Disclaimer: They belong to Meg Cabot. . . but I think she should share, don't you? (holds out hands expectantly) (;

Author's Note: Yea! I just bought books 1-6 off of bn . com! Unfortunetly, they're not here yet, and I haven't had a chance to read book 6. . . but here's to waiting! (-; Anyway, possibly my favorite part of the first Mediator book was the section right after Suze met Jesse. . . and later that night she heard someone singing the song 'Oh Susannah' outside. I just have this great mental picture of him, sitting out on the roof, singing to the moon. . . Heehee.

Anyway, I was in the middle of writing another fic, when I felt this overwhelming desire to do this one. . . just another little fluffy ficlet.

I got the lyrics off the internet, so if you disagree with them, yell at google. XD (Oh! Speaking of disagreeing. . . the "I love you" in Speaking My Language- I got it from a friend of mine who's taking Spanish class. She learned it during Valentines day, I guess, and had the notes handy when I asked her. A lot of people were mentioning that "that's not how you say it, just so you know" and for all I know, you guys are 100-percent right. But at the same time, I'm sure there's different ways to say it. I know there is in Japanese and English.)

Well, please enjoy!

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To Laugh Along

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For as long as he'd know her—which was a rather long time, considering—there had only ever been one way to consciously make her laugh. One. Sure, he'd found other means that worked on occasion, and there had been many instances when he'd done or said something she found particularly amusing at the time, but that meant nothing. The fact of the matter was that there'd only ever be a single, surefire way to make Susannah Simon smile. He just didn't like to use this particular method, in case she ever grew tired of it. Well, that, and it made him look rather foolish.

But it appeared as if he'd need to resort to it now.

"Susannah," he whispered, crouching beside her bed and attempting vainly to make eye contact. But she simply rolled the other way, hiding her face in a long, white pillow. "Susannah, what's wrong?"

She did not respond, only snuffled louder. A strange choking sound resonated from her body, as well—the noise she always made when trying not to wail. What on Earth was going on? One minute she'd been heading cheerfully (well, relatively, anyway) off to her usual family dinner, the next she was. . . broken. He hadn't even had a chance to jump in surprise when she came barreling back into her room, throwing herself desperately onto her excessively frilly mattress. That was how sudden her depression was. And how abnormal.

"Querida, please," he all but begged, reaching out a hand to gently stroke away her chestnut locks. Her whole body shuddered at the contact, but she didn't pull away. A comforting sign. . . still, he so wished that she'd talk to him. "Please. . . tell me what's the matter. I can't help you unless you tell me how."

The fluff of her cushion muffled her sniffling, her knuckles whitening on her blankets. Her rumpled sheets rustled when she moved, accompanying the groan of her mattress springs. The window panes creaked, the closet door squeaked. It was like her entire room wished to chat. Regardless, she remained silent. Jesse's brow furrowed, worry tying his stomach into knots. He had to make her respond. . . but how?

Well, as they say, desperate times. . .

". . . Your mascara's running?"

A snort. Success. "Not. . . true. . ." Suze grumbled, voice raw with emotion. Her face was still stuffed into the pillow. "I use. . . waterproof. . ."

Well, at least he was getting somewhere, now. "I don't know, Susannah. . ." he murmured softly, fingertips continuing to smooth her hair. "I'm pretty sure I see it running. . ."

Slowly, the girl lifted her face; revealing puffy red eyes and flushed, angry cheeks. She was always so adorable when furious. . . But, out of respect for his girlfriend and her temper, he valiantly attempted to keep the amusement out of his stare. "It. . . is. . . not!"

"Mmm. . . No, I suppose you're right," Jesse frowned thoughtfully, leaning forward so that their eyes locked. "But there is something wrong with your face, now that I look at it. . ."

Susannah glared, defensive and clearly not in the mood. "What?" she inquired flatly, swallowing fast and hard.

He chuckled, tenderly brushing away a tear with the pad of his thumb. "There's no smile on it."

". . ." Suze trembled, bottom lip quivering as she tried her best not to cry. Jesse continued to gaze upon her with an expression full of gentle, yet determined, concern. "I guess I'll have to remedy that."

Propping himself up on his knees and placing his elbows on the bed, the ghost hummed, as if tuning himself—resting his forehead against the mediator's. Suze, in return, looked surprised— a blush already forming on her pale cheeks. Then Jesse grinned. . . and began to sing. Quietly, true—but in a voice so strong that she couldn't have ignored it if she'd tried. Not that she bothered trying. "Well I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee

And I'm bound for Louisiana, my own true love for to see." Susannah's flushed face darkened slightly when his lips curved meaningfully, rubbing their noses together in that way she'd admitted to loving.

"It did rain all night the day I left

The weather was bone dry

The sun was so hot I froze myself

Suzanne, don't you go on and cry."

He began to bob his head to the beat, tapping his fingers playfully on the bedspread. The sound of his silky singing echoed cheerfully through the otherwise empty bedroom, Spike having earlier gone out the chase cars. (Jesse would have been more worried if the cat hadn't come back with a fender the last time.) Suze, her face growing pinker by the second, started to straighten— lifting her torso off the bed with her forearms and staring unblinkingly at Jesse. Her hand darted out and rubbed her left eye.

A tiny giggle formed in her mouth, threatening to escape between her pursed lips.

"I said, Oh, Susannah

Now, don't you cry for me

As I come from Alabama with this banjo on my knee."

Standing just long enough to join Suze on the bed, the ghost grabbed the girl's fists and began to move them gently in time to the tune— a stationary dance. A small smile tugged on Susannah's mouth when Jesse pulled her closer, still toying with their locked fingers.

"Well I had myself a dream the other night

When everything was still

I dreamed that I saw my girl Suzanne

She was coming around the hill

Now, the buckwheat cake was in her mouth

A tear was in her eye

I said, that I come from Dixie land

Suzanne, don't you break down and cry."

Placing their laced hands over her moist cheeks, Jesse kissed the top of his querida's head— before pointedly attacking her ticklish sides. Without warning. Without restraint. And without mercy.

Her laughter broke through the "solemn silence" like a baseball's first encounter with a window. A sweet melody— matching the beam on her face as she forgot why she was acting so melancholy.

"I said, Oh, Susannah

Now, don't you cry for me

'Cause I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee!"

Oh, she was defiantly happy once more— snickering just like the first time he'd sung the song for her, a spur of the moment idea, to distract her from an argument she'd had with her mother. It had been so strange to be the center of amusement again, like he'd been when alive and in charge of watching his little sisters. How he'd loved to hear their shrieking giggles.

And it didn't take him long to realize that he loved the sound even more—savored how blithe it was, how cheerful— when Susannah was the one expressing amusement. It was so. . . completely her. It even had its own strange properties, similar to its owner. For one thing, it was like a yawn: contagious. There had never been a time when her giggles had kept a grin off of his face. He may have been able to hide it, once in a while— but, he soon decided, why bother?

"That. . ." Suze hiccuped, sniggering and leaning against Jesse as she tried vainly to catch her breath, "is the stupidest song. . . in the world. . ." Smiling gratefully up at him, every hint of depression gone, she gave his hand a squeeze of thanks. He returned the gesture. . .

Before snorting, attempting to appear indigent, aloof. (It didn't work.) "Nombre de Dios! How do you figure? It happens to be one of my favorites."

". . ." They exchanged silent glances, taking in the others' priceless expression. . . before simultaneously collapsing with mirth.

Yes, he may have been able to hide it, once in a while— but, he soon decided, why bother?

It was so much easier to laugh along.