She's curious; looks at him lurking in the bushes, straightening his outfit. A toga. She giggles.
She breathes the humid night air through her nostrils, and sighs deeply-- out of pleasure, not boredom.
Joshua's standing at the grill, happily wielding his spatula, and pours cooking oil seemingly everywhere but on the hamburgers and pork chops. She shakes her head and giggles once more.
The Nevitts' backyard is decorated with silly string and paper lamps, although their dad severely warned them not to have any flammable odds and ends dangling all over while the grill was sizzling.

But do they ever listen? Naturally, no. Can't have a party, a garden barbeque, without some decorations!
And those red paper lamps look really nice hanging from the dark branches of the trees, shedding a red glow across the scenery. What's a little risk, anyway? Bad things can happen all the time. There's no stopping it.

...and then Joshua had to come up with that silly idea for a costume party. At the very last second, no less!
Charly went right along with the idea, but she had started protesting-- or whining, as the boys referred to it as-- at the bad planning, because she didn't have anything to wear.
Finally she had settled grudgingly on an old, yellow crown she found at the bottom of her toy box in the attic. It was pretty crumpled, but she had straightened it out and sprayed some flecks of red and gold on it.
She slipped on her red, ankle long dress, made of the well known fabric I-Can't-Believe-That's-Not-Silk-- which her mom would have a fit about if she got as much as a tiny smudge of BBQ sauce on-- and hefted a piece of an old, thin vail around her arms, before hurrying out into the garden.

Not the world's most original oufit, she admits, but it'd have to do.
Damn that Joshua sometimes...but he's so cute that she can't help doing as he wants, which is, aproximately 50% of the time, some crazy, new plan. Of course, to him, she's only Charly's little sister, so she isn't about to make a fool of herself by making a pass at him. Her brother would laugh his brains out if he knew. Or so she figures.
She doesn't really know yet. At times he can be the most sensitive person in the world, and she wants to confess all her secrets to him-- well, almost all of them-- and at other times...Charly can be so incredibly bullying, running her over.
She guesses, or hopes, that he is still, ah...adjusting to the world as a young man, still looking for his place, his niché.

She knows he has the required talent, anyways.

She runs a cup through the light red liquid, watching it slide into it and around it, and brings it up to her mouth, tasting the cherry punch. This could really be a knock out with some vodka, she muses, then slaps her forehead, almost causing the paper crown to fall into cherry red damnation. What am I thinking, geez...!

She drinks the punch in silence as she glances at the bushes. Now he's not there anymore, their first guest that evening.
Hastily, she spins around and then spots him, to her relief-- why she's relieved, she's not aware of-- by the other end of the same long table that she's standing before. She looks at him for a few moments, then draws her breath. So does he.

Though, as seen in most sitcoms and movies, there is no nervous laughter and blushing. She finds herself solely staring at him, and finds that he is staring back.
He's taking her in, the full impression, what she smells like, looks like-- or looked like. He's scanning her young face, a little smaller, a little rounder, a little cheerier-- the silly paper crown, the smooth, red dress...she had a thing for red even way back then. So this is where you lived, he thinks with a small amount of flashbacks trailing back to two years before, in his own present time. Nice place...nice and safe, cozy...guess now I know what you were coming from. And then into something entirely different...

There is something undefinable about the way his mask moves.
"Nice costume," she opens.

"And you," he comments back, making her seriously wonder how old he is. She's never heard anyone in her circle of friends say 'And you,' before. It's usually "Yeah, you too" or "Ditto," and then she wonders why the hell she's dwelling at two simple words for so long. Not a thing unusual about it! But there are other issues, however...like his voice, his height, that mindboggling costume...
He's not particularly tall, but he is taller than Charly, Joshua, and even her father. She blesses herself for wearing heels tonight. Perhaps, she ponders, she can pass herself off as at least eighteen? He must be much older, though of course it's hard to tell from under that big mask-- gawds, make that under his full body costume...! And in this heat?

"You're hot," she says casually.

"Hunh?" he jerks his head up.

"Oy, that came out wrong," her forehead creases, yet she isn't blushing, "what I meant to ask you-- if I can ever get my head straight-- that...isn't that suit awfully hot, you know? I'm sweating even in this flimsy dress!"

He picks a sandwich up, looks at it from all directions, examining it as if it will give the cure for cancer or something, but it's evident to her that it's just a distraction, a post-poning.

"I...no. I guess I just don't sweat a lot," he explains lamely.

"Oh, come on-- the laws of physics just happen to cease in your suit? Of course you're hot!"

"Uhm, no," he says stiffly, putting the sandwich down.

She realizes she's being rude. She extends her hand towards him and shrugs, "Look, um, sorry...I'm Paula. Care to tell me your name? I would understand it perfectly if you found a more interesting and less annoying chatting partner instead, though,"
Something seems to melt in his eyes. He grabs her hand in a shake, the perfect shake; firmly, but gently-- what else?
Although, a little timidly, she notes. Nervously.

"I'm, heh...John," he says, taking a wild shot at the guest list, and deciding 'John' is always a good bet. That, or Bob, which for some reason sounds just a little too much hillbilly for him.

She's kind of disappointed. John? Aww, nothing more fancy?

"John?" she repeats ironically, forgetting herself.

"Err...yes," he mumbles, "John,"

She then smiles, "What's in a name?" she declares, "That which we call a rose--"

He lifts a small grin to her-- yeah, he keeps bowing his head down a lot, "...by any other name would smell as sweet,"

"Uhnnhunh," she nods, smiling.

"I've read that too, yeah," he smiles back, then makes a sad grimace and resorts to picking up the poor old sandwich.

She watches him. "You gonna eat that or is this a new form of sandwich torture?"

"No, uh," he takes a small bite-- with his mask still on, she gawks at him, that's a helluva suit!-- but puts it hastily down when he notices her facial expression. Damn...he bites his lip nervously. Damn, damn, damn...!

"Wow," she utters, but not without a trace of skeptisism, "you gotta tell me where you got that suit!"

He doesn't like the looks she's giving him-- too close and too probing. He's having the vague feeling that she knows it all, with or without exception. "They, hmm, don't...they don't manufacture them anymore..." he tries.

"Gads, no-- why would they wanna do that? No, you're just kidding me! You know how much money they could make if they mass produced these puppies?" she exclaims, reaching out to touch his arm. He jerks it away, swallowing. She stares at him.

"No, it was-- see, I have an uncle who's in the movies, well, he's not an actor, but...and so, I got this, and err...you know,"

She nods, very deliberately, "I know...it would be nice to have an uncle in the show business," she gives a mock longing sigh.
It's obvious that she's not exactly gone 'hook, line and sinker' for his explanation.

I'm making an ass out of myself by doing this, he cringes, I shoulda never-- and of her. And why did I go back so far?
Really pathetic...he stifles a depressing sigh, thinking of the past...or the present. He doesn't know anymore. I wasn't suppose to talk to her...now I've probably messed up the entire line...and gads-- what did I ever wear this stupid toga for? She thinks my skin's a costume, anyways, so...

She studies his face-- or the mask-- and reckons that in human years, his costume seems to be twentyfive years old, yeah, something around that age. Wondering how old the guy underneath is, she pictures herself tearing the costume off, part by part, until-- alright, so now she's blushing!

"Ahem," she clears her throat, chasing the images away, "so what are you supposed to be, anyway?" she smiles, "Ceasar of The Swamp, huh?"

"Huh?" he glances up at her, "Ah...yes, yeah. That sorta thing," Why didn't I just go and spy on her or something if I miss her so much, he curses himself, that would've been a lot easier...why did I build that damn machine? It's going to cause nothing but trouble...messing with the time streams... Though naturally he admits to himself that the whole consept is fascinating like nothing, and still pretty unbelievable! He didn't really make it for her, anyway...

The edges of her mouth move to a crooked, but sympathising smile, "Heh, you know, maybe you should consider finding someone else to talk to. It seems I'm boring you," she gives him a glance that clearly says '...but you're not boring me,'

"Oh, oh, no, I'm just a little preoccupied,"

She grins. "At a party? I won't hear of it," she looks around, but her brother is nowhere to be seen. Joshua's simply left the grill, too, which doesn't surprise her much. They're probably fixing their costumes. How thoughtless...
John and her are the only ones out in the backyard.

"Why don't you put those charcoled animal chunks on a plate so we don't start a fire, and I'll put on some music," she winks.

"Ut...mmyeah," he blinks several times and goes over to fix the grill. It's not exactly hi-tech, but it smells nice...and it also smells like flashbacks...he scoops the 'charcoled animal chunks' over on a plastic plate and tries not to think about the fire in April's apartment and her father's Second Time 'Round shop, which, by some strange coincident, is taking place right now, in another city. He sighs.

Suddenly, 'Nothing Compares 2 U' is wafting delicately out of the crackling early nineties speakers, standing on the lawn.
He closes his eyes, and frowns to keep back a single, annoying, prickling, small tear. He grits his teeth, and when he's opened his eyes again, he's looking at her, swaying softly to the classic tune.

"Yeah, it's a lil' sad, but I like it. It's...beautiful,"

He stares at her with blankness.

"The song?" she raises her eyebrows questioningly, not stopping in her dance. She moves slowly around, a full 360 degrees, until faced with him once more, her eyebrows still in their inquisitory posistion.

"Yes..." he croaks. "It's nice,"

"So, how's about it," she ventures, "wanna dance?"

"I, uh..."

"C'mon,"

"Sure," he swallows.

He puts his arms around her-- God, she's so tiny...and usually she's the tallest one of them...not much, only an inch or so, but she is taller.
She must be expecting some major hormone boost or something later on to grow that tall...
Even with his recent weight loss-- the machine costed a lot to fabricate, and he hasn't had much of an appetite, either way, after she left-- he's still much bigger than her, though she's not skinny at all. She puts her cheek on his shoulder, and he looks down at her in surprise-- resulting in him accidently looking straight down the front of her dress. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and he just focuses his attention on the music and the pretty paper lanterns.

His hands are resting on her hips and she's clinging lightly to his neck. He missed her, and this sure makes up for it, even if she thinks his name is John, Ceasar of The Swamp, and even if she's just a kid. But still...this isn't really the Paula he knows, even if he can certainly sense her personality shaping as we speak, into what she later becomes. Something is lacking.

She's sorta starting to take a liking to this guy. He's a nice dancer, anyways. She's just gotta find out about his age.
Judging by the voice...he must be much older than me, she sighs.
It's just one thing. The costume he's wearing...well, if her dress is made of I-Can't-Believe-That's-Not-Silk, then that has to be made of I-Can't-Believe-This-Isn't-Alien-Reptile-Skin!
It feels so incredibly life-like, and...good, to booth. She makes an inward prayer that those muscles aren't all fake.
Mentally, she's drooling over the suit-- man, if she owned something even vaguely similar to this incredible fabrication...!
This is definitely different from Joshua's homemade pirate costume.

The beat of the song is coming to an end, and Sinead O'Connor's voice is fading away.
They both realize that first after another full minute. Somehow, neither wants to let go. It's he who first breaks the hugging dance, assisted more by the alarm bells ringing in his head, than pure will.
Paula just sorta gazes at him, and the silence dominating the yard is pressing and ghost-like.

"Thanks for the dance," he takes a slight bow, bringing a smile back to her face.

"And you," she remarks, recalling those two words. He doesn't pick up on the small joke.

They stroll across the yard, and sit down at the picnic table. The grill is making its last sizzles.

"We'll I'm gonna have a hamburger now! You want one?"

He's on the verge of accepting, but remembers the incident with the sandwich. It's not too easy to eat when she's expecting him to pull his head off before he does so. "No, thank you,"
She shrugs and starts to load onions ring, pickles, salad, cheese, tomato slices and ketchup onto a hamburger bun, then some more cheese and ketchup on top of the actual hamburger. She places the top half of the bun on top of it all and takes a good bite out of it. He forces his growling stomach to keep still.
He concentrates on her, and notices a blob of ketchup on the left edge of her mouth. Without thinking, he reaches out and carefully wipes it away.

"What?" she asks, taking a hold of his index finger.

"Some...some ketchup," he mumbles.

"Ah," she retorts, still not freeing his finger from her grasp. It takes a good portion of her hand to cover that finger.
She studies the nail, a lighter shade of green that the rest of him, and a sudden icy, foreign feeling stings her brain, and at the same time...almost familiarity.
Paula circles her thumb across that fingernail, tentatively, and he gets instant flashes of the future. Or past, whichever.
It's close to physical hurt. He has to get her back, he's certain of that. Somehow.
He toys with the folds of his toga for a while. Then slowly he considers the circumstances. What's actually happening here.
If his social antennas aren't completely limp yet, he muses, then he should be right about the following...

He is being picked up by a sixteen year old.

Time to ske-daddle.

"Wow, cool costume!"

Paula turns irritably to the sound of her brother's voice. "Charly, can't you see that we're busy?"

"Ooh, really? So how old is the guy this time?"

She glares at her smirking sibling, then turns her head, "Err...John, how old are--"

As we all foresaw, the swamp Ceasar took this possibly unique chance of the evening to beat it.
Paula blinks once or twice, the chill of a let down gripping her heart. She swallows.

Never again did Paula hit on older guys.

"I'm looking forward to the day when these come in handy digital watch forms," Don mutters and steps out of the chamber.

He flips the off switch, feeling the bass vibrating in the floor as the power booms down. Then he turns off all the other little gadgets that the machine has a need for, and flicks the safety locks on. He doesn't feel like doing anymore travelling today.
He has barely moved an inch outside his research room before the telephone is chiming.

Don picks it up before the third ring. "Yeah, 'llo?"

There's silence on the other line. He listens for a while, hears faint breathing. "Who's this?"

The caller clears her throat-- it's a she. He can hear some shuffling behind her, and wonders what's up. "Don..."
It's her. He didn't expect this. He sits down, then find he's too nervous to. He starts walking around in the tiny kitchen, carrying the phone with him. "Paula? Oh...hi,"

"Hello," she replies quietly, "been a while..."

About five minutes...or ten years, depends on how you see it, Don thinks, but doesn't mouth the words. "Yes, it has,"

"So..."

"So,"

"So, you're probably wondering why I'm calling, huh?"

"Naturally," he laughs a short laugh, feeling his mouth go dry with anxiety. Everything may depend on this phone call.
On what I say next...

"I...God, what a stupid thing to do," she laughs too, also nervous, "I'm sorry, I...I think I'd better hang up now,"

"No!" Don exclaims, abruptly. He goes a crimson red. Now he's really blown it. He can hear her drawing her breath.
"No," he echoes, more evenly, calmer, "please don't."

"Okay," he knows she's nodding, "I won't."

"Thank you,"  he whispers.

"Listen, Don...this-- this is a silly question, but do you-- have you ever-- are you in posession of...cause, I...have you ever worn a toga, by any chance?"

Now he sits down. "Yes," is all he can think of to answer that question. A small smile now begins to tryingly decorate his presently gloomy being.

"Oh, mmhuh,"

"Why," he moists his dry lips, "why do you want to know?"

"No reason, really," she hesitates, "I just got this notion that I'd seen you in a toga somewhere before...and, I dunno, I just-- it was just kinda driving me crazy that I couldn't remember why or where, you see?"

"Yeah," he agrees, his tired smile widening, he knows exactly what she means. He knows her very well.

"I'm sorry for calling you about this whole thing...it wasn't that important," she apologizes, and he can sense that she's going to end the call in a second unless he reacts.

"I miss you, you know," he hazards.

She falls silent, and he doesn't know what to read out of it. "Me too," she admits in the end, smiling, and she unvoluntarily sheds a tear over the relieved sigh being uttered next on his end of the line.

"What happened, anyway?" he asks, more himself than her.

"I dunno...don't remember...don't wanna remember," she sighs.

"Paula...can we-- could we let this be water under the bridge?" he suggests warily.

She forces herself to think about the things that has happened, the near death, the sickness...the fights. The trouble.
She contemplates this, listening to Don holding his breath in anticipation. "Mmm," she gives in, nodding.

"Paula..." his voice oozes with love. I'll explain the toga thing later...

"Bye, for now," she hangs up, and sits down on a kitchen chair, her smile almost a grimace as her body rocks with her shuddering sobs, and uncertain tears roll down her cheeks. I love you.

Five minutes later, in two separate kitchens, there's the smell of coffee.