Beep-beep.

Billy didn't have to look at his watch to know that it was three o'clock. He cupped his hand over his mouth. Exhale. Inhaled through his nose to check his breath. Not as minty as he would like, but it wasn't stinking either. Good.

He ran a hand over his hair, giving his scalp a little scratch before running his hands over the front of his hoodie, fingers tapping on his stomach absentmindedly. Mind working up seemingly clever lines - Notice her. Don't gawk. Be cool, nonchalant. Greet her appropriately.

"Hey. How's it going?" Nod head, mouth tug into a grin while you casually lean on the washer hood. ...

- Actually, that was as far as he got. Feeling fidgety, he checked his watch.

The digital readout clicked over to 3:02.

She was late. She's never late.

Billy glanced at his basket of laundry, still waiting to be washed. He glanced around the room, watching laundry being stuffed, folded, shook, tossed.

3:03.

Ding.

Billy turned and felt relieved when he saw it was her. The butterflies in his stomach - he preferred to think of them as ievil/i butterflies - collapsed, molded into a heavy ball that dropped and formed a seemingly bottomless pit.

She walked past him, settling her basket on top of the washer behind him. Without thinking (he'd never admit doing that), he grabbed his own basket and spun around, setting it on the machine one over from hers and began quietly sorting his clothes out.

From the corner of his eye, he watched. She was sorting out her lights from darks, pausing only to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

He followed her movements, allowing his to match hers; sort, toss, sort, toss. Sprinkle of detergent.

Billy gave a slight pause to take a small step sideways, give a slight lean towards her, sniffing the fragrance. Lilac. It suited her.

When she closed the washer hood - another thing he liked about her: she never slammed them. She treated the machinery carefully, with respect. - he closed his too and inserted his money, keeping time as best he could with her.

The machines started up, filling with water and leaving them both with time to fill. Hopefully, with conversation.

Billy swallowed, his tongue feeling sandpaper dry in his mouth. He turned his body slowly to face her. "Um."

She turned to face him, her face expectant, wondering. Oh, God. She heard him.

"Er, um." Billy struggled (something else he'd never admit to doing) to remember his plan.

Notice her. Definite check.

Don't gawk. Um, working on that.

Be cool, nonchalant. Work in progress.

Greet her appropriately.

Billy felt his mouth open. A sound gurgled in the back of his throat, formed into a word.

Billy felt his mouth close, the word slide down his throat and fall into the apparent bottomless pit in his stomach.

He shook his head, attempting to twist his face to physically say the word "Sorry" that apparently his mouth couldn't.

"Are you okay? You look sick." Concern written on her face.

Billy nodded, gave a weak smile and, with his head hanging down, turned and walked away. He sat in the back of the Laundromat, under a flickering fluorescent light that gave him the beginnings of a headache. He watched as she walked over to the row of chairs with a pamphlet in hand, the sunlight hitting her hair and giving her a halo of fire.

He sat, mesmerized.

A plan began forming in his head. One that would launch him into the Evil League of Evil ranks, keep Captain Hammer away from him, and above all -- give him the courage to talk to Penny.