Post by BAILEY WHELAN on Feb 2, 2014 19:09:14 GMT -8
tagged: callum, juliette. time: april 30, 2012 - 3:50AM. speech: bailey. notes: so fucking late with starbucks.
If Bailey had telepathy like Charles Xavier did, he would have lamented to Julie that pancakes were not baked because cooking something on a griddle wasn't baking -- but that was assuming that his brain didn't just nope out into mental shutdown mode from the sheer horror of knowing what the "batter" for the "pancakes" consisted of. Not that he wasn't already well on his way there. Actually, it was arguable that he was already there the moment he heard the thing about spaghetti from Callum in the kitchen. Oh, no, have mercy on his soul, were they really going to put the spaghetti carbonara from god knows when in there?
"W-What?!" Bailey exclaimed in disbelief at Julie's proclamation of it being naptime. "You can't just leave me at Cal's mercy!" She could, and she did. Bailey doubted that she had even heard his exclamations of utter betrayal beyond already established betrayal, because the next thing he knew, talking to her was about as productive as trying to argue with a pile of bricks. Vampires or whatever the hell the two of them had been saying about vampires be damned, he was an even more dead man than even one of those things would be if they were stuffed with garlic and holy water then tied down to a chair to face the morning sun. He blamed a certain Callum Snow and Juliette Dubois for the degree of disturbing that thought was, by the way. It was all their fault. All of this was their fault.
If he had looked up when Julie had flounced out of the kitchen, then his face was all too eager to meet the tabletop again when Callum informed him that it was, as a matter of fact, breakfast time. So why did this feel like a possible death sentence about to be delievered? "You are fucking paying for my funeral," Bailey informed Callum, his voice muffled by the table. "I expect a glorious send-off that has nothing to do with whales. Or Sriracha sauce. Or Bailey's Irish Cream. But especially not all there of them combined together." Farewell, o' sweet life.
"W-What?!" Bailey exclaimed in disbelief at Julie's proclamation of it being naptime. "You can't just leave me at Cal's mercy!" She could, and she did. Bailey doubted that she had even heard his exclamations of utter betrayal beyond already established betrayal, because the next thing he knew, talking to her was about as productive as trying to argue with a pile of bricks. Vampires or whatever the hell the two of them had been saying about vampires be damned, he was an even more dead man than even one of those things would be if they were stuffed with garlic and holy water then tied down to a chair to face the morning sun. He blamed a certain Callum Snow and Juliette Dubois for the degree of disturbing that thought was, by the way. It was all their fault. All of this was their fault.
If he had looked up when Julie had flounced out of the kitchen, then his face was all too eager to meet the tabletop again when Callum informed him that it was, as a matter of fact, breakfast time. So why did this feel like a possible death sentence about to be delievered? "You are fucking paying for my funeral," Bailey informed Callum, his voice muffled by the table. "I expect a glorious send-off that has nothing to do with whales. Or Sriracha sauce. Or Bailey's Irish Cream. But especially not all there of them combined together." Farewell, o' sweet life.