Subconscience Megaphone, an Austin and Ally one-shot

I do not own Austin and Ally. To fulfill the recent requests I have received. Reviews are always appreciated.

There's only five days to spring break, and this year he's going to make it count. More than last year, where making it count consisted of him sleeping in as late as he possibly could. This year he has one goal in mind.

Get Ally to go on a date with him.

Not one of those things where the four of them go out, and it should be a date but isn't.

No, he wants the whole shebang.

He's just worried that he's going to ruin everything (i.e. his ability to admire her from afar, up close, if that made sense to anyone but him) if he does. Considering he's using words like shebang, he should be. If he gets this tongue tied in his head, what's he going to be like when he asks her out? A basket case?

(An Easter basket case?)

Not funny subconscience.

Monday: Hard Boiled Easter Eggs

The first day goes pretty smoothly. He thanks the protein packed breakfast his mother gave him. All the leftover eggs he had colored with his little cousins were on his plate. He felt a bit morbid, chomping down on something that had once been such a radiant yellow, with a paper duck face attached.

That face had stared at him all through breakfast.

It was a good thing he was too tired to make much of it.

He got through the morning easily. (He may have hit a snag when he was deciding what to wear. After all, when they tell this story to their future children, and grandchildren, and great grandchildren, he wants to be remembered for being a good dresser.)

This afternoon was just as free flying. (He may have hit a snag when he was craving a peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter breath doesn't do much in the romance field.)

After the sandwich situation, everything had been free flying. As in soaring, holding her hand.

Except as any winged creature knows, it takes two arms to fly. With his hand in hers, that leaves him with one.

Prepare for crashing.

Laying on his back, he points up into the sky. "That one there is Leo."

"That's Bootes," she says, pushing his pointed finger over. "That one is Leo. See?"

Yes. He sees that he confused a kite with a lion.

(What a bonehead.)

"I knew that."

(No he didn't.)

His subconscience really needs a mute button.

Tuesday: Fried Eggs on Toast

He rubs his nose. A dark dirt line smears across his cheek.

This half a football player look is not working for him.

"It's a pretty flower Ally. What'd you say it was?" He wipes his face off with a rag.

(You're such a pretty girl Ally. Can we maybe do something besides plant this flower together?)

"A lily. My grandmother always buys one from her church and gives it to me for Easter. She says that all the chocolate and jelly beans would go to my hips." Her hands settle where the jelly beans should go.

(Where your hands should go, you mean.)

"That's ridiculous. You're perfect...ly normal sized." If his subconscience says anything to that, he may have to take drastic measures. Ones that involve his fist connecting with his head.

'Sweetie,' his mother would say, 'who did you get in a fight with?'

'Myself,' he would answer.

"Thank you?" She shakes it off, grabbing the potted plant. She gives it to him to hold.

"No problem," he awkwardly mutters, holding the plant to his chest.

His phone rings, scaring him, as he thought he had put it on vibrate, and he drops the pot. Checking the caller ID, so he knows who to blame, he frowns.

Stupid telemarketers.

"Well, I was wondering how we were going to get the plant out of the pot in one piece." She sorts through the dirt and broken pot pieces. He bends down to help her.

"I am so sorry." He makes sure to switch his phone to vibrate before putting it back in his pocket. Who had switched it in the first place?

(Who else? You don't think I did it, do you?)

He may not be able to blame his subconscience for switching his phone, but he can blame him for the awkwardness that ensues.

"No really, it's okay. Help me get it over into the hole?"

Hands are grabbing, fingertips touching. Smiles are disguising themselves behind studiously jutted out tongues.

He's concentrating.

(He wants to lick your face.)

That is not true.

"Austin, are you okay? You're red." She releases the plant, allowing it to fall into the hole.

Oh, he's just peachy.

Wednesday: Scrambled Eggs and Bacon

It's probably not the best idea to be doing this right after breakfast, but he doesn't care. He's going to dangle upside down from these monkey bars until the blood rushes to his head and drowns that subconscience of his.

(Not cool man. I thought we were friends.)

He is not going to be friends with someone that makes him look like a fool in front of Ally. Even if they are taking up residence in his head.

"Austin, is that you?" She walks up to him, and her face is so close.

What would it be like if for their first kiss he was upside down?

(Because you have the nerve to kiss here, right now, when you're going to be so excited that you let go of the bar and fall flat on your face while she calls for help?)

"Hey. What are you doing here?" He swings his legs around so he is upright. Whether he wants to admit it or not, his subconscience is right.

"Mrs. Kimble had a doctor's appointment this morning and asked me to take her dog for a walk."

He jumps down. "Doesn't she normally walk her dog along the beach?"

"Spring breakers."

Ugh, the entire state of Florida seemed to be flooded with them. Otherwise he would have taken her for a private surf lesson and told her right then and there how he felt.

It can't be private if the beach is packed.

(What, afraid you might get rejected in front of an audience?)

Maybe if he ignores it, the voice will go away.

"Hi Fido," he greets the dog. He yips back at him.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, winding the leash around her hand.

"I'm bored. Dez doesn't get back from his vacation for another two days." He puts his fingers up for emphasis.

(Because it's so hard for her to understand how big two is. You're so helpful.)

Unlike some people here, yes he is.

(That's a rude thing to say about the girl you like.)

He was not talking about Ally. She's perfectly perfect, kneeling down to give Fido a doggie biscuit from her pocket. "You could join us."

"Really?" His eyes light up.

(Don't sound like such an eager puppy. One dog is enough here.)

"Sure. I could use the extra hand in case he tries to get away." As if the dog takes it as a request, the leash unravels and he speeds off towards the slide. He attempts to climb the ladder. Reaching the top, he lets out a howl.

"I'll get him." He races up the ladder, hitting his head on the bar. It may be there to give kids a push down the slide, but he thinks it may be there just to make him look like more of an idiot.

The dog scoots down the slide. "Are you alright?"

He slides down once they've cleared the way. Rather, he tries, but the friction stops him in the middle and he has to crawl the rest of the way.

"It's nothing."

(Then why are you gripping your head?)

"Come on, let's go get you some ice." She takes his hand, the other hanging onto Fido.

That he's not going to argue. "How about I take the leash this time? I mean, you had to walk him all the way here."

(Translation: I do not want that dog to run off again and make an even bigger fool of me.)

"You sure?" Carefully, she passes him the leash.

"Yeah."

(Run doggy, run!)

He's starting to think his subconscience takes joy out of his pain.

Thursday: Poached Eggs.

Over breakfast, his dad asks him if he has any homework.

"It won't take me that long." He pokes at his eggs with a fork.

"Austin," his mother prods, cracking another egg against the counter top.

Next year, he's requesting an eggless Easter. They had an extra two dozen from when his cousins got bored, and now he's been eating them all week.

The only eggs he wants are the chocolate kind, with the peanut butter center.

They just had to be allergic to peanuts, didn't they?

"I have a report on a book we read in class."

"You are not leaving this house until that report is done." She waves her slotted spoon at him.

His shoulders slump. "Can Ally come over to help me?"

He blinks twice over his coffee. She tilts her head to the left.

(If you paid more attention to them instead of lusting over a girl, you'd have a clue as to what they're talking about.)

It's not lust.

"Sure. But no working on music until after you finish." His mother slides the egg into the water.

Ally comes over that morning, and within two minutes, his spirit crashes. With one look at the work he's already done, she points out one italicized word in the directions.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Austin, the word is in italics. How did you miss that?"

(His eyes were watching for you out the window instead of on his homework.)

It's a good thing his subconscience does not have a megaphone, or he'd be in a lot of trouble.

"I didn't know what it meant." He picks up his paper and begins to tear it.

"No!" Her hand lands on his. "We can use some of this."

He sets the paper on the desk. "Then let's get started."

"First, where's your dictionary?"

He tugs the bottom drawer of his desk open. Grunting, he lifts the dictionary from it's spot, blowing the dust off the cover.

(Congrats on remembering to blow away from her face Einstein.)

Somebody needs to teach that subconscience some manners.

"What do I need the dictionary for?"

"Look the word up."

At this rate, they're never going to do anything fun.

(Like a game of admitting your feelings?)

That is not a game. There is no fun in feeling like your poached eggs are about to become scrambled on her feet.

He's going to pretend that he foot didn't accidentally bump his.

He's going to pretend that he didn't feel anything.

He's going to pretend that the voice inside his head isn't laughing maniacally at him.

Friday: Pizza Omelet

This morning he had the ultimate power breakfast to make sure that he doesn't screw himself over for a fifth day. Yesterday, after finishing that report of his, she stayed to have a Back to the Future marathon with him.

"Wouldn't it be so cool to travel through time?" he asked her. He had thought it was a good idea. He could go back and correct all those mistakes he made.

(You mean all the memories that you have together?)

"But what if you change something and then your whole world changes? Like if I went back to my MUNY audition and didn't get stage fright, we'd never be where we are now."

He wanted to ask her where that was, but then there was a loud noise, not that he could remember what is was, and he didn't get the chance.

(It's not too late to ask her.)

Sure, he's going to call her on the phone at seven in the morning and ask her the question that's been haunting him all night.

He flips the omelet in the pan. His parents aren't even up yet.

The pepperoni falls to the ground as he hits it with his elbow. He really shouldn't be leaning on the stove like this. It's burning his arm, but he's too tired to stand straight.

(Have you considered going back to sleep?)

But he's already making this omelet. It'd be a shame to waste it.

(And you'd dream about Ally again.)

Perchance he isn't frustrated with his subconscience because it has a big mouth. It could quite possibly be that he's angry that it's right, and he can't agree with it. He could, but that would only lead to trouble.

As in, confessing his feelings, her telling him what an idiot he has been all week, and then having to deal with that awkward situation called friendship.

He takes his plate into his bedroom. Normally he eats at the table, but if he's going to fall asleep, it's going to be somewhere comfortable.

If he's going to fall, it's going to be over the dictionary that he left on the ground yesterday.

"Hot!" he screams as his face collides with his breakfast.

"Austin, what's going on?" his mother asks, flipping on his bedroom light.

He lifts himself off the ground. "Son, you have a piece of sausage on your face."

He peels it off, throwing it onto the plate.

(Now might be a good time to come clean. And no, I don't mean getting the sausage residue off your cheek.)

There is no way he is telling his parents how he feels about Ally before he tells Ally.

"I was hungry." He holds his fork up for them to see, as if he needed evidence to support his weak cover.

His dad comes into the room, picking the plate off the floor. "Let's get you some new eggs."

He shakes his head, and a piece of egg flies off the end of his hair.

"I think I'm going to go for pancakes." He deposits the stray egg onto the plate.

His parents do their silent conversation schtick.

"Do you need money?" his mother asks.

"I'm good."

They leave him to get dressed.

When he gets outside, he turns left out of the driveway.

(The pancake house is to the right genius.)

He knows. He also knows that Ally's house is to the left, and that if he's going to tell her, he'd rather it be when her mouth is full, so she has to think before she reacts.

(Or she could choke on her food.)

Valid point. He'll ask her after breakfast, so he can say that his last memory of her is a good one.

Or so that kiss can taste like chocolate chip pancakes. Either way he wins.

(You're aiming for the second one though.)

Yes, subconscience, he's aiming for the kiss. Now do him a favor and shut up. This is something he needs to do on his own.

For once, it listens. It's a bit lonely, not hearing that voice challenge everything he does.

He knows where he can find someone to fill the void. He's knocking on her window, smiling as she opens it, leaning out on the ledge.

"Do you have any idea of what time it is?" She squints into the sun.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

He should not have done this at this time of the morning. He should not have asked his subconscience to shut up. It could feed him dozens of lines to get him out of this situation.

Who's he kidding? It'd probably encourage the situation. It was what he wanted all along.

She kisses him on the cheek. "Would you like to come in for breakfast?"

Five days, and he's made it.

They've made it.

He could go back, and fix all of his mistakes. But his subconscience was right. They aren't mistakes; they're memories.

Here's to new mistakes.

Here's to new memories.