Work Text:
It was a Tuesday: loud, sunny, obnoxiously cheerful, and Damian was feeling distinctly ganged up on. It was absurd. Desmonds didn't get ganged up on; the world simply admired them from afar. But as usual, Anya Forger had taken one look at the rules of the universe and decided to eat them. Chewing on the remnants of propriety, she asked guilelessly: "Well, why don't you?"
His blood pressure spiked—from rage! Obviously! Because she was mocking him! She had to be. Look at her. That was intentional. With that stupid smirk, and those unfairly pretty green eyes... He turned red and stomped away, nearly missing the way her expression shifted to absolute befuddlement.
He was fun. History homework was fun. Counting taxes was fun. He said as much, pristine boots scuffing against the playground gravel while he cast dark looks at Ewen and Emile —both sporting suspiciously blank expressions— and the pink haired gremlin in the corner, who had for some reason dissolved into a pile of mirth in the last minute.
To demonstrate just how happy he was, he thumped down at a nearby spring rocker and hopped aggressively back and forth in a...display of enthusiasm. Ewen and Emile's eyes committed one synchronised twitch, and Becky looked up from where she was patting a still hiccuping Anya. Taking this, optimistically, as success, Damian braced his hand against the top of the rocker and prepared to get up.
But he couldn't.
He tried again.
No luck.
Again. The mushroom head on the rocker was taunting him.
Again. There was no doubt. Its smile was absolutely demonic. Did mushrooms even have smiles? This one did.
Again. He glanced heaven-ward. The sky was committing its most egregious act of pathetic fallacy.
He could sense the giggles. He eyed the two traitors and Anya Forger.
"Should...I get Mr Henderson?" Emile peeped.
"NO!"
After glancing at Damian, her expression contorting in thought, Anya turned to Ewen and looked him dead in the eye. "Get Mr Henderson."
Damian squawked, indignation mixing with snot as he rapidly blinked his eyes to clear the humiliation. Unexpectedly, his next blink manifested Anya Forger, and she was holding his hand.
"Well, Sy-on boy", she said, after a minute where he had definitely not self-combusted. "At least we now know..." What? He rearranged himself as much as he could in his current position to convey that he was not dangling on the precipice of expectation.
"that you're a fun-guy!"
“WHAT?!”
Anya watched him, eyes glinting mischievously. "You look like you're having a rocker of a good time."
Damian spluttered like a broken teakettle. She mimicked him. "What? I thought this would put a spring in your step!"
"Oh, please tell me you ain't playing ground with this?"
He was saved, if you could call it that, by Mr Henderson, who looked as if he was considering investing in more exclamatives. “Inelegant” could not even begin to describe seeing a Desmond merged with plastic. "Well...I guess we ought to call the fire department".
"Oooh Sy-on boy, you're flushing like a fire truck!“
Damian bristled, but his voice was weak. "Don't say it…“
The bane of his existence ignored him, crouching down as she paused for dramatic effect. “Looks like you finally got…roasted.”
Could Damian just die now?