Words: 3k
Today's goal: 500 ps > 3 extra chapters
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Charlie exhaled, staring up at the ceiling like it might grant him patience from the gods.
"Alan, if you're thinking about jumping off a bridge, call someone else. A therapist, a hotline, a drunk psychic... hell, call Mom. I'm busy, and I'd very much like to avoid cops knocking on my door asking awkward questions like 'Why is your brother's ghost haunting PCH?'"
Alan whimpered on the other end. "You're my brother, Charlie..."
"Yeah, and I already helped you once, genius! I bailed your ass out of jail, gave you cash, and told you how to survive prison showers. You think you get infinite saves? This ain't a video game, man. You messed up your life, not me."
There was a wet sniffle.
Charlie sat there, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the beautiful goddess in red.
At Lisa.
Lying on his bed.
In lingerie that could and probably should be declared a deadly weapon. Her perky nipples and perfectly shaped boobs, not to mention that smile...
A choice stood before him... Once again.
Lisa, glowing like a goddess in barely-there lace.
Or Alan, sobbing into his steering wheel, probably about to traumatize a family of tourists on the boardwalk.
Charlie sighed like a man digging his own grave.
Lisa noticed the look on his face. The deep, existential suffering.
"What's wrong?" she asked, sitting up, her body shifting in a way that made his brain scream at him to hang up the phone immediately and continue the pleasure session.
Charlie covered the receiver. "Alan's thinking about swan-diving off a bridge."
Lisa blinked. "Wait. Seriously?"
Charlie nodded grimly. "Big sad energy. Zero survival instincts. Probably wearing those sweatpants that say 'Juicy' across the ass. It's a whole vibe."
Lisa tilted her head, giving him a look. The kind you give a puppy stuck in a rainstorm.
"Charlie," she said gently. "You have to help him. He's your brother."
Charlie groaned into his hands. "God, why do you have to be the voice of reason? I was two seconds away from pretending I lost signal."
Lisa leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees. "Because you'd hate yourself if you didn't. And because deep down, you're not actually a terrible person. Just a severely misguided one."
Charlie peered at her over his fingers. "You're really killing the 'bad boy' image right now."
She smiled sweetly. "Good. You're not a bad boy. You're a dumb boy with a big heart who pretends to be cooler than he is."
Charlie huffed. "Insulting and accurate. Fantastic."
Lisa laughed softly and nudged him with her foot. "Go get your brother before he turns into a viral news story."
Charlie stared at her. Then at the phone. Then back at her again.
He muttered under his breath, "Alan's sad ass versus Lisa in lingerie. God hates me."
But he stood up anyway, grabbing his keys and slipping into his sneakers.
Before walking out, he turned and looked at Lisa sprawled on the bed, soft and sexy and waiting.
He pointed at her. "Don't move. Don't change. Don't even think of rubbing one off behind my back after sending me off on a life-saving mission. When I come back, we're picking up exactly where we left off."
Lisa gave him a slow, sultry wink. "I'll be here."
Charlie groaned in agony as he headed for the door, muttering, "I better get sainthood for this. And you are a terrible influence."
Lisa grinned. "You're welcome. Now go save your brother, you softie."
He slammed the door behind him and called Alan back.
"Alan," he said slowly, "where exactly are you? I want the pinpoint location."
Alan sniffled. "Uh… somewhere off the Pacific Coast Highway. Near the Whale Watching turnoff. There's a bench. And a plaque. It says, 'In memory of Bob.' I think Bob might be haunting me."
"Alright, dumbass. Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you. But if you so much as breathe dramatically near the edge of that bridge, I swear to God I'm tossing you into the ocean myself."
Alan's pathetic sob floated through the phone. "Thank you, Charlie... I owe you my life."
Charlie rolled his eyes and started the car.
"Yeah, yeah. You owe me a lot more than that, pal."
..
[Pacific Coast Highway – "In Memory of Bob" Bench]
Charlie's car screeched into the gravel turnout like he was auditioning for The Fast and the Furiously Over It.
He spotted Alan immediately.
There he was: sitting on a rusted bench with his head in his hands, looking like a broke Shakespearean actor contemplating a career change. His car was parked nearby, tilted at a stupid angle like it had tried to flee and given up halfway.
Charlie rolled his window down.
"Hey, Romeo! Get your ass in the car before you turn into a tragic Yelp review."
Alan looked up, red-eyed and pathetic. He was still wearing those awful "JUICY" sweatpants and a stretched-out T-shirt that said "World's Okayest Lover."
Truly rock bottom.
Alan stood and shuffled toward the car like he was dragging invisible chains.
Charlie leaned over and popped the passenger door open.
Alan climbed in, sighing so dramatically that Charlie had to check if he brought an invisible violin.
The smell hit instantly.
Charlie gagged. "Jesus, Alan! Did you marinate in regret and dead raccoons?"
Alan sniffed himself and winced. "I... tried rolling in some bushes. Thought maybe nature would cancel out the smell."
Charlie shook his head, pulling back onto the road. "Great plan, Dances-With-Skunks. Now you just smell like if Whole Foods had a death wing."
Alan stared out the window, shoulders sagging. "I just wanted one thing to go right today..."
Charlie snorted. "Alan, your 'one thing' was trying to sneak into Judith's yard like a meth-addicted Easter Bunny. And then you got chased off by a frying pan."
Alan buried his face in his hands. "I think she's getting stronger. Like... superhuman rage strength."
Charlie glanced sideways. "That's called 'divorce cardio.' It's real."
Alan's stomach let out a loud, pathetic growl that sounded less like hunger and more like a dying goat.
Charlie sighed. "Fantastic. Now you're a biohazard and a bio-acoustic hazard."
Alan clutched his belly dramatically. "I haven't eaten in like... I don't know. Lost count after some hobos stole my banana for the third time."
Charlie rolled his eyes. "Good. Maybe you'll finally lose that 'emergency winter hibernation pouch' you call a stomach."
Another growl.
Alan whined, "Can we please just stop somewhere? Anywhere? I'm desperate."
Charlie veered off the highway and into a diner parking lot. A neon sign buzzed overhead: "Sally's Seaside Grill – Home of the 3-Pound Omelette (No Refunds)"
Charlie parked and turned off the engine. "Alright, here's the deal: you're going to walk in there, order food, eat food, and not pull any of your usual picky Alan crap."
Alan nodded solemnly. "Got it. I'm starving. I'll eat anything."
Charlie narrowed his eyes. "Say it."
Alan blinked. "Say what?"
"Say: 'I, Alan Harper, hereby swear to shut up, order food, and eat it like a normal human being without crying about calories, gluten, or the texture of pickles.'"
Alan groaned but mumbled, "I, Alan Harper, swear to shut up, order food, and... eat it like a normal human being without crying about calories, gluten, or pickles."
Charlie grinned. "Good boy."
They got out of the car and headed inside.
[Inside]
The place was a fluorescent-lit crime scene of bad taste: cracked booths, sticky floors, a jukebox playing sad 90s country, and a waitress who looked like she could beat a man to death with a coffee pot and then upsell him pie.
Charlie slid into a booth. Alan plopped down across from him like a human Eeyore.
A tired-looking waitress with a nametag that said Pam waddled over, chewing gum aggressively.
"Whaddaya want?" she said without a single trace of human warmth.
Charlie smiled politely. "Coffee. Black. And a burger, whatever's fastest."
Pam nodded and turned to Alan.
"And you, sunshine?"
Alan looked at the menu like it was written in Klingon. He tapped his finger nervously. "Um... what's your soup of the day?"
Pam stared at him. "It's soup."
Alan nodded, fake-wise. "Right, right. But what kind?"
Pam didn't blink. "Wet."
Charlie snorted into his menu.
Alan pressed on. "Okay, okay... um... does the tuna melt have real tuna or that canned stuff? Because I'm very sensitive to sodium."
Pam blinked slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. "You want a gluten-free organic dolphin-blessed tuna melt, you're in the wrong place, hon."
Charlie lowered his menu just enough to give Alan the Look... that combination of dead-eyed disappointment and pure, unfiltered "I will end you."
Alan flailed a little. "Okay, okay! Uh... grilled cheese. No onions. No crust. And... uh... wheat bread, not white. Oh, and could you toast it lightly so it's just a soft golden brown, not crunchy? Crunchy hurts my gums."
Charlie's fingers curled into a tight fist on the table.
Pam wrote none of this down. She just stared at him like she was watching an endangered species commit suicide.
"You're getting a grilled cheese," she said. "On white bread. With onions. Burnt to hell."
Alan opened his mouth.
Pam cut him off. "And you're gonna eat it."
Alan shrank down. "Yes, ma'am."
Pam turned and walked off, muttering under her breath, "Jesus. Men today are softer than my third divorce settlement."
Charlie leaned back, giving Alan a look that could curdle milk.
Alan tried to smile. "At least I didn't ask for almond milk?"
Charlie slammed his forehead into the table with a thunk.
Alan patted his shoulder. "It's okay. We survived jail. We'll survive dinner."
Charlie muttered into the table, "No, you survived jail. I survived losing three hours of my life, $200, my faith in humanity, and now possibly salmonella."
Alan's stomach growled again, louder this time.
Across the diner, Pam slammed two plates down on the counter with enough force to shake the napkin dispensers.
Charlie lifted his head just enough to say, "If you complain once about the grilled cheese, Alan... I will personally feed it to you through a wood chipper."
Alan nodded solemnly.
Pam stomped over and dropped the plates in front of them.
Charlie's burger looked suspiciously gray.
Alan's grilled cheese looked... well, technically, it had cheese. And grill marks. And rage.
Alan stared at it like it might bite him first.
Charlie picked up his burger and took a giant, defiant bite. "Mmm. Taste that? That's the taste of gratitude."
Alan gingerly picked up half of his blackened sandwich, took a small, trembling bite…
—and immediately started gagging.
Charlie set down his burger, calmly.
"If you puke," he said flatly, "I will make you lick it off Pam's shoes."
Alan whimpered, chewing and crying at the same time. "It's... it's so... crunchy..."
Charlie smiled sweetly, all teeth and no soul. "Good boy. Finish it. Or Pam's gonna finish you."
Across the diner, Pam watched like a prison guard daring someone to act up.
Alan gagged, cried, and powered through every bite like a POW doing his duty.
Charlie leaned back, sipped his terrible coffee, and smiled to himself.
Somewhere across the universe, karma slow-clapped.
[After eating...]
Alan sat there, hunched over the table, looking like a man who had just lost a custody battle against his own digestive system. His grilled cheese, now a half-mangled, sad pile of crumbs and regret, taunted him from the plate.
Charlie wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, tossed a few crumpled bills onto the table, and stood up.
He pointed at Alan. "Go. Wait in the car."
Alan blinked. "What? Why?"
"Because," Charlie said, grabbing his wallet, "if you stay one second longer, you're either gonna cry, Yelp, or do something Alan-ish that'll get us both banned for life."
Alan looked offended. "I wouldn't cry!"
Charlie raised a finger. "You cried when the airport lost your neck pillow."
Alan's shoulders slumped. "It was memory foam..."
Charlie pointed toward the door like a strict kindergarten teacher. "Car. Now."
Alan sighed, dragged himself up like a man rising from his own funeral, and trudged out the door.
Charlie turned to Pam, who was back behind the counter, sipping black coffee like it was whiskey.
He pulled a twenty out of his wallet, folded it neatly, and slid it across the counter toward her.
Pam raised an eyebrow.
Charlie smirked. "Hazard pay."
Pam snorted. "You think that's enough to deal with someone that whiny?"
Charlie thought about it, then added another ten.
She took it without blinking. "Appreciated."
Charlie hesitated. "Seriously. Thanks for shutting him down. If you hadn't, he would've tried to special-order a salad with the dressing emotionally validated first."
Pam gave him a dry smile. "We get three types of men here: truckers, fishermen, and idiots who think grilled cheese is a fussy French delicacy."
Charlie pointed a thumb toward the parking lot. "He's the third."
Pam sipped her coffee again and said with no inflection whatsoever, "Hope you got a strong will and a weak nose, honey."
Charlie saluted her with his coffee cup. "Story of my life."
He turned, strolling out the door while Pam muttered, "Poor bastard," and wiped down the counter with the same rag she used to slap a rat earlier.
[Outside]
The ocean waves crashed in the distance, and a drunk seagull staggered around a tipped-over trash can, which somehow still had more dignity than Alan.
Charlie pulled the car keys out of his pocket and stopped by the passenger door, turning to Alan with a heavy sigh.
"Alright," Charlie said, arms crossed, "what's the plan now, genius? You're broke, homeless, smell like expired cheese, and you just survived death by grilled cheese. Where exactly are you planning to live?"
Alan blinked at him, wide-eyed, like a baby bird whose nest had just been bulldozed.
"I... uh... I was thinking maybe..." Alan shifted nervously. "Maybe, you know, I could crash at your place for a couple of days?"
Charlie narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe a few weeks?" Alan added quickly, wringing his hands. "A couple of months, tops!"
Before Charlie could even say a word, Alan dropped to his knees in the middle of the parking lot like he was reenacting the last scene of a bad soap opera.
"PLEASE, CHARLIE!" Alan wailed, throwing his arms up dramatically. "I HAVE NOWHERE ELSE TO GO! I'M A BROKEN MAN! A BROKEN, DESTITUTE, SKUNK-SCENTED MAN!"
Charlie took one long, suffering breath and stared at the heavens like he was hoping God would smite one of them. Preferably Alan.
"You're on your knees. In a parking lot. Begging," Charlie said slowly. "You realize how this looks, right?"
Alan clasped his hands together like a desperate pilgrim. "I don't care about my dignity anymore! It left with my last pair of clean underwear! Just let me stay a little while! I'll stay out of your way! You won't even know I'm there! I'll be invisible! Like a fart in the wind!"
Charlie muttered under his breath, "More like a fart trapped in an elevator."
Alan pressed his forehead against Charlie's car door like he was praying to it. "I'll cook! I'll clean! I'll scrub the toilets with my toothbrush!"
Charlie slowly backed up a step. "Okay, one: that's disgusting. Two: you cooking is how you set Mom's kitchen on fire trying to make Easy Mac."
Alan's voice cracked. "I've learned! I've grown! I've evolved! I have YouTube now!"
Charlie rubbed his temples, feeling his last few brain cells waving little white flags. "Alan, the last time I let you stay over, you reorganized my fridge by 'emotional temperature' and labeled my tequila as 'insecure.'"
Alan jumped to his feet. "I can change!"
"You said that after you shaved half your chest to impress a woman who thought you were a magician."
"She liked it!"
"She ran away, Alan! She climbed out a bathroom window and joined a convent!"
Alan grabbed Charlie's sleeve. "Please, bro! Please! Just a few days! I swear I'll get a job! I'll... I'll sell my plasma! I'll Uber Eats in a tutu if I have to!"
Charlie sighed so hard he practically deflated.
A homeless guy wandering past looked at Alan, then at Charlie, and shook his head sadly, like, "Even I wouldn't take that deal."
Charlie closed his eyes.
Counted to three.
Imagined Lisa in lingerie waiting for him.
Imagined Alan on his couch, eating tuna out of the can, crying over reruns of Grey's Anatomy.
Imagined the smell.
Imagined the noise.
Imagined the existential regret.
Then opened his eyes.
"Fine."
Alan froze. "Wait. What?"
"Fine," Charlie repeated through gritted teeth. "You can stay. But under strict conditions."
Alan straightened up, hope lighting up his face. "Anything!"
Charlie counted them off on his fingers:
"One: No reorganizing my kitchen."
"Done."
"Two: No crying loudly after 10 PM. I have neighbors. And dignity."
"I can weep quietly."
"Three: No 'experimental' cooking. No vegan bacon, no gluten-free pancakes made of sadness, no 'artisan water.'"
Alan nodded eagerly. "Deal!"
Charlie stared him down. "And four… if you clog my toilet even once, you're living in the backyard with the raccoons."
Alan saluted. "Sir, yes sir!"
Charlie opened the car door and got in, muttering, "This is how good men die. Not in war. Not in glory. Smothered by their brother's emotional baggage and bad choices."
Alan slid into the passenger seat, beaming. "This is gonna be great, Charlie! Like old times!"
Charlie started the car with a resigned groan. "Yeah. Great. Old times. Right before I lost most of my hairline and all of my faith in humanity."
As they pulled out of the parking lot, Alan leaned back in the seat, sighed happily, and said, "You know, it's true what they say…"
Charlie gripped the wheel tighter. "Don't."
Alan grinned. "Home is where your brother's couch is."
Charlie flipped him off without even looking.
Alan grinned wider.
This was going to be a disaster.
"I don't know why, I think I am forgetting something," Alan said again.
'Yeah, your car, good luck with that,' Charlie thought.
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