Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my OC's.

January 5th: the day that all of our neighbours decided that they hated us.

Roxanne's shriek makes me wince, but I straighten up when she screams, "I found it!"

I come running with a bucket. Roxanne is on her hands and knees in front of what I always assumed was a supply closet. Roxanne cracks open the door, revealing a bedroom. Apparently not. I sneak forward, fighting back a shriek of my own when I see the little ball of grey fur. After a moment of careful consideration, I slam the bucket down on the rat, trapping it.

"This is disgusting," I announce, leaning my full body weight on the bucket. My throat is hoarse from all the screaming I've done. "Rats? Really, Roxanne? I thought this place was supposed to be the best apartment complex in Metro City!"

"Hey, I never had rats before you came here," Roxanne defends, but I'm looking around the room. It's little. And sparsely decorated. There's only a bed, an old TV and a tiny little table. I didn't even know this was here.

"Hey, I didn't know you had another room," I say, turning to her. Roxanne lowers her gaze and her pretty little rosebud mouth turns down sadly.

"This was Vida's room."

It takes me a while to place the name, but once I do I can't believe I forgot the gangly blond girl who frequented my preteen years. "Vida? That girl who didn't have a home?"

"She had a home," Roxanne argues. She sighs. "She was just never at it."

"I didn't know you roomed with Vida," I say, resting my chin in the palm of my hand. I didn't even know she still talked to Vida after she moved during high school. Roxanne smiles wanly.

"We met up during college and just…clicked. So we agreed to move in together."

"You didn't live here in college," I point out, cocking an eyebrow. Roxanne shrugs.

"I know. We lived together for a while. When I became a reporter, we could finally afford to live in an apartment like this. But Vida…" Roxanne hesitates. "She didn't like the idea that I was more…successful than her. We fought and…I haven't seen her since."

"Then why haven't you rented out her room?" I point out. It's nice enough that she can get a good deal for it. Roxanne shakes her head sadly.

"I don't know. I guess I was hoping she'd come back."

I fall silent as I survey my sister. She's tracing the frame of the doorway with the same amount of tenderness one would use on an infant, or a beloved pet. Vida was more than a friend to Roxanne – she was a symbol of Roxanne's childhood, of a time when Roxanne had nothing of adulthood or her future to think about.

But there is something about Roxanne's sad gestures that transcends the loss of an old friend. Big, puffy bags hide poorly beneath concealer and foundation below her lower lids, and my sister's eyes are dull and exhausted. This is not a sadness that has come on from a spontaneous reminder of her past – not in the slightest.

"We should go release the rat outside," Roxanne says finally, breaking me out of my thoughts. She pushes herself to her feet, brushing her exercise-tousled hair out of her face. "We still have the rest of the apartment to clean. Why the sudden cleaning spree, anyway?"

"Uh – no reason," I say haltingly, trying – and failing – to conceal my wince as I force my mind away on my impending visitor. "Just thinking…now that I have friends-" Or friend. Singular. "-I can't entertain them in a pigsty. And we don't have maids here, after all."

Roxanne sends me a curious, slightly unconvinced look. "Fine. If you say so. I'm going to go find a plank or something to help us move the rat into the bucket."

I watch Roxanne as she dolefully exits the room. I wait until she leaves, then shuffle forwards on my knee and pull out the glinting object which had caught my eye when I entered. It's a worn old book – and when I open the book to the first page, I find two words printed neatly in fluorescent green ink.

Vida Scardina

Now who knew that Roxanne's old best friend was a bookworm?

As expected, Roxanne doesn't come back from releasing the rat. I take advantage of the now-empty apartment and soak in Roxanne's Jacuzzi, then dry off and change into my cleanest outfit. After pottering around the apartment nervously for the better part of two hours, I force myself to sit down and stare out the window.

And then I hear it.

Knock knock knock.

Three simple knocks. So unfailingly innocent, and yet it sends my heart stuttering and tripping over itself. I can do this, I tell myself sternly as I rise to open the door. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this-

"Hey, Museum Girl, I- Jesus Christ in a bucket!"

I groan loudly, turning away from the door and aiming an irritated kick at the wall. "Keith, what the hell are you doing here?!"

Keith is still looking around the apartment in a mixture of abject horror and amazement. "That is a crap ton of books! How have you not starved to death with all the money you're shovelling into books?"

Deep, calm breaths, Grace. You can do it. Calm, and patience, and above all politeness-

"I'm a little busy, Keith," I bite out, trying to force my tone to remain even and controlled. "I'm expecting company soon."

Keith seems to get over himself and grins, shouldering his way past me and strutting into the apartment. A rather large plastic bag dangles from his fingers, swaying precariously as he moves. "Oh, I know all about your little visitor. Which brings me to my next point, are you seriously using all these books for entertainment when he comes over? Who the hell reads books when they go to someone's house?"

I stare coldly at Keith, counting to ten and backwards in my mind. Calm, and patience, and politeness. Calm, patience, politeness. Calm, and patience, and-

"That reminds me," Keith adds, heading towards my kitchen counter. "Brought you a present!"

I eye Keith suspiciously as he moves a pile of books on my kitchen counter and replaces it with the bag. He whips away the bag with a grand flourish, revealing a…cake box. A cake box. Really. Not even lying. With an even grander flourish, Keith flicks open the lid.

Okay, calm and patience and politeness has officially ran out.

"Remove that thing from my apartment," I say coldly, "or you'll be wearing it."

Keith laughs in delight as I eye the cake and its ridiculous message – aimed at me or my visitor, I don't know which. Written in large, almost obscenely inappropriately cheerful icing are three very simple words.

YOU GOT LAID!

"Aw, c'mon, Museum Girl," Keith jokes, slinking an arm around my shoulders and giving me an affection shake. "After mom did all that pretty icing work and everything!"

My heart stutters to a stop and I spin around to gape in horror at Keith, dread seeping into my very bones. "She didn't."

"Well, Lynette and I did the words," Keith admits bashfully. "But mom did everything else!"

My heart rate subsiding to something more ordinary, I turn back to the cake to contemplate how to best shove it into Keith's face. "Last time I saw Lynette, she was trying to kill you for trolling her lecture."

"Yeah, she did try to drown me a few times when we got home," Keith says cheerily, still admiring his handiwork on the cake. "Probably going to try again when I come home today. Speaking of! I should leave now."

"Keith, you little shit-" I hiss, but Keith dances out of my reach when I try to grab his sleeve.

"Now, now, little one!" Keith admonishes as though I'm five years old. "Play nice at your play date today, okay? And use protection!"

"Keith -" I begin irately, but with a loud kiss to my cheek, Keith is shamelessly strutting to the door. The doorbell rings when Keith's hand is scarcely an inch from the doorknob, and he flings the door open. An even smugger – if possible – grin breaks through on Keith's lips, but thankfully he just slides past Bernard without further comment. Thank god for that.

"Use protection!" Keith bellows from the end of the corridor. Or not. I spit out a suggestion of where he can shove his stupid protection, then yank Bernard into the apartment and slam the door shut.

"That was strange, even for him," Bernard notes impassively as we enter the main room. I smile wryly and open my mouth to comment, but my words cut off in a strangled gasp when I see I've left the cake box open on the counter. I shove Bernard away and lunge forward, practically slamming the lid down on the cake box. "And that was strange, even for you."

"Strange day all around," I say brightly – too brightly, because Bernard eyes me in a manner that suggests he's questioning my sanity. I quickly change the topic. "What's in the bag?"

Bernard blinks and looks down at the bag dangling from his hand as though he'd forgotten all about it. Wordlessly, he opens it.

"Books!" I squeal in delight, darting over and peering into the bag. Old books too, by the looks of it. The kind swimming with silverfish and coated in dust and thinner than onion skin.

"The museum closed down today," Bernard explains as I paw through the bag, trying to make out the titles on the worn, tattered spines. "As curator, I had to find a place for the books. I thought…you above anyone else would appreciate the knowledge these books had to offer. These are only a select few, but-"

"Oh my gosh, I've heard of this doctor!" I exclaim excitedly, pulling out a book. "He was a pioneer in the field of Indigenous Australian artefacts!" Mainly because he was the first to actually ask the Indigenous Australians, but whatever.

"Do you still possess the book on Bronze Age Mesopotamia I was reading last time?" Bernard asks. I nod distractedly, too engrossed in my book to question how Bernard remembers what he was reading from nearly a month ago.

"Yeah, it's…somewhere on the couch…"

Bernard dips his head in acceptance and heads off to locate the book. By the time he returns, I've sunk down against the counter onto the floor, my nose buried in my book.

Bernard doesn't appear to think twice – he pulls up a chair and seats himself so close to me that his knee is close to brushing against my shoulder.

Time seems to blur as Bernard and I make our way through each other's books. By the time I get up to stretch my sore limbs, hours have passed.

"Eight o'clock," I murmur, furrowing my brow in bemusement at the clock. Wasn't it just a few minutes ago that Keith had come barging in here with that ridiculous cake? How was it dinner time already? What were we even going to do for dinner? "Bernard, can you cook?"

Bernard glances over at me and gives me a deadpan look. "Can a fish skate?"

Fair point. Before I can acknowledge this, the doorbell rings. I frown, putting down my book and picking my way through the room. I open the door, then almost have to muffle a groan.

"Hello, Miss Ritchi!" Minion says cheerfully, holding up a white sock. "You appear to have left a piece of laundry on your doorknob!"

Why do I have a sock on my doorknob, and how did I forget about Minion?!

Meanwhile, Keith is kicking back and relaxing while Anna lectures him for losing a perfectly good sock.

Anyway, there's that! Short but sweet, right? There was another bit of a wait, which I'm sorry about since I promised updates would come faster (though since it took faster than 8 months, I technically wasn't lying) but I was overseas with my friends and lacked time...and computer access to write. I wrote this all in...two, three days? Hopefully the next one will come to me just as quickly ;)

Read and review, please! And once again, my ROTG fic is still in need of love!