hear you. I'm paraplegic, not fucking deaf."
"Yeah, I'll help you look for it tomorrow, yeah."
And finally a beep as she hangs up and tosses her phone back on her bed, leaves it to get lost amongst the bedsheets and the debris and all the bags of snacks.
She doesn't have to close her eyes to imagine the runny nose and the high pitched croak after Pepper found- or rather, didn't find. She knows him to the point of being able to tell without turning to look at him if he's keeping himself tightly locked as to not burst into tears in front of her. Not like it's hard. Not like it comes from growing closer. Pepper Coake is simple, not hard to read,
(Safe.)
Which gets us back to the wrench that left it's owners side safely stored in her carry-on with the rest of her cargo and that now she inspects this way and that in the relative safety of her room, her fingers sliding through every groove and indent.
It's cheap, as everything Pepper is. Not valuable, because “sentimental value” doesn't mean shit. It's useful, and that's all one could say about it- except for the fact that Pepper doesn't even use it. Monica doesn't think it could be used as a weapon, either, if it came to that. She doesn't see the appeal in treating it like the weird precious thing Pepper treats it as, but.
She spins it in her hands over and over, beats the air with it.
Whack, Whack, Whack.
(Yeah, I'll help you look.)
Today she didn't have to pinch her eyes shut and tomorrow she won't have to, either. She'll be in the first row when the wrench appears miraculously in it's old spot, and she’s gotten used to his idiot grin, too, anyways.