A/N: Thank you to those who are reviewing my stories! It's like a hyperactive energy drink that keeps me writing. Anyhow, this story is going to be a longer one, hopefully I can stick with it. Please R&R
This Chapter: Yakko's Point of View
Next Chapter: …Who knows?
The light layer of artificial snow crunched lightly under my feet as I walked towards the tower. It was a beautiful night; the stars had finally decided to show themselves for all their worth, and the buildings that were normally grey at this time of night were instead a greyish-blue. I allowed myself to limp slightly; no one was around to see. It was far more comfortable than hiding it all day, and hiding it wasn't the most comfortable procedure; it's very hard to pretend that there's nothing wrong with your leg when you're physically unable to walk properly. But I'd devised a system that at least made it look normal. I reached the ladder and grabbed the rung level to my face, and started climbing.
I froze. I hadn't even gotten halfway to the top yet. Turning around, I found Scratchy standing a few feet from the door of his office.
"Yeah, Scratchy?" I answered nonchalantly. He started to walk towards me, and I hopped down from the ladder.
"Vhat are you doing up so late?" I looked up at him. "Ditto," I said. He gave me that classic frustrated look. Although I was tired, I wasn't going to make this conversation any easier than the others we've had. I waited patiently for him to say something.
"Yakko, it's past midnight," he said finally.
"All the more reason for you to be in bed," I said in a mock accusatory tone. Scratchy sighed.
"I vas vorking," he said. I briefly noted the tired circles under his eyes. Those had not been caused by only one sleepless night, and he hadn't had an appointment with any of the actors for at least the past week. Unless he was evaluating old files for the fun of it, he had no work to do.
"You're lying," I said, in all seriousness. Scratchy seemed to be a bit surprised at my perceptiveness, but he shook it off. He sighed again. I waited for him to speak. When he didn't, I decided that I might as well answer his original question; time was running short.
"I was going for a walk," I said, partially in truth.
"Scratchy, why don't you just get to the point?" I asked. I was getting kind of frustrated by now, and it must have shown in my voice. Scratchy looked slightly taken aback, but he kept his cool. I had to give him props for that.
"Vhere do you go every night, Yakko?" Something leapt in my chest. So he'd seen me come and go... damn. He'd probably seen me limping, too.
"Just for a walk," I said quickly as I turned back to the ladder and started climbing once again. I didn't even turn around when he started talking again. Something inside me had snapped when he implied that he had been spying on me. Couldn't I even get a moment to myself? I know I live on a studio lot, but this is just ridiculous.
"Vell, Yakko, if you vant to talk... my office is alvays open," Scratchy called up to me. I opened the door of our water tower, pausing only to glance back at him before I stepped inside. Just in time, too. Wakko was just starting to shift in his sleep. He'd wake up any minute. I ran into the kitchen and whipped out a glass from the cupboard, filling it halfway with milk. How he'd gotten into the habit of waking up at three in the morning – thirsty – I'd never know. One night, he just decided to get himself up for a glass of milk. On his way to the kitchen he had bumped his head on every conceivable object lying around. Completely unfazed, he had done what he'd gotten up to do, then went quietly back to bed. I'd just gotten back from my nightly outing and into my own bed when this happened, so when he did it the next night, and the next, I assumed the knocks to the head had started it on a course for habit. So instead of watching him hit himself sleepily on all surfaces on his way to the kitchen, I decided I'd just get him the milk and leave it on his nightstand before I went to bed. He already had middle-kid syndrome to deal with.
Walking back towards my bed, I left his milk on the nightstand as I passed, hearing him mumble something that sounded a lot like "...so that'show it getsthere..." and I couldn't suppress a smile. I took off my thick green scarf and settled down beneath the welcoming sheets. I heard my brother slide the glass from the nightstand and drink from it noisily, barely finishing its contents before he was once again out like a light. I suppose his habit was no worse than mine, and I assumed it was only a matter of time before Dot developed a nightly quirk of her own. I lay in silence wondering for a moment how long Scratchy'd been watching my coming and going, before I too fell into a welcome, dreamless sleep.
Homework, I must say, is an exercise in ineffectuality. There is simply no point. I would much prefer to do something productive, like writing jokes or scripts. My sibs and I already have full-time jobs, yet we go to school. Now tell me, does that make sense, or does it not? Not. Definitely not. Yet, we go to school, and receive a mass amount of homework. I suppose today's load isn't that bad. We're supposed to be writing a paper about opportunity and its place in modern society. Easy enough.
In the modern mentality, when opportunity knocks, you tend to walk cautiously up to the door, unlock it, peek through, think maybe that particular opportunity wasn't meant for you, slam the door, lock it, think perhaps that it was meant for you after all, yank hard on the door, dislocate our shoulder, and wind up lying in a hospital wondering: "Why didn't I unlock the door?" That, my friend, was opportunity. So sorry you missed its call.
Well, that seemed like a good start. Now all I had to do was fill up the rest of the page. I glanced over to where my sibs sat on the floor writing their own reports. Wakko crumpled up his seventh piece of paper and swallowed it. Must be nice to be your own portable trash bin. I stood and stretched to my full extent, making sure my sibs saw it and followed suit. It was a mutual agreement: we were taking a break for some good old-fashioned chaos. My scarf sat on the only coat rack we owned (we really ought to own more – for nefarious purposes of course) and I snatched it up on our way out.
Forty-eight minutes and twenty-three seconds later (Dot counted), we were sitting – more or less – in Plotz's meeting room, where said meeting had just adjourned. I was sitting nonchalantly on the edge of the table; both Dot and Wakko leaned against it in a similar manner, while Scratchy had seated himself by the window in a chair he had pulled from its spot under the table, and Plotz stood beside me, just barely rising to my height as he was standing upon the table itself. He was also lecturing his head off at us. To be completely truthful, we were only half-listening; just aware enough to make an annoyingly clever or sarcastic comment if the need arose. As it was, I couldn't suppress my gasp of pain when Plotz took it upon himself to snatch me up by the scruff of the neck.
"Put. Me. Down."