sweet talk

roll down the smokescreen

chapter nine

A few days passed since the night of the nightmare, and Rigby was getting sicker. He lay in his bed, tossing and turning, drenched in sweat but still shivering with cold. When someone came in to check on him-- Benson, Muscle Man, Mordecai... he could barely focus, his mind filled with images of demons and Skips falling, and Mordecai going to the pond.

It scared him, quite frankly, and he paced the floor the next day, drizzly, groggily, and sick. And then, he fell, and was unconscious and twitching on the floor...

----

Margaret climbed the porch steps, the tall, slender red bird gazing up at the door as she approached it. Having let out of work early, she was excited to see Mordecai and Rigby since Eileen was sick. She was light and happy, and the swaying of the trees seemed to move with her heart. She reached the door with that same sway, and knocked once. Twice. She waited for a moment, rocking on the balls of her feet.

Then, the door opened, and Benson appeared in the doorway. "Oh, hello! Margaret is it?" He asked. A small smile appeared on his face, and she knew it was only to be polite. He looked tired as all hell.

"Yea! Is Mordecai and Rigby home?" She tilted her head some, and kept her mouth shut. Don't tell Benson about staying over, Mordecai had said. He explained that he probably wouldn't mind, but if he did, he would not hear the end of it. Margaret believed him, and kept her word.

She always did.

"Mordecai's working," Benson explained, "Rigby's upstairs, though--" He opened the door fully and ushered her inside. Margaret stepped into the familiar room, and hummed in thought. She shouldn't bother Mordecai, then. So she invited herself over to the couch, deciding to wait. Benson followed after her, and began to talk again.

"Rigby's sick, so..." he trailed off, then started up again, "Mind if I go? I should check on the others." Before Margaret could say 'No, go ahead!', he was already walking over to grab the keys hanging from the wall. He seemed like an antsy dude.

Margaret frowned as she was left alone to process. Rigby was sick? That's too bad. Maybe a movie was off the list, then...

Her thoughts were cut off as a loud THUMP was heard upstairs, and she jumped in her seat on the couch. She looked up, her eyes wide and filled with a sort of bewilderment. Rigby? Hopefully not. She leapt to her feet and glided up the stairs, anyways, just to be sure. Her heart seemed to quicken with each step-- something felt wrong, truly off. She was familiar with the feeling. Absentmindedly, her fingers trailed the scars that lined her chest...

She came to the door quicker than she had hoped. "Rigby? Are you okay in there?"

No answer.

"Rigby?" She eyed the doorknob, and her hand came to it, beginning to turn the handle. The door opened a little too easily, and she peered into the room. "Rigby-- oh my God!" She ran inside to see Rigby on the floor, unconscious. She rushed to his side, becoming breathless. "Rigby! Rigby, can you hear me?!" She tried to shake him, hoping he was only asleep. He didn't respond, and his breath was going faint, oh so faint... what was happening?

Fear and panic overcame Margaret, and she ran her hand over her head. She needed to do something... but what? She was no expert in this field, and she knew she should call 911. But something in her head told her to stop, and go tell Mordecai. Another voice told her he was working at the snack bar.

She rose to her feet, slowly, and then ran out the door.

----

Mordecai was at the snack bar by himself that day, and was quite lonely in the bright, illumnecent light. It buzzed over his head, almost mockingly, as if it knew Rigby's loud self wasn't accompanying the other.

The blue jay tapped his long fingers against the counter surface, before running a hand over his face. He, lately, has been feeling... off. Ever since Rigby's words: don't go to the pond. He trusted his friend, sure. But the way he seemed so... frantic. And he's been getting sicker-- maybe he was losing his mind. The raccoon was definitely going crazy.

He turned, his back against the counter, then slowly slid down until he hit the greasy, linoleum floor tiles, bringing his knees to his chest, letting his thoughts run wild. His eyes slowly closed, and he focused on only his breathing and nothing else, trying to calm his anxious mind...

"Mordecai! Mordecai!"

The familiar voice drove Mordecai to his feet, and he ran to the counter to see Margaret running up to the snack bar. She looked panicked, uncertain.

"Margaret?"

In one swift motion, Mordecai exited the snack bar and ran to meet her, grabbing for her arms, for her to stay still. "Margaret! Woah, hey, what's wrong?"

"It's... it's Rigby!" She was breathless, and she tried to grab for Mordecai, her eyes wild. "I went over to the house and decided to wait for you to get done working, and Benson left and then I heard a--"

"Woah, hold on. Breathe. Breathe. Something happened to Rigby?" Mordecai tried to sound calm, but his voice wavered in a way that was almost impossible to control.

"He... I came into the house to wait for you, and I heard a loud thump upstairs and I--" she took a deep breath, "--I went up there to see what it was and Rigby was on the floor and--"

"Wait, Rigby was what?"

"He's unconscious!" Her eyes glossed over in fear, unsure of what to do.

Mordecai's own eyes widened some in disbelief, then he slowly started to remember that his friend was sick. A pang of worry shot through him, and he couldn't help but grab Margaret's wrist, hard, making her eyes widen too.

"Show me."

The firmness in his voice drove her to obey. The sun didn't seem so warm anymore.

She led him, running, up the slope and past the newly planted saplings, summer sun shining down, blazing coldly onto them. Mordecai couldn't seem to breathe, and Margaret had broken into a panicked run down the hill and towards the house that grew closer and closer and--

"What are you doing?"

Benson stepped in front of the two, and they both skidded to a stop before they ran straight into him. Margaret's eyes widened.

"Benson, please let us pass--"

"Mordecai, you're supposed to be working." Benson's eyes stared straight past Margaret and into the blue jay's eyes, his own burning with curiosity but also a soon developed anger.

"Benson, can we talk about this later?" Mordecai asked. He was surprised at how his voice sounded; rasped and afraid, not the usual deepness it was. Because after hearing Margaret, he needed, absolutely needed to check on Rigby. "I-I can't--" His anxiety was drowning his words.

Benson seemed to noticed this, for his eyes softened. "Are you okay?" He asked.

Mordecai seemed to tense up at the question. It was a question overused when someone was hurting, was afraid. Because the answer seemed obvious in his rattling breath, in his heart. It was a naive question, dumb, yet one that was asked everyday.

"I-I... just please let us go--" he couldn't help but sound pleading, "--I need to check on something."

The words were working, and Benson nodded stepping aside. But before Mordecai could follow Margaret up the steps, Benson grabbed his arm.

"Listen, Mordecai... just because I seem hard on you and Rigby it's..." The gumball machine seemed to choke on his words, "I care about you."

Mordecai was too anxious to care what Benson was saying. But the words still did stirred something inside, for he said, "Thank you." And he truly meant it.

Then he turned and followed Margaret into the darkness of the house.