Absolutely (Marcelee)

If You Wanna

The bloodstains on her purple hippie rug won't quite come off. Marceline squats in front of the washing machine and shoves the rug back in for re-wash #2.

"Dude look."

She looks up. Marshall Lee floats above her, freshly showered and showcasing his bare chest. She's not surprised that he looks good with wet hair slicked back and jeans hanging loosely off narrow hips.

"Are you flashing me?"

"Yes... No. Maybe. Actually just look," he insists.

For a slender guy, Marshall Lee has nice muscles. Marceline eyes his torso skeptically. Then she notices the absence of that huge mysterious gash from two nights ago.

"Sweet, huh?" Marshall Lee waves his unraveled bandages around with one hand. "I's healed. Praise lawd!"

"Yeah, that was pretty fast," Marceline pokes his abdomen and he doesn't wince. Speedy recovery indeed. "It's a vampire thing."

"I'm a vampire?" Then he snickers at her incredulous expression. "Kidding. Hey, you think I'll get over amnesia that fast?"

"You could," Marceline scratches her forehead. "Remember something yet?"

"Last night I dreamed about… fries…"

"Wow. We gotta do something about that." She gets up and pulls out Marshall Lee's red plaid shirt out of the dryer, now clean albeit torn. "Put a shirt on though."

"I'll air-dry," Marshall Lee leans against her washer admiring his biceps. "Also, I'm paying my rent. Free gun show."

"Brotha please. You wanna be grateful, go to the kitchen. Make me a sandwich."

"Don't objectify me!"

"You objectify yourself!"

Marceline flings the shirt at his head and he finally takes the hint, shrugging. "Fine then, let me mooch."

"I'm giving like that."

"Enabler."

Something small falls out of the shirt pocket as Marshall Lee puts his plaid on. It gleams a little and hits the floor with a clink and rolls to Marceline's feet. It's a ring.

"What the…" she picks it up and holds it out, curiously. The ring is thick, simply engraved.

Marshall Lee says "My pimp ring!"

"Your what?"

He takes the ring and stares in fascination and if he starts saying my preciousss to it that would absolutely make her day. Then Marceline remembers that before a certain incident he'd looked at her like that and she'd been mere seconds away from getting answers to the inexplicable. Her smile fades a little.

"I got this from someone," Marshall Lee's brows furrow in concentration. "I saw it and liked it and called it my pimp ring and…" Marceline waits to hear more but he gives up. "Meh. I forgot."

"Hey, you remembered something."

"So I did," Marshall Lee laughs. "Pimp's in the crib, ma."

"No I will not drop it like it's hot," Marceline rolls her eyes and surely he's on his way to mental recovery if he can crack rap jokes like that.

"Dude, what if I really am a p–" But Marceline snorts and Marshall Lee puts the ring on his right hand, indignant. "You know instead of laughing, you could rehabilitate me."

"I totally will. But first that sandwich."

"You're a monster."

But he heads to the kitchen anyway. How long has it been since someone made her the sandwich for once? Marceline won't dwell on that though (the answer is too damn long). Gut feelings tell her that late-night jamming at a graveyard could trigger some memories in Marshall Lee's blank head. Probably. Most likely. Look at how easily he took to her banjolele last night. If there's anything she knows for sure in life (and she's had a long life…), it's that music does things to you. Deep, righteous things.