1964-02-01 - Shepherd School of Holidays
Summary: Tommy teaches Hope about Holidays and makes some crazy plans for Valentine's Day
Related: None
Theme Song: None
tommy hope 

Mark it down on your calendars, folks. Today, February 1st, 1964. A Thursday. It was the first day since they've been together that Tommy Shepherd woke up /before/ Hope.

Inspiration had struck while he was sleeping. The kind that makes you get up and put it into action right away — so he'd slid very, very carefully away from Hope on the pile of clothes which they used as a makeshift bed. Threw on some pajama bottoms because, gosh darn it, it was winter and it seemed appropriate. Then he went for a run. Theft was something he was trying to get away from; recycling, however? That was civic duty. Which is why on the other side of that two-by-five foot sheet of paper that's taped up in their living room has an ad for cigarettes on the back — it was part of a billboard that was being replaced /anyways,/ so borrowing some of it seemed like the Right Thing To Do.

The markers? They're borrowed from one of the family members' belongings — with a note saying that he needed them for Important Business. Except with every letter capitalized to stress the importance of said business. On said sheet of paper? A list of holidays. Brief notes about them. DETAILED notes about a certain holiday coming up in only a couple weeks with the words 'Do Not Let Hope See' above them and little hearts surrounding them. And he's writing. Writing and writing and writing much like you'd see a genius inventor, with about as much cricketing from one set of notes to the next.

The boy /has/ a brain in there, he just doesn't always put it to use. But times like these…


Part of the reason he no doubt wakes up later has something to do with the fact they have an actual bed now. Behold: a fairly sizeable mattress squashed into the corner, laced with a proper soft sheet and another unfitted one she managed to kick off. Blankets or whatever they've borrowed, begged, bought, or pilfered make a nice little cocoon to go for. Proper comfort is important; it beats sleeping bags on the floor or towels, since foam mats aren't easy to come by in an age where camping means 'a cabin' or sleeping out in the wilds with a bear who might rape you. Err, wrong movie. Or so she thinks…

Right until she wakes up and, no, it's a damn dream. The ache in her back demands attention and Hope growls under her breath; her Serta sheep dreams are evaporating as soon as she wakes up to feel a bundle of t-shirts wedged under her head and the annoyance flaring over her cause her no little annoyance. Today will be the day they're going to bloody get a bed, if she has to rob a bank or some stupid pro-human terrorist cell. Her beloved guns are around somewhere, and she is going to yank that out, searching for it. She pulls one out and slides it into her leggings, and then goes rolling towards the closet to find the right sort of gear: the green leather jacket, the pants, and the ragged cloak that so easily goes over it. Yes, that's standard Hope hunting attire, though it's ridiculous when it comes to finding a mattress. On the other hand, she knows how to drive, so a truck would definitely help.

She starts getting dressed rapidly, and looks towards the door as much as her feet until she's done, and then goes sauntering out.


For two seconds, Tommy's unaware of the grumpy Hope that's stalking him — or at least stalking her way out into the living room. There's a few more notes added — under 'Thanksgiving' there's a notation added of 'food', 'more food' and 'so much food your head will explode' — then he turns around and sees Hope and…

"Oh, hiya Spicecake!" the voice is surprised, but happy nonetheless to see the girl. Although he moves to stand in /front/ of that particular piece of the paper rather than going over directly to embrace her — however he does hold his arms out for /her/ to come to /him./ "Got enough sleep? I hope I didn't wake you when I got up, I mean, I tried to be as sneaky as I could…" he's hopeful that he didn't wake her up, at least. He's never really seen what happens when she gets up, so… he has no idea what he's dealing with.


Oh winsome huntress, dangerous creature. She tips her head slightly and renders a look blankly over the strip of paper covered in a grid even she knows to be a calendar, or close enough to count. How many hearts has he drawn there? How many horrid, wretched doodles reminding her of her duty as girlfriend, and someone who should know these things?

She tips her head further and squints, the blur of vision melting them together. "Huh." Very detailed. She then tilts back so he doesn't have to find her spying, and waits for his arms to open fully before a hug seems all that likely. "Probably more sleep than I need. No aches or pains, which is good." Her gaze follows up to Tommy's face and she points. "You got some ink on your cheek." Let him go after that as she hugs him and then kisses his jaw slightly. "We're getting a goshdarned bed today. Got it? I don't care how. We are getting a real bed. Or I am and you can sleep on a camp cot if you like it."


There's clearly at least seven hearts that she can see. Especially when she gets closer and is able to visually bypass him a little bit via proximity alone.

"No aches or pains is very good. Although, y'know, if you /do/ wake up with aches and pains, feel free to ask me to rub whatever it is. I'm pretty sure it's a standard boyfriend duty." Tommy replies, opening his arms wide and enveloping her with little hesitation at all. The ink… well, he'll get to that as soon as they disengage. Which happens after about seven seconds of a hug, and brief kiss that targets her lips before the end of it all. "…and we can do that. I got a bit of extra cash the other day to help us keep going until I can land that job — yes, I've been looking — but there's no reason we can't spend some on a bed. Beds are important." Pause. "…and /we/ are getting a bed. Sleeping alone isn't nearly as comfortable." Tommy points out, sticking his tongue out before heading over to the sink. "Might not be the fanciest thing out there… but I don't think they have adjustable beds yet. Or, like, flying beds like they probably have when you're from." he teases, winking one of those green eyes at her. "Still, it'd be good to have. You wanna go now, or eat first?"


Seven hearts? He's a romantic! Quite the Casanova. He's also dealing with someone who lacks so much as an idea of what birthday gifts are. There will be education here.

"You know your back is not supposed to be over all those lumpy things. It's not good for you," she murmurs as patient as she can be, given the circumstances of being enfolded in Tommy's hug. Her breath escapes in a gusty expulsion hinted with mirth and dry regard. "You keep it going, and I'm going to bloody well just deal with the fact it's not like I am a perfectly white dove. I've got some freelance work. You any good with a camera? We take photos. It's that simple. Take 'em, bring the film back to my drop, and then they'll pay up. If they don' t, I beat the trash out of their dumpster and that will be an interesting thing. And no, we don't have floating beds. I mean, half the time I was on the run, not living in a mansion. More like a gel contour or the net hammocks on my pirate ship."


"I know it's not. But honestly? Can't beat the company I'm sharing it with." Tommy replies, nodding once towards his redhead - faucet's turned on, a rag is seized, moistened, and rubbed against his face where said shiny faucet tells him the offending ink is. "…and yeah, I know my way around a camera. Even got my hands on a polaroid the other day — it's in my backpack over there." Tommy replies, pointing over towards the grey bag slung in the corner of the living room — inside, there is indeed a polaroid camera — as well as a folder with a couple photographs; one of himself via the bathroom mirror, one of Lorna that wasn't posed very well.

"Doesn't sound too hard, unless we're takin' photos of the insides of military bases or something," he teases — it may well be true for all he knows, though. As for the story about mattresses? Tommy just grins. "You've led an interesting life so far, Hope. Here's hoping we can make it even better." Pause. "Speaking of your life… I've never asked, you've never told. When's your birthday?"


All the things he could say, he has to go and be ridiculously sweet or even downright romantic. Hope slips away to pull on her cloak over her head, leaving a long, fluttering triangle of material hanging to her hips at the lowest point — literally. Her hands come to rest lightly against her hips and she assesses him. "That'll do. It could be an old Leica or something, my contact doesn't care. He wants the film. We can do get a few photos and then be on our way to get some cash. And you're not talking military bases. I don't really know who or what and I don't exactly care. All I know is that the money is good, no one is dead, and it involves less blood than anything else." She shrugs her shoulders slightly and zips up the coat. "When's doomsday you mean? Cause that's when my birthday is. They wiped a town off the map."

Her shoulders lift lightly and she blows out a breath. "Some time around the start of autumn. I was a few days old when Dad got me and he remembers that was early in October. Dunno. I mean, it's not like the records really survived. A guy tried to jack them for me and he got something but that was a very loose case. Like 'female Caucasians' born from a given timeline. I don't even know what my name really is." Another shrug. "I mean, my mom probably didn't even name me. But Dad called me this and so I am Hope."


"I should probably get dressed." Tommy decides; the fact that she's already done so is a good indicator of this. His process is pretty quick and painless. Dig out a clean shirt — looks like a grey one with the New York Yankees logo is the winner this time — it's slipped over his head, pulled down over his shoulders and arms are slipped through the sleeves. Then there's a shimmy to bring it the rest of the way down. Pants are the next sought after - pajamas traded out for a fresh pair of jeans. "Can't really beat that then, can you? Nobody dies, we snap pictures and get cash… let me know what you need pictures of and we'll go. Or write a list of targets. Or whatever, you know? I'm at your disposal. Use me as you will." Grin.

That grin fades a bit at the discussion of her birthday, and he walks over to give her another hug. "Hey. /Hey./ That's not fair; that hasn't even happened yet, but you're here. It doesn't get to take the day over because you were here first, you hear me? Just because that Bishop and his Church were crazy bastards," Or are. "Doesn't mean you're to blame. Your birthday is /your/ birthday. It's the day that's all about you and people give you presents and a big cake and we put enough candles on it to mark your age."

"Like… Billy and I were born on the 5th of June." Pause. "1998. Technically… and if you don't know what day you were born on…" Tommy considers for a moment, eyeing her thoughtfully. "…pick one. Pick a day that's going to be just for you. 'cause I gotta know what days I should be spoiling you rotten on and that you can beat me up if I forget." Well. Not literally. Maybe he should specify…


"I'll probably find out after the fact we're bringing down the state government somehow, and the scandal about to be revealed is worthy of a crime caper, but you know what? I don't care. I want a bed." Hope can be quite adamant about these things, and she hasn't the least hesitation when it comes to these sorts of things, comfort and practicality over pristine morality. The grey zone happens to be a fairly big one, all things considered. Suppose someone doesn't like it, they can get over themselves last week. Her patience lingers while he gets dressed, and she zips into the kitchen to fetch herself something to eat, in this case an orange peeled from top to bottom, the rind removed like an elephant with big floppy ears and a curved, long trunk hooked back like a J. The slices are gone, remorselessly bitten and chewed, while he wriggles back out. "Targets are easy. It's good ones people will pay for that matters."

She's not going to address the matter of her birthday, giving her a shake of her head. "Why would someone give me a cake? As to my age… I've been around a couple of years. Not a ton but a couple. I don't know how many. So you don't have a date or an age?"

Another pause follows as she does certain math in her head and then snickers. "You guys come from the Nineties, but your dad is like… Thirty-five now? How's that… Is your mom unaging or something?"


"Hey, if we expose something that brings the government down… it's not like it'd be /our/ fault. We're not the ones who did the thing that gets exposed." Tommy points out, holding up a finger. "We all make decisions, we all gotta live with what comes out of those choices." To this point? The speedster's pretty satisfied with all the ones he's made. Afterall, they led him where he is today.

"You get cake because it's a day to celebrate how awesome you are. Not, like, the starting of World War 2 or anything else that happens to occur. Same reason you get presents." Then there's a pause about the time she mentions her age in rather vague terms. Is she saying she's only two or three years old? There's a long look given in her direction. Evaluating. She definitely doesn't /look/ two. "Uhm. If you're asked, don't say you're any younger than eighteen, alright? Just as a favor to me."

There's a slow nod towards Hope at the last, "We come from the Nineties, Steve's already pretty ancient, Wanda's…. uh…. not. I dunno if she ages normally or not, but…" There's a slow now. "…open book time. Steve and Wanda are apparantly our /real/ parents. But… as far as I /know,/ Billy and I weren't born to them. Memory might be foggy 'cause of the time jumping." he admits, tapping the side of his head briefly as he buttons up the jeans, then goes for shoes. "On top of that, as far as I know, we were born to two different families. The place we stayed before my Uncle's? That belonged to Frank Shepherd." A pause to let her connect the names. "Frank hates my guts, Hope. Only reason he didn't kick me out to starve on the streets was 'cause the state forced him not to. If he'd adopted me, I'm pretty sure he would've given me the 'you're not even my real son!' speech. Billy's folks? They loved him. I can see why they wouldn't tell him. But…" Cue arms flailing and eyes rolling.

"…but. Adoption's the only thing that Billy and I can figure happened. The only thing that makes any kind of sense."

With that, he walks for the front door of the apartment, resting his head against it while he waits for Hope to catch up. "Even then, I still can't wrap my brain around why Steve and Wanda gave /Billy/ up." Billy was the good kid. Tommy holds no such beliefs about himself. "Don't know if I'll ever find out; us being here probably changes everything. But, hey, at least we still get born, otherwise we wouldn't be here to complain about it."


"Time is messed up where I'm involved. You have to understand that things don't work right when you are time sliding and located in places without a terrestrial sun. Like, that one." She points out the window, a sweep of her hand landing lightly in a circle. "I mean, I don't know how long we spent in places. A season, but I can remember three summers back to back with no winter in between them. Does that make me three seasons past, or was there a year in between when we were running? Time is accurate if you have a time piece to measure it, but sitting in the hold of a transport or hanging out in a weird place for downed or out of commission planes, like a junkyard for bombers, I don't know. None of it is clear. I am as tall and old and adult as I look like, but maybe you should just chalk up in your head I'm exactly as old as I need to be. I mean.. there was a time when Dad left me and when he came back, I wasn't like… seven, I was ten. I doubt three years passed. But I shot up anyways."

Freaked out yet? Yeah. He oughta be freaked out. "I mean, do you really think your dad is going to put me under a microscope or something? Mr. Doctor is probably gonna be right freaked out if I give him a funny look and start chirping in medical jargon. He looks at you all funny enough, anyways, that I think he thinks you're kinda… different. Wonderfully horrifyingly young or something. Maybe way more like himself."

Her nose wrinkles. Mr. Shepherd better be careful, extra careful, because meeting the redhead in a dark alley might leave him bruised, cut by her tongue, and set on fire. His choice on how he ends up on fire. She refuses to really give him that much leeway in her mind. Burn, burn, burn.

Her arms thrown up into the air, she turns, leather coat and cloak swirling. "Okay, so we're all seriously screwed up and then there's your cousin person who stares at you with the funniest looks, like she's afraid the world wants to eat her. I totally don't understand what the heck is up with here, but there you go. Whatever happens, you figure you could ask them? Or maybe it doesn't matter at all."


"Then anyone who asks? I'm telling 'em you're eighteen." Tommy replies, laughing — freaked out? Not as much as she might think. This is, afterall, the teen who's lived two lifetimes in half the time required. Who's travelled time like she has, maybe not travelled worlds — yet — but certainly dimensions, even if he can't remember all the sticky details nearly as well as she can. "Adult as you need to be, and we can start counting from there."

As for Steve? Tommy considers. "Probably not? Maybe. If we asked him to, or asked him not to, he'd probably go with that. He's a decent guy." At least he is right now. There's still the possibility that he (and Wanda) turn into utterly horrid people down the line. But that theory's starting to fade in his mind. "Although right now I think he thinks you might be pregnant and we might be getting hitched." Thanks, /Lorna./ "My family seems to really like you, though."

Opening the door now, Tommy steps out into the hallway — making quick work of the flights of stairs to take them out onto the street. "They wouldn't know. They haven't actually given us up yet. Or concieved us. As far as I know, Wanda's never even been pregnant here in 1964." A wrinkle of his nose to that, and then a brief smile towards her. "I try not to think about the past too much, though." he admits, reaching out to give her hand a little squeeze. "I've got you. I've got people I can count on, and we're gonna do our part to save the world. What's screwed up about that?" Pause. "…and apparantly, she's my Aunt. Super weird, I know, but."

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