Chapter Text
And what if there was a reason. A reason that they seemed near intoxicating. Something about the way they moved through space. A command of time and sound.
An omniscient voice always on the edges of the walls. Four walls, eight, twelve. Always on the edges.
There was just something about that family. Or not family.
-
“It is so cold here, what the hell?”
“I know,” she sighed and pushed another box out of the entry way with her foot, doing a double take to tilt her head and search for a 'FRAGILE' scrawled somewhere. "I know, and I warned you about that, a couple of times actually."
Warren huffed with eyes taking on a middle-distance stare that let her know the next few words out of Warren's mouth (if she was that lucky) would adopt a monotonous drone that never stopped being infuriating. “You know what will help warm up? Helping me with these boxes.” She arched a brow in the teenager’s direction and a thank you echoed from the hallway as the red head made her way to the truck in the drive way.
“This better be worth it,” she muttered to herself, shivering in the large airy kitchen- three walls of windows, fantastic view across the valley and the lake and off towards the shoreline. Now, there's a faint mist lingering across the mid-line of the trees but the lush colours make up for it.
“Your phone was ringing but I really don't think you care.” Warren slides it across the counter top and breaks her internal musings. She pulls back from the windows and regrets it the second her eyes see the name on the screen.
“Not today Satan.” she silences the ringing and pockets the phone. “Boxes?” she fakes cheerful and Warren rolls her eyes but falls into step with her anyway.
“Your studio has the most insane view, the lighting must be exactly what you've always wanted,” the younger girl muses, breaking the terse silence that lapsed between them as they tossed throw pillows onto couches and pushed boxes of books into a room. The room's walls are lined with shelving and there’s an oddly painted bay window: yellow, vibrant and in stark against the rest of the wood and muted tones in that room. Warren gently places a box marked 'FAMILY' on the desk and holds her breath that it won't buckle under the box's weight. A beat passes as the two silently watch the table shudder, heave, and then settle.
“Good sign?” Warren points to the now sturdy table.
“I think so.” her aunt nods and checks the time. “While I am excited about the new kitchen, we have nothing except for marshmallows, apples and two jars of peanut butter. And toilet paper.”
“One,” Warren corrects her, “I got hungry when you were on the phone to Stefan. We may also be out of crackers."
“Right,” Olivia shrugs into her trench coat, looping the bright red scarf around her neck with one hand and curling her fingers around her keys with the other, seamless. “Sushi?”
-
Warren is not surprised or disappointed when their new 'downtown' is without a killer sushi spot. Olivia is vehemently opposed to The Cheesecake Factory which Warren still thinks is a bit dramatic. One food poisoning, one time. Although her aunt is never sick, many a wicked hangover has informed Warren that vomiting and Foster family members do not go hand in hand. Or even hand in foot.
So, they end up in the quintessential diner on the corner of 5th and Elm and Warren cannot help her ever active imagination from envisioning their evening as the beginning of either a Stephen King novel or a David Lynch film.
“Can you at least pretend to be interested in my company for 15 minutes?” her aunt snarks at her over the top of a menu. A cheese burger and extra crispy fries are all she would want anyway so the menu seems a pointless accessory to hyper simulate their benign evening. “Sorry,” Warren is earnest as she places the phone face down on the table, “I just wanted to double check if there was a Mulholland drive nearby at all.”
Her aunt rolls her eyes but laughs all the same. Her eyes flicker over Warren's shoulders, wondering but not catching on anything in particular.
“You really don't remember this place, not even a little flicker? Of something?' she tilts her head to the side, wide hazel eyes searching Warren's own. The teenager shrugs and pulls her diet coke closer. “Sorry, no,” she murmurs around her straw. The waiter catches her eye from across the room and quickly makes his way over, the way he pulls the notepad from his waistband and has his pen poised at the ready before coming to a complete stop at their table gives Warren the impression he's been transplanted here from a film (something noir, smoky, lots of code names and falcons that aren't falcons).
“Warren.” Olivia’s voice is clipped, and she shakes the unsaturated smoke-filled image from her head.
“Sorry, didn't want to keep you waiting because it is definitely busy for a Friday night,” she remarks dryly and pretends to scan the menu. Her aunt kicks her under the table and she offers the most pleasant smile she can muster. “A burger, no onions. And curly fries? Please and thank you very much." The boy shakes his head slightly, a crooked smile poking around his features before he tucks their menus under his arm and heads for the kitchen.
“You are such an asshole. He's cute. You could have made a new friend!” her aunt waves her hands with a frenetic energy that makes Warren press the utensils into the table top.
“That's what this is all about, making new friends?” Warren presses, needles just at the x on the map.
“Fine.”
A silent moment that stretches in and out between them.
“Be a teenage brat then.”
Warren clocks her jaw to the side and drums her fingers on the table. The food arrives and while both are polite and gracious to their server they never break eye contact. “Dammit,” Warren hisses when a laugh that she can't contain bubbles up and into the air. The atmosphere changes and her aunt grins at her and winks at the waiter who blushes and ducks behind the counter again.
“You're not like the other aunts, you're a cool aunt.” Warren recites with a snort.
“I know. Trust me, the various PTAs have all found a way of letting me know. Did you call your dad?” she bounces from script to script so easily it still catches Warren off guard.
“Did you call your ex-husband?” she fires backs.
“No way in hell is that you?”
Warren's head spins around so quickly her chair rocks and pitches to the side. A distinct voice hit the air with a frequency Warren was certain this town hadn't felt in years.
"Clara?" her aunt is out of her seat and sweeping the blonde into a fierce embrace in seconds and Warren's head is spinning to try and catch up with everything. The three of them sit and Clara has an easy rapport with the young, now incredibly flustering waiter which only pushes Warren to ask more questions. “I’m the guidance counsellor at the school, there's a basketball game. It’s just for fun between the team before they break for summer. Hence, the dead quite kitschy diner.' she smiles at Warren warmly over the rim of her glass.
"Guidance counsellor?" her aunt questions.
She waves it off as a long story and is only semi-satisfied when she gets the same answer to the question of where Warren's aunt has been for the last decade. “This place is weird.” Warren comments as they shrug into their coats and her aunt comes back with a receipt and a loyalty card.
“Yeah. It is,” Clara nods in agreement and pushes her chair back into its correct table place. “Liv is going to get a kick out of this one too,” her eyes light with something Warren doesn't know what to make of. She's not at all in disagreement when her aunt suggests Clara come and see the house. She is mildly surprised when Clara jumps into the car with them and she realises her aunt's old friend will be staying with them, not just poking around the foyer and complimenting the kitchen.