Notes: All I can say about the delay is: I had computer problems. My computer died. I got a new computer. I post most recent chapter. Originally I was just going to end it here, as I'll be honest, writing this story is fun but becoming unbearably complex considering where the plot goes in the next few chapters, but now I feel guilty. Just as a warning--chapters might be coming slowly after this. I am terribly sorry about the long wait.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN – In which girl (Jenny) desires perfection (Pudding)

Don't Care, Don't Know, Doesn't Matter am

I woke to the rather fuzzy face of Rolph for the third time in god knows how many days. I was finally off of the IV, dressed in a pair of real pajamas rather than a yucky hospital gown, under something that felt suspiciously like a blanket made of wool instead of that creepy, scratchy stuff that they call wool but is, in fact, an alien fiber made from thistles.

"Hey," she said lightly, touching my wrist. "You're awake again, I see."

"Yep," I croaked, and I coughed in the ensuing dryness of my throat. Rolph handed me a glass of water; it tasted like water that had been left out on somebody's windowsill for days, the kind of water that you have to fish the dead bodies of flies out of . . . and yeah, okay, stopping because I'm making myself nauseous.

Anyway, I tasted the water. I gagged. Rolph laughed, and propped herself against the side of the hospital bed. "I take it you're feeling better?" she asked.

"You mean my lovely post-surgery scar?" I asked, gesturing towards my abdomen. "Yeah, I'm properly drugged for that. As for the other bit . . . I don't know."

Rolph grinned at that, a slow smile that picked its way across her face, and she twisted at the hip, still cupping one of my hands in her own, and made a flicking gesture with her wrist towards the door. "Are you hungry?" she asked, and although I hadn't been, suddenly the rumbling began . . . and it didn't stop.

"Yes," I said, sounding surprised. "Yes, I am."

The look on my face must have been pure confusion, because Rolph laughed and tapped me on the tip of my nose like I was four. It was not as condescending as it could have been. Mom needs to take notes from Rolph on how to be affectionate without being patronizing. Rolph could teach it at the Y for community service credits, although I suppose she has a stable job so she doesn't really need community service credits like I do.

Have I mentioned lately that my attention span is shot to hell?

At any rate, my eyes were caught by the only bit of color in the room other than Rolph (who was, by the way, despicably attractive, glowing like some Egyptian queen with her golden skin and black hair. I probably look like a drowned rat), which was a profusion of daisies spilling out of a green crystal vase at the foot of the cot. Rolph followed my gaze, and her expression was rueful.

"David," she said. "He tried to visit you three times."

"He did?" I asked dully, looking at the daisies. It's probably awful to admit that my first thoughts had been of Warren Peace. "That's nice of him."

"Hmm, quite nice," said Rolph, and we sat in stilted silence for a few minutes, before the door to the room cracked open, and in came the only thing that I wanted at that moment.

Pudding. Chocolate.

"Gimme!" I cried, reaching out and waggling my fingers. I was reduced by my complete and utter desire to cavewoman grunts. "Rolph, pudding. Now." She was giving me odd looks, odd looks that were hopeful and faintly victorious, and then she slipped off my bed and revealed that it was not, in fact, a Hapless Nurse delivering the savior (pudding), but her wayward son.

He was frowning, and he looked sorry. I felt guilty, but not that much.

Because while my heart was suddenly heavy, too heavy for my chest and probably the cot and the structural supports of the hospital's foundation, there was no desire.

Okay. That's a lie. There was desire, because Warren Peace is . . . yum.

But at the moment, my body wanted chocolate pudding more than it wanted Warren Peace. I laughed deliriously. "Rolph," I said, intending to order her to get me pudding again, but I was interrupted by none other than His Broodiness.

"It didn't work," he said dully.

Rolph's face crumpled. "Oh, oh Jenny," she said. "When you didn't react, I thought—"

"What? What are you talking about?" I demanded, my eyebrows falling together low over my eyes. "I don't feel a thing."

"What?" echoed Warren. He was frowning again, clenching his fists. "You don't feel that?"

"Uh, no," I said. "No offense, Warren, but if the choice is between you and the pudding, I'd chose the pudding." I looked up at Rolph's face hopefully. "Pudding?"

She ignored me. "Oh god, what if the painkillers are just dulling the sensitivity? We have no way to check, none at all."

"You could always take me off the painkillers," I pointed out, eyeing the cart. "If you give me pudding, I'm sure I'll be fine . . ."

"No," said Warren and Rolph at the same time.

"Why not?" I asked.

"If you're taking painkillers, Monroe, there's a reason. It's called pain. Be glad it's not there." With that said, Warren dismissed me and turned to his mother. She was rubbing her chin and opening and closing her mouth without saying anything.

"If we," she began, and then shook her head. "No, no, that won't work."

"Will someone please give me some pudding?" I cried piteously, and was ignored. Fine. Extreme times called for extreme measures, I figured. "I know how to find out!"

That got their attention. "How?" asked Rolph.

"Give me pudding first." Warren sighed and rolled his eyes, and then gathered the little plastic cup of yumminess and a spoon and came around the side of bed to hand me both. I reached with my left hand, exposing the underside of my forearm, and he froze in the process. I was inches, centimeters from my goal, and then—he put it down on the side table, out of my reach, and grabbed my arm.

His fingers were lovely and warm, but they were also keeping me from my pudding.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice low and scratchy, and he traced one of the lines with the tip of his finger. It was calloused from the piano, and it caught on the dip where my vein ran.

"Hmm?" I asked, arching my back and reaching around him. Damn. Out of my arm span. "Oh, that. I went a bit crazy during the testing phase. Nothing major. Warren, please don't take this personally, but if you do not hand me that container soon, I'm going to stab you in the eyeballs."

"A bit crazy?" There it was again, the ignoring bit.

"Yes," I said impatiently. "Ask Rolph."

"She wanted to be closer to you," explained Rolph, and while right now I am completely and utterly embarrassed by that realization, at right then time I really didn't care. The pudding wobbled enticingly, shivering on the bedside table. Come on, Jenny, it urged. You want me, don't you? I'm chocolately and rich.

"So she gave herself a tattoo?"

"With a ballpoint pen," said Rolph quietly.

"Mom, you didn't heal her? What about these bruises?"

"The bruises are the result of the healing. And I couldn't get the ink out, not entirely."

"Then what good are you?"

"Oi!" I cried, realizing what they were arguing about. "It's not Rolph's fault that I went a bit psychotic, is it? I mean, I did a lot worse than those stupid tattoos. Can we please return to the part of the proceedings when you give me the pudding and I tell you how to make sure I'm cured?"

Warren sighed, releasing my wrist so slowly his fingers burned as they skimmed the skin. Then he handed me the pudding, sans spoon, and as he turned around and reached for the cart, I dug my finger into the middle of the warm squishiness and stuck the digit into my mouth.

The flavor. The warmth. The chocolate.

"Mmmm," I moaned. Warren turned back so quickly he probably got whiplash. He was giving the pudding a faintly suspicious look, as though it had threatened imminent world domination or the end of Greenpeace or some such. I dipped my finger into the pudding and then dropped back my head and let the enjoyment sort of roll over me as I wrapped my tongue around my finger.

"Are you done?" asked Warren in a strangled voice.

"Hmm?" I asked, straightening up. Rolph looked like she was trying to keep from laughing, and as I blinked away the hazy of my chocolate-gasm she had to turn towards the curtain in the far side of the room to hide her shaking shoulders. Finally she cleared her throat and expertly twisted on her feet so she was facing us again. "Oh, right."

I carefully put the pudding on the bedside table—well within reach, just in case—turned to Warren Peace, snagged the collar of his leather jacket, and kissed him. Not forcefully or terribly romantically. There were no starbursts or fireworks. I just pressed my more-than-slightly chapped lips against his, so lightly there was almost no pressure at all, and then I settled back, releasing his collar.

"See?" I said, turning to Rolph and nonchalantly shifting my balance so I could grab the pudding container. "Nothing."

Which, now that I think about it, was probably what prompted the events that followed. Considering that Warren snarled "Nothing?!" like it was a personal insult, yeah, I'd say that I was sort of asking for it.

Don't blame me. It was the Pudding Thrall.

But Warren, the skin under his leather jacket literally smoking, had no intention of taking his frustration out on the pudding (something for which, in the split second between when his lips parted and he wrapped his fingers through my too-long hair, I was eternally grateful). Instead, he grabbed my head and proceeded to give his physical enactment of the Not-Nothing Kiss.

Thoroughly. Mind-blowingly. And chocolately.

The latter, now that I reflect, might have been because of me. But in between the press of his lips against the corner of my mouth and the flick of his tongue against my lower lip, I sort of lost track where Warren Peace's mouth was in relation to Jenny Monroe's. The only time I really came to myself was when he gave a slow, almost painful pull at my hair, and I reacted by biting his lip. Hard enough to bruise, probably, but he growled in his throat and didn't complain.

Then the Not-Nothing Kiss was over, and I could barely breath and Warren was definitely smoking now, and realizing this he stripped off his precious leather jacket and flexed his fingers a couple times to probably hold back the flames. He was smirking faintly, under the cover of his hair. Rolph was utterly still, looking a combination of shocked and amused. It took her a couple tries to speak. "Well?" she finally asked.

"It wasn't nothing," I said carefully, "but it wasn't the Thrall, either."

Warren's eyes shot to mine, and his look was accusing and horrible. "It wasn't nothing," I repeated forcefully. "I'm just telling you that this is good old-fashioned lust." And upon realizing that Warren and I were having a Moment of a Sexual Nature directly in front of his mother, I blushed, looked down, and rubbed my hands awkwardly down my bruised forearms.

"Oh," said Warren.

"Oh," said Rolph. "Well, that explains . . . a lot . . ."

"Huh?" I asked.

"Ha!" cried the curtain at the other end of the room.

"Sorry?" I asked, and the curtain gave an awkward cough and shuffled a bit.

"Julianne," said Rolph, and the curtain sighed and twitched to the side to reveal Julianne and Kinthus, neither looking particularly shame-faced at having been caught out spying on two teenagers who had been about two seconds away from full-fledged necking a minute before. As though coming upon this rather sobering realization, Warren stopped smoking.

"Well, if one reviews your son's actions during the past two months, it makes quite a lot of sense," continued Julianne, pushing her Coke-bottle glasses farther up her nose. She blinked at us, her eyes almost inhumanly large. "You had quite a reaction to Jenny's tears during testing, young man. Not to mention, of course, killing her fledgling relationship with David Pierson and when you set Richard's office on fire. Both times."

"You set Kinthus's office on fire?" I demanded.

"Yes," said Warren through gritted teeth. "The first time was an accident, Professor Kinthus."

"Oh, of course it was, young man," said Julianne. "A remarkable display of pent-up lust. And self-loathing at your actions in the much-maligned women's bathroom, if I am not mistaken. And being a behavioral biologist, I am not mistaken." Warren looked torn between being insulted and embarrassed, and Julianne barreled onward in her usual way. "But the second was quite deliberate."

"That really was bad of you," interjected Rolph.

"That was an original Oriental rug," added Kinthus almost ruefully.

"You lied to me," Warren said.

"No," corrected Rolph. "We didn't tell you where we were keeping Jenny. And I maintain that we made the correct decision under the circumstances, although not even I predicted your methodical destruction of Richard's office."

"You set Kinthus's office on fire?" I repeated weakly.

"They wouldn't tell me what happened," said Warren tightly. From the way he was positioned, I couldn't make out his expression clearly. "I got a bit . . . antsy."

"You two make a fine pair," said Kinthus, a little sarcastically. "The past month has been the most exhilarating of my life, and I don't mean that in the entirely positive sense."

"Your office was hideous, dear," said Julianne. "Now you can petition the board to get new furnishings. You should thank him."

"I will not!" cried Kinthus. His scraggly-on-the-sides hair bristled with indignation.

"Thank you," said Julianne. "The furnishings were hideous."

Warren ran his fingers through his hair, flashing the tattoos whose twins I now had—unfortunately—adorning my own arms. "My pleasure, Professor Kinthus."

And I, ever the stealthy one, reached out with my tentacles to snatch the pudding cup from the bedside table before someone else decided to move it for some inane reason. I was salivating, hearts in my eyes, and about to dig in when Warren handed me a spoon.

The scientists filed out, muttering amongst themselves about popping out to visit Rolph's Friend from the Maxville ER and Oriental rugs, and still Warren was holding the spoon under my nose. I don't know what, exactly, made me pause, but eventually we were alone again, and each left holding one half of the Pudding Equation for Perfection.

"Are you going to take the spoon, Monroe?" asked Warren, tucking his hair behind his ear in a faintly feminine fashion.

"Oh, right," I said, and I took it rather than admit that I'd spent most of the past minute or so of vaguely awkward silence staring at him. I was wondering how to breach the subject of the attraction he obviously still meant for me (which included subcategory conversation topics like What To Do About Missy, Do You Actually Feel That Or Is It Just A Lingering Side-Effect, and Oh By the Way I Might Be In Love With You) when Rolph popped her head in and called "Warren, the doctor needs to see Jenny."

Warren blinked, and then turned to look at his mother with a slightly glazed expression. "Right," he said. "I'll be right back, Monroe."

"I'm certainly not going anywhere," I said, and he made to get off the bed, but I grabbed his hand before he could do so. I pretended to be terribly engrossed by extracting the little plastic spoon from his fist, all the better to surreptitiously grope his ridiculously attractive fingers. I hadn't realized how little I was compared to him, at least not in the extreme sense, but watching my stubby little fingers attempt to ply open his Olympian grip was like watching an ant try to lift a slice of watermelon.

"Warren," I growled. "Spoon."

"I hope you and the pudding are very happy together," he told me as the doctor coughed emphatically from the doorway. He released the spoon into my possession and turned to leave. His leather jacket was still folded across the bed, but I got the distinct impression that he had every intention of being back for it soon.

"All right, Miss Monroe," said the doctor briskly. "I want you to sit up for me . . ." And he proceeded to take my pudding from my lap, put it on the dinner cart, and push it out to the hallway for a nurse to take away. MY PUDDING.

"I loathe you," I told him.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing."

"All right, just breathe out for me—deep breaths."

The physical went well, the doctor told me that I had one more night of incarceration before he would release me (to go home, he said as strictly as he could, not to my dorm room, and I had the stifle the immediate urge to laugh at that knee-slapper), and once again I was alone in my hospital room. This time, I was sans pudding and insanely hungry.

My savior was along a few minutes later. Unfortunately, although he was bearing a bag of Moe's tacos and some Cool Ranch Doritos, he wasn't the savior I was preparing myself for. "David," I hissed as his familiar tall frame slipped through the door. "You are not supposed to be here."

"And you're supposed to have a broken leg," he said critically as he crossed the room. "What are you really doing here, Jenny? Did he do something to you?"

"Listen," I said, folding my hands over my stomach to either keep myself from strangling him or snatching the Moe's bag from his arms like a psychotic preschooler, "David, I appreciate your concern. I think it's really a great sign that you're so concerned for my well fare. But I am fine. I took a tumble, hurt my leg, and now I'm in the hospital for a bit of recuperation."

"Why wouldn't they let me see you?" he asked, putting down the Moe's bag and folding his arms across his chest. I gave a cry of delight and in approximately one half of a millisecond had the bag open and was digging into a soft-shell taco. It was chicken, unfortunately, but loaded with cilantro and guacamole and therefore at least marginally edible. (And friggin fantastic, but that is neither here nor there.)

I gave a sigh of pure bliss.

"Jenny?" said David, leaning over me to check me over with a fine-toothed comb. "Why wouldn't they let me in to see you?"

"General orders," I said through a mouthful of sour cream and melted cheese. "I don't want to see my parents. It was a blanket block, David, not just you."

"Oh," he said, leaning back on his heels and nodding thoughtfully. I'd finished the first taco and was now cleansing my palate with the Doritos before attempting at the second. "So what's Warren Peace doing skulking outside, Jenny?"

"His mom is my doctor," I said. It was, vaguely, the truth.

"That doesn't explain anything," said David. "Why don't you tell me the truth, Jenny?"

"I just did," I said. I took a bite out of the second taco to savor the complex flavors and buy myself a few extra minutes. "Don't you believe me?"

"Believe you?" said David, an eyebrow raised so far that I couldn't even see it under the fringe of his hair. "Jenny, dating you was a lesson in semantics. I'm still not entirely sure what's going on."

"Join the club," I said. "Thanks a million for the tacos, by the way. I'm absolutely starved."

"Haven't you been eating?" he asked, and I shrugged.

"IV drip," I said. "And for some strange reason, liquefied cheap Mexican food just doesn't feel the same as a solid weight of sodium-rich Grade-E beef and lettuce in your stomach." I patted said organ lightly, and felt a twinge in response; the meds were probably wearing off, and I winced and shifted.

David, possessor of the Eyes of a Hawk, saw me wince. Then he saw my arms. I don't know what he first reacted to, the flickering ink of the tattoos which proclaimed I was done by a non-professional, or the healing bruises from Rolph's attempts to draw the ink out, but he gave a sort of wordless roar and pointed at my limbs.

"David," I said, leaning forward and ineffectually hushing him. "Dude, shut up before someone comes—"

Warren came through the door milliseconds later, his left hand curled around something that looked suspiciously like a fireball before he put his arm behind his back mid-swing. "Pierson," he said. "You've been sneaky. Visiting hours are over."

"What happened to her?" asked David. He was terribly, horribly angry, and I felt sudden sympathy wash over me. The only way David would react so suddenly and violently was if . . .

"Your mom?" I asked.

David jerked around and stared at me for a couple seconds, before he jerkily nodded. "Jenny, you don't have to stay quiet—"

"Pierson, you're getting on my nerves—"

"Beevis, can it," I scowled irritably at Warren. "Take a seat. David, sit down for a second." Warren took the uncomfortably padded chair by the window, a horrid scowl of his own twisting his features, and I took David's hand between mine and tried to pat it sympathetically.

"Look, David, I realize you don't believe me, but let me tell you right now that I didn't fall down stairs or anything this past month. I was"—and here I looked at Warren and thought to myself I better sure as freaking hell be making the right choice, because otherwise is this going to be the worst move in the history of romantic interludes—"in a sanatorium for the past month."

David's eyebrows drew together; he frowned at my arms, putting together the oddly-shaped puzzle pieces in his mind. "I told you earlier that my brain doesn't always work properly, and that's true, and so I went to this place and they, um, helped me. And in the process I did a couple stupid things, like draw on my arms with a ballpoint pen."

I tried to keep the narrative as inflectionless as possible; I didn't want to draw in David's sympathy, I wanted to inform him and then send him on his way so that he could at least pat himself on the back in the future with a cheerful Thank god you managed to miss that one. "The bruises are from the doctor, who tried to pull out the ink to keep me from getting an infection."

I released his hands then, to save him and me the trial and embarrassment of him breaking the contact himself, and I continued to speak towards my feet, huddled at the edge of the non-hospital-regulation blanket. "I've got a few issues I need to work out, David, and it's probably best that you don't get involved with me while I do that."

I waited for an eternity and a half, wondering if he would renew his declarations of affection, or maybe dramatically storm from the premises like something out of Passions. I didn't expect the dry brush of his lips against my forehead, the soft run of his fingers through my hair, and then he gave Warren a half-respectful nod—maybe man-speak for Good luck with this one, or Take care of her, or I'm sorry—and slipped out of the door almost silently.

Then Warren did something ridiculously sensitive (my spidey senses are all a-tingling, warning me that instances like this will probably be few and far between in the future), which was he went out into the hall, and came back in with a familiar black-covered notebook and ballpoint pen.

We still need to talk, of course, because the Not-Nothing Kiss is still hanging like this infinitesimally heavy weight between us, and there's also the matter of My Sister the Ex, and how in God's green hell I'm going to manage to worm my way out of a failing grade in every class this semester, but he just handed me the notebook, took to the uncomfortable chair, and proceeded to set into Titus Andronicus.

Ugh. I guess it's my responsibility as the only semi-sane person in this room to, you know, facilitate the discussion.

So. How does the discussion go? Anybody?