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whateva whateva I do what I want, Deal With It

July 2011

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whateva whateva I do what I want, Deal With It

what is this I don't even

Title. Change of Plans
Summary. Reilly fails to answer his calls, so Jack goes to investigate.
Note1. This...got done a lot faster than I thought it would XD
Disclaimer. All characters of RPS belong to the brilliant Hiruda.


Evening was just beginning to creep up. The sun was lazily slinking beneath the horizon, bathing the city in the last dregs of autumn's warmth. It was a peaceful moment, meant to be appreciated or used for quiet reflection. There was just one problem.

"She's late," whined Jack.

His aged butler sighed at his master's childishness. "Perhaps, sir--"

"OH MY GOD A TALKING RABBIT!" Mr. Friday, fearsome and elusive murderer, shrieked, drop-kicking the unfortunate rabbit-themed communication apparatus into the opposite wall of the alley.

There was a pause.

"...Ah, Watts. Sorry, continue."

Miles away, the old man rubbed his temples and prayed, yet again, for strength. "As I was saying, do you suppose Miss Fay has decided to end her time as your accomplice?"

The distance did nothing to dampen the force of Jack's pathetic wibble. "Reilly wouldn't do that!" He protested. "She's a good girl who likes living. She wouldn't make me kill her! Something must have waylaid her. Like...a detention."

"Her association with you not withstanding, she's a model student, sir."

"Or traffic!" Jack went on, growing more worked up by the minute.

"She walks, sir. Or rides a bicycle."

"Or alien abduction--or worse! What if a Cavello has her cornered?!"

"Sir--" Watts tried, only to be cut off.

"I've heard things about that Louis fellow, Watts!"

"Sir, just check her tracking chip!"

"Vile, horrid thi--hm?" Mr. Friday blinked, then brightened up. "Ah yes! Such a good idea, that chip." He dug out a small console from one of his jacket pockets and fiddled with it for a moment before frowning in confusion. "Why, this says she's still at her house." Perking up, he raised a finger. "Perhaps she's having trouble deciding on her outfit! I've heard that's a common issue among young ladies these days!"


"I'll go help her!" Jack decided cheerfully, firing up his beloved Monsieur Moped. "Tally ho, Watts!"

"...Yes, sir."


Reilly was miserable.

Most of the time she had an exceptional immune system, but when it failed it did so spectacularly. It wasn't fair! Glen, who had passed the cold onto her, had only had to deal with an admittedly obnoxious case of the sniffles. Reilly, however, had been hit with the entire arsenal of ailments that accompanied it.

Her head throbbed painfully and felt about five sizes too big, her throat ached horribly, her forehead could probably be used to fry an egg, even the dim lighting in her room agonized her poor eyes, and every few minutes she was wracked by a round of painful, hacking coughs.

To make matters worse, her father was still away at a conference, leaving her on her own. Donna, Rico, and Ben (Glen having been banned from her presence because of his part in her suffering) had swung by after school to make sure she was still alive and drop off her missed school work. They had fussed around, trying to make her as comfortable as possible and Ben, bless him, had left a pot of chicken soup that he swore was a cure-all warming on the stove. But they had to go home eventually.

Reilly appreciated the gesture, but her limbs felt like lead beneath the thick cocoon of throws and afghans heaped onto her by her worried friends, and the delicious aroma that permeated the house only managed to make her weakened stomach turn mutinously. Sniffling, the teen squeezed her eyes shut and allowed herself a small whimper before curling up into herself as much as the blankets allowed.

She had even thought that she had heard that ridiculous communicator ring earlier, but prayed that it had only been a trick of her beleaguered mind. The Powers That Be could not be so cruel. Not when she was this sick, surely.

"Great Scott, Reilly!" Exclaimed Jack, apparently summoned by thought like the devil he was. "You look as sick as a dog." Reilly scowled up at him as best she could. She was having trouble focusing; the assassin almost looked worried--she had to be delusional.

"Thanks." She managed to mumble grumpily, before succumbing to a particularly painful set of coughs. Her eyes watered so much she almost missed seeing Jack tug off one of his gloves with his teeth. A wonderfully cool hand was then pressed against her forehead and she let her eyes slip shut with a noise of approval, temporarily forgetting how much blood stained it. Her 'boss' tutted above her as he finished guesstimating her temperature. She very nearly whined when he pulled away, but couldn't find the energy.

"I'll be right back." Reilly heard him promise, or at least thought she did as a moment later she slipped into a light doze. Her respite didn't last long, however, and all too soon she was blinking up at the eerie grin of Mr. Friday yet again. Except this time, unlike most others, he was trussed up in her mother's favorite floral-printed apron, carrying, of all things, a plate of orange wedges.

She wondered briefly if she was dreaming. It was always hard to tell, with Jack.

"Up we get, Reilly!" Sang the killer, placing his cargo on the edge of her desk so he could bustle over and help her into a sitting position, arranging her multitude of pillows and blankets accordingly. Reilly almost melted into a puddle of happiness when he produced a wet cloth with a flourish and fussily smoothed it over her forehead. After a moment of inner bliss, she realized that he had been talking the entire time and tried to tune back into his chatter.

"--always made me feel better, or so Watts says." He was commenting as he brought the oranges over. "They should help sooth that throat of yours."

"Thanks." Reilly croaked, this time with sincerity. She bit into one of the fruit slices and nearly smiled when the juice hit her dry throat. It was cold and she could only crush it out in small doses, so swallowing wasn't quite the chore large gulps of hot soup might have been. She was surprised that the oranges went down so easily, and docily accepted the glass of water Jack replaced their plate with. When he produced a horrifically familiar bottle of thick red liquid though, Reilly pressed her lips together firmly and shook her head, resolute.

She didn't care how foolish she looked; Reilly hated cough syrup.

"Come now, Reilly!" Jack cajoled, smiling his creepy smile once again. "It's time to open up the tunnel; the train needs to get to the station quick or the people will be late to work! Some might even lose their jobs and have to trudge home in disgrace to tell their poor, innocent children that they must drop out of school and go work in the coal mines so they can all eat!"

Reilly's brow furrowed in confusion beneath the cool cloth as her feverish mind tried to process that. "...but isn't that against the la--augh!" Quick as a flash, the spoon was shoved in and Reilly swallowed reflexively. Sagging back against her pillows, the girl gagged and sputtered. Jack primly recapped the bottle and she realized, with an all too familiar feeling of horrified amusement,, that the cap--one of the child-proof variety--had been cracked for easy access.

"Now," said Jack, clapping his hands together. "I wouldn't dream of going off on a job all on my lonesome and leaving you out of all the fun, so you must make sure to get better soon or I'll get in trouble. Okay?" Too exhausted to fully register what he had just said, Reilly merely nodded and let her labored breathing begin to even out. Patting her head in a rare display of affection, he left, flicking the lights off on his way out.

Reilly sighed and snuggled down into her covers, before rolling onto her side to face the window next to her bed. A squirrel blinked back at her and chittered silently on its branch before a familiar glove hand shot out and grabbed it by its tiny throat, dragging it down out of sight. Reilly blinked once, slowly, then carefully rolled back onto her other side.

In the morning, the only signs that the previous night hadn't been a hallucination were a slightly damp washcloth, the faint, lingering scent of citrus, and the mysterious disappearance of every squirrel in a three-block radius.



Thomas fidgeted under Andy's glare. "I swear, this was supposed to be his next victim!" He protested. "We were sure of it!"

"Well you were wrong." Snapped the private investigator, still glowering savagely at the younger man. "Which means I missed the season finale for nothing!"



sdkfjlsd EEEEEEEEEEEE * A* LSDKFJ U WROTE ANOTHER ONEEE <3333 OMGGG feel ssoooo loveeddddd!
AH!!! this one even has JACK IN ITTT HAHAHAA O MAN u got him down sooo well XDDD even his motherly...instincts??? LOL
I love the dialogue between him and Watts at the beginning! i could picture it in my headdd haha They're sooo silly XDD

and awwww this was a cute scene XDD sick Reilly and Jack taking care of her. LOVE IT XD He talks alot doesn't he LOLOLOL

and lol awesome omake...o andy XDDD

LOL thank you for this * A* it must have taken foreverrrr danggg~ <333333333333
ahahayeahh...it almost wrote itself, really XD the idea wouldn't leave me alone.

And I'm SO. GLAD. I reread the first few chapters to make sure that I could get their voices right :D

I'm happyto hear that and lol yeah.

And XDDD andyyy...I couldn't leave him out again. Couldn't do it.

You are very welcome! It actually only took me about a day and a half. The good feedback on the first one made me go on a writing high. I actually have a third idea I'm tossing around too&hearts

fellow RPS fan creepin' on you~

Aahh too cute. :D Loved all of Jack's dialogue. And Ben's soup. And the apron. <333

Back to lurking now kthnxbye.