Categories > Original > Drama > Beat of Their Own Drums
Thanksgiving Special
0 reviewsMac's supposed to be making the pumpkin pie, but he can't focus when she's there. He can't help but think about how lucky he is. Not a songfic.
0Unrated
A/N: Okay, yeah, I know this special is a little late, but I tried, all right? It's all pretty fluffy, for those of you who hate/love fluff. I think I use words 'thankful' and 'grateful' enough to last a lifetime.
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Thirty-One: Thanksgiving Special
Puppet: Cormac O'Kane
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Sometimes there were many times when I wondered what on earth there was to be thankful for. In this day and age, there were so many things that were going wrong.
Why we supposed to be grateful for the fact that brave American soldiers were dying in another country? Why were we supposed to thank anyone for the numbers of people dying due to incurable diseases listed back to us on all the news channels? Why should we be thankful for the bodies being dragged out of New York alleyways every morning?
I'd always wondered; did those hobos on the street, jobless and penniless, have something to be thankful for?
Strange as it may have been, homeless folks had always been a little bit of a fascination of mine, I suppose. Having been a city dweller all my life, I'd been accustomed to seeing one or two of them sitting out on the corner almost everyday at a very young age. Of course, my mom had never, ever gotten anywhere near any of them and it was only when I was old enough to go out on my own did I actually come close to one.
But I have very vague, clouded memories of meandering down the sidewalk, my then-tiny hand in my dad's (my real dad), and stopping to talk to a grubby-looking man. I don't remember faces or words, but I recall watching money pass hands and innocently wondering why the stranger looked so happy after receiving just a few coins that I knew weren't worth much.
Now that I was older and understood the desperate situation some people were in, I always made sure to bring a couple of extra dollar bills and a sympathetic ear whenever I went out on the street. It wasn't like I went looking for them, but they really weren't all that hard to find.
Some of them camped out by themselves on street corners with poorly-written signs. Some of them had an old guitar or another instrument that they played for anyone passing by. I'd even seen a band once, made up of five guys, each with a different type of drum. When I stopped to talk to them, they said they'd been out there all day and had only made a few dollars.
Sometimes, the street folk obviously didn't want to talk with me and I didn't expect them to. They, like myself, had their pride, and I could only imagine how humiliated I would be if I had to scrounge for money like that.
Sometimes, though, they wanted to chat. They had their own stories and backgrounds, just like everyone else did. Some of them had been normal, working class people once, but had lost their job and everything else ended up following. Some of them had given it all up on purpose; said it was an experiment. Some of them were, sadly, just drunkards or junkies who couldn't hold on to a job long enough to support themselves.
It was those people that made me realize that I had everything to be grateful for. I had a family, however broken it might've been. I had a warm place to sleep every night. I had plenty of food to put on the table.
I had her, and that was all I could ever ask for.
But I tried not to let her intoxicating presence distract me from the task at hand. I had a dessert to make, after all. I reached up above my head and took a few things out of the simply-carved cupboard, trying not to let the strong smells of spice make me sneeze. I'm gonna need some sugar, cinnamon, salt, ginger, cloves...and some evaporated milk for later.
The O'Kanes and the Waters' were dining together tonight and she'd come over earlier this afternoon to help me cook Thanksgiving dinner. It was almost 4:00pm now, and so far we'd made the stuffing and some gravy. Of course, we also had the turkey in the oven (which smelled delicious) and I was making the pumpkin pie.
I stole a glance over my shoulder at her while absently putting all the ingredients out on the counter, smiling softly to myself. I didn't really need to watch where I was putting my hands; I had always kept my kitchen organized to the point where I could probably make something with a bandanna tied over my eyes.
I measured out the spices and mixed them all together in a small bowl that I'd already taken out, humming a slow, calming tune that's name I didn't know. It helped keep my mind off of sneezing, which I was still afraid that I was going to do.
It seemed weird for a young man to enjoy cooking, but I'd always felt at home in the kitchen, even when I was really little. There was just something amazing about the warm smells of cooking food, the knowledge that I had a special soul in the room with me, and the anticipation of savoring some good food I'd created with my own two hands.
Now I'll need the eggs, the pumpkin, and the crust...
I ventured away from the counter and to the refrigerator, once more looking at her for a split second. She was busy with the actual mashing part of making mashed potatoes like I'd asked her to do, her movements brisk and meaningful.
I bit the inside of my cheek and looked away, focusing on getting the things. We'd been alone the whole time, but up until now the two of us had been so busy getting everything ready that we didn't have much time to think about one another. But now that we were almost done and things were quieter...
It was so tempting to just drop everything I was doing, take her up in my arms and kiss her for all I was worth, but I held myself back.
Focus.
With practiced hands I cracked two eggs into the mixture of sugar and spices, barely getting any of the liquid on my fingers. Still, it was a good excuse to go over to the sink (which was closer to her than me), so after tossing the empty shells into the nearby trash can I ambled over.
When I passed her, I did my best to seem casual and not like I wanted her so bad that it actually hurt to come close to her, but I didn't do a very good job. Cold water tumbled over my hands and I started looking at her again.
“What do you keep staring at, Mac?”
She hadn't looked up at me at all when she spoke, which meant that she had probably noticed before then.
I turned off the sink and used a nearby wash towel to dry my hands, smiling sweetly at her even though I was fairly certain that she couldn't tell. “The person I'm most thankful for.”
She laughed softly, though she still didn't look up from the bowl full of stubborn, half-mashed potatoes. “That's awful sweet,” she relented, “but if you don't start paying closer attention to what you're doing, I'm scared ya' might end up putting rat poison in our pie.”
“Maybe just in Keefe's piece.” I joked, glad for the conversation. I passed by her again on my way back the the pumpkin mix, this time pecking her gently on the cheek. The kiss was nothing more than a butterfly touch and only lasted for a second or two, but it temporarily satisfied the hunger I'd had for the taste of her skin.
She giggled and I was unsure if that was because she thought my joke was funny or if I'd made her giddier than I usually did. “I'll try not to be so distracting.”
I dumped the sugar and spice mix into the larger bowl with the pumpkin (not from a can) and began stirring it. The mixture, made thick by the mashed pumpkin, was a little irritating at first to stir, as the spoon kept sticking to something. Thankfully, though, it didn't take me or the eggs very long to help soften it up. “Good luck with that.” I told her.
I was glad for the fact that my kitchen was not a particularly big one, because something told me that if it had, she purposely would've gone to the farther end away from me at that point and we'd be too far away. It was a little odd, really, the stronger attachment I was feeling toward her on this day in particular.
Maybe I was just more at ease now than any other time and didn't feel like I needed to worry. We were happy, enjoying one another's company and having a semi-important task at hand. I got to stay in my favorite room of the house, doing my favorite thing to do, and got to do both all at once with my favorite person in the world.
Maybe it was because this was the day that we were supposed to think about the things we appreciate the most; the things we take for granted most often. I couldn't help but remember all the times I'd been so grateful to have her in my life. My mind kept wandering over to how absolutely heartbroken I would be if she left.
I need her, I thought to myself as I slowly, carefully started to pour powdered milk into the orange mush, still stirring with a measured, ambling rhythm I'd chosen the way I often did when I cooked, I could lose everything and survive as long as I have her with me. I wouldn't like living as some hobo on the street, but I would still be alive. But if I lose her...
I didn't even want to think about it.
But at the same time, in some weird, morbid way, I did. It was probably good for me. It made me realize just how much I truly valued her and her love and made me that much more eager to tell her how I felt every chance I got.
It occurred to me that this was a chance to tell her. A perfect one, actually. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before.
I glanced once more at her, gently placing the can back down so it didn't make too much of a sound. Somehow she still noticed and her eyes lifted to meet mine, but I quickly looked away, smiling coyly and pretending as if I hadn't just been caught.
I heard her chuckle softly. “Rat poison, remember?”
“Sorry. It's hard not to stare,” I muttered in reply, deciding to go back on my original plan now that the timing didn't seem right, “you're just so beautiful, ya' know?”
I couldn't see it, but I was pretty sure that I could hear the blush in her voice. “Thanks,” she said softly, “you're sweet.”
Guessing from the shy tone of her voice, I couldn't help but think that maybe she didn't believe me. Paige was a confident girl, but I'd always noticed all through high school and into her adult years that she had had a little bit of a problem with the way she looked. A thoughtful frown dragged at the corners of my lips, but I didn't say anything more, focusing all my attention on mixing up the pie filling.
It was much softer and easier to guide the wooden spoon I was using through the mush now that I'd been stirring for quite some time, and I was pretty sure that it was ready to put into the crust. It was tempting to taste it just to make sure, but I don't think anyone would appreciate the fact that I'd put my hands in it, so I decided to play it by ear.
I laid the bowl back down on the counter and pulled the homemade pie crust over where I could reach it. Well, it definitely smells good, I thought to myself as I started to scoop the sweet-smelling rust-colored goop into the cold shell, I think Keefe'll be pretty happy with this. It's his favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal. I wonder what he'd say if he knew it was my recipe he's been raving about all these years...
Suddenly there was a close, tender warmth of another soul seeping through the shirt on my back. Her arms wrapped themselves loosely around my middle and her hands, only moments before quick and firm while handling the potatoes, were soft and deliciously still, resting innocently on my stomach. She leaned up against me and the added weight pushed me forward into the counter a little, but I didn't mind; she wasn't heavy.
“Hi.” She murmured with a little laugh, resting her head against my shoulder blade. She sighed, her warm, relaxed breath tickling the back of my neck and sending a tremor of feverish tingles down my backbone.
“Hey, baby.” I crooned smoothly, delighted that she'd come close but centering my eyes on the pie. It was exceedingly difficult to keep myself immersed in my cooking; I'd been craving her touch for quite some time and now...
“Remind me: how much longer 'till people start coming?”
I smirked, instantly catching on. “Does it really matter?”
She laughed, the sound deliciously close and clear as a bell. “Yeah, actually, it does,” she said, her hands sliding underneath my shirt to brush up against my abs, her skin warm and tender brushing against my own, “I really don't think your mom would approve if she came in expecting a nice family dinner and caught us snogging in the kitchen.”
I finished scooping the mix into the pie crust and stiffened, struggling to ignore the shivers her touch sent racking through my body. Her hands were close. Too close. “Then you're really gonna have to stop doing that.”
Her hands quickly withdrew, but the rest of her body went with her. “Sorry.”
To my dismay I could very easily hear her footsteps going back to where she had been earlier. For a moment there it had seemed as if she could feel this strong attraction, this urge to touch and cuddle, too, but she was done already? She was right about my mom (and her dad probably wouldn't be too pleased either), but I didn't care. I whimpered uselessly under my breath and tapped my fingers restlessly on the counter, aching for her more than ever.
“What all do you want me to put in the potatoes, babe?”
That's when I had an idea. “I'll show you. Just gimme a second.”
I went back to the refrigerator and selected a few things. Shredded cheese, garlic, sour cream...
I brought them over to her and laid them next to the bowl of mashed potatoes, then assumed a similar position behind her. I was glad for the fact that I was taller, because it would've been hard to do what I was going to if I wasn't. “Give me your hands.” I whispered in her ear, extending my hands for her to take.
She did as she was told, her firm, lightly callused hands resting gently in mine. For a moment, I simply rested my chin on her shoulder and admired the way her fingers slipped so perfectly into the spaces between mine. Her hands were small in comparison to mine but were big enough that I wasn't afraid of crushing them, and her skin, naturally pale but darkened by the rays of the sun, was slightly lighter than my own, but the tones just looked so perfect together...
I guided her hands toward the cheese, the two of us silent as I opened the plastic bag and scooped out a messy handful that would need to be cleaned up later. “Sprinkle it in really well,” I instructed, even though it wasn't really her that was doing the word anyway, “don't put too much in one place...”
Neither of us were paying very much attention to how much cheese we put on the potatoes, but Paige was trying a lot harder than I was. Her slightly clumsy, inexperienced fingers, guided by ones far more skilled, spread the creamy shreds over the top of the little mountain of white fluff.
With a soft purr of contentment I gently pressed my lips against her cheek. “Perfect.” I told her, both of us knowing that I wasn't talking about the cheese.
“Love you, Mac.”
I sighed happily and nuzzled the crook of her neck. That was truly something to thank God for.
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A/N: I kind of fell asleep in the middle of writing this one, and I know that it's a little late for Thanksgiving, but for some reason my file wouldn't open for the past couple of days. Yeah. It was some scary stuff...I thought I'd lost like, 170 pages worth of work.
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Thirty-One: Thanksgiving Special
Puppet: Cormac O'Kane
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Sometimes there were many times when I wondered what on earth there was to be thankful for. In this day and age, there were so many things that were going wrong.
Why we supposed to be grateful for the fact that brave American soldiers were dying in another country? Why were we supposed to thank anyone for the numbers of people dying due to incurable diseases listed back to us on all the news channels? Why should we be thankful for the bodies being dragged out of New York alleyways every morning?
I'd always wondered; did those hobos on the street, jobless and penniless, have something to be thankful for?
Strange as it may have been, homeless folks had always been a little bit of a fascination of mine, I suppose. Having been a city dweller all my life, I'd been accustomed to seeing one or two of them sitting out on the corner almost everyday at a very young age. Of course, my mom had never, ever gotten anywhere near any of them and it was only when I was old enough to go out on my own did I actually come close to one.
But I have very vague, clouded memories of meandering down the sidewalk, my then-tiny hand in my dad's (my real dad), and stopping to talk to a grubby-looking man. I don't remember faces or words, but I recall watching money pass hands and innocently wondering why the stranger looked so happy after receiving just a few coins that I knew weren't worth much.
Now that I was older and understood the desperate situation some people were in, I always made sure to bring a couple of extra dollar bills and a sympathetic ear whenever I went out on the street. It wasn't like I went looking for them, but they really weren't all that hard to find.
Some of them camped out by themselves on street corners with poorly-written signs. Some of them had an old guitar or another instrument that they played for anyone passing by. I'd even seen a band once, made up of five guys, each with a different type of drum. When I stopped to talk to them, they said they'd been out there all day and had only made a few dollars.
Sometimes, the street folk obviously didn't want to talk with me and I didn't expect them to. They, like myself, had their pride, and I could only imagine how humiliated I would be if I had to scrounge for money like that.
Sometimes, though, they wanted to chat. They had their own stories and backgrounds, just like everyone else did. Some of them had been normal, working class people once, but had lost their job and everything else ended up following. Some of them had given it all up on purpose; said it was an experiment. Some of them were, sadly, just drunkards or junkies who couldn't hold on to a job long enough to support themselves.
It was those people that made me realize that I had everything to be grateful for. I had a family, however broken it might've been. I had a warm place to sleep every night. I had plenty of food to put on the table.
I had her, and that was all I could ever ask for.
But I tried not to let her intoxicating presence distract me from the task at hand. I had a dessert to make, after all. I reached up above my head and took a few things out of the simply-carved cupboard, trying not to let the strong smells of spice make me sneeze. I'm gonna need some sugar, cinnamon, salt, ginger, cloves...and some evaporated milk for later.
The O'Kanes and the Waters' were dining together tonight and she'd come over earlier this afternoon to help me cook Thanksgiving dinner. It was almost 4:00pm now, and so far we'd made the stuffing and some gravy. Of course, we also had the turkey in the oven (which smelled delicious) and I was making the pumpkin pie.
I stole a glance over my shoulder at her while absently putting all the ingredients out on the counter, smiling softly to myself. I didn't really need to watch where I was putting my hands; I had always kept my kitchen organized to the point where I could probably make something with a bandanna tied over my eyes.
I measured out the spices and mixed them all together in a small bowl that I'd already taken out, humming a slow, calming tune that's name I didn't know. It helped keep my mind off of sneezing, which I was still afraid that I was going to do.
It seemed weird for a young man to enjoy cooking, but I'd always felt at home in the kitchen, even when I was really little. There was just something amazing about the warm smells of cooking food, the knowledge that I had a special soul in the room with me, and the anticipation of savoring some good food I'd created with my own two hands.
Now I'll need the eggs, the pumpkin, and the crust...
I ventured away from the counter and to the refrigerator, once more looking at her for a split second. She was busy with the actual mashing part of making mashed potatoes like I'd asked her to do, her movements brisk and meaningful.
I bit the inside of my cheek and looked away, focusing on getting the things. We'd been alone the whole time, but up until now the two of us had been so busy getting everything ready that we didn't have much time to think about one another. But now that we were almost done and things were quieter...
It was so tempting to just drop everything I was doing, take her up in my arms and kiss her for all I was worth, but I held myself back.
Focus.
With practiced hands I cracked two eggs into the mixture of sugar and spices, barely getting any of the liquid on my fingers. Still, it was a good excuse to go over to the sink (which was closer to her than me), so after tossing the empty shells into the nearby trash can I ambled over.
When I passed her, I did my best to seem casual and not like I wanted her so bad that it actually hurt to come close to her, but I didn't do a very good job. Cold water tumbled over my hands and I started looking at her again.
“What do you keep staring at, Mac?”
She hadn't looked up at me at all when she spoke, which meant that she had probably noticed before then.
I turned off the sink and used a nearby wash towel to dry my hands, smiling sweetly at her even though I was fairly certain that she couldn't tell. “The person I'm most thankful for.”
She laughed softly, though she still didn't look up from the bowl full of stubborn, half-mashed potatoes. “That's awful sweet,” she relented, “but if you don't start paying closer attention to what you're doing, I'm scared ya' might end up putting rat poison in our pie.”
“Maybe just in Keefe's piece.” I joked, glad for the conversation. I passed by her again on my way back the the pumpkin mix, this time pecking her gently on the cheek. The kiss was nothing more than a butterfly touch and only lasted for a second or two, but it temporarily satisfied the hunger I'd had for the taste of her skin.
She giggled and I was unsure if that was because she thought my joke was funny or if I'd made her giddier than I usually did. “I'll try not to be so distracting.”
I dumped the sugar and spice mix into the larger bowl with the pumpkin (not from a can) and began stirring it. The mixture, made thick by the mashed pumpkin, was a little irritating at first to stir, as the spoon kept sticking to something. Thankfully, though, it didn't take me or the eggs very long to help soften it up. “Good luck with that.” I told her.
I was glad for the fact that my kitchen was not a particularly big one, because something told me that if it had, she purposely would've gone to the farther end away from me at that point and we'd be too far away. It was a little odd, really, the stronger attachment I was feeling toward her on this day in particular.
Maybe I was just more at ease now than any other time and didn't feel like I needed to worry. We were happy, enjoying one another's company and having a semi-important task at hand. I got to stay in my favorite room of the house, doing my favorite thing to do, and got to do both all at once with my favorite person in the world.
Maybe it was because this was the day that we were supposed to think about the things we appreciate the most; the things we take for granted most often. I couldn't help but remember all the times I'd been so grateful to have her in my life. My mind kept wandering over to how absolutely heartbroken I would be if she left.
I need her, I thought to myself as I slowly, carefully started to pour powdered milk into the orange mush, still stirring with a measured, ambling rhythm I'd chosen the way I often did when I cooked, I could lose everything and survive as long as I have her with me. I wouldn't like living as some hobo on the street, but I would still be alive. But if I lose her...
I didn't even want to think about it.
But at the same time, in some weird, morbid way, I did. It was probably good for me. It made me realize just how much I truly valued her and her love and made me that much more eager to tell her how I felt every chance I got.
It occurred to me that this was a chance to tell her. A perfect one, actually. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before.
I glanced once more at her, gently placing the can back down so it didn't make too much of a sound. Somehow she still noticed and her eyes lifted to meet mine, but I quickly looked away, smiling coyly and pretending as if I hadn't just been caught.
I heard her chuckle softly. “Rat poison, remember?”
“Sorry. It's hard not to stare,” I muttered in reply, deciding to go back on my original plan now that the timing didn't seem right, “you're just so beautiful, ya' know?”
I couldn't see it, but I was pretty sure that I could hear the blush in her voice. “Thanks,” she said softly, “you're sweet.”
Guessing from the shy tone of her voice, I couldn't help but think that maybe she didn't believe me. Paige was a confident girl, but I'd always noticed all through high school and into her adult years that she had had a little bit of a problem with the way she looked. A thoughtful frown dragged at the corners of my lips, but I didn't say anything more, focusing all my attention on mixing up the pie filling.
It was much softer and easier to guide the wooden spoon I was using through the mush now that I'd been stirring for quite some time, and I was pretty sure that it was ready to put into the crust. It was tempting to taste it just to make sure, but I don't think anyone would appreciate the fact that I'd put my hands in it, so I decided to play it by ear.
I laid the bowl back down on the counter and pulled the homemade pie crust over where I could reach it. Well, it definitely smells good, I thought to myself as I started to scoop the sweet-smelling rust-colored goop into the cold shell, I think Keefe'll be pretty happy with this. It's his favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal. I wonder what he'd say if he knew it was my recipe he's been raving about all these years...
Suddenly there was a close, tender warmth of another soul seeping through the shirt on my back. Her arms wrapped themselves loosely around my middle and her hands, only moments before quick and firm while handling the potatoes, were soft and deliciously still, resting innocently on my stomach. She leaned up against me and the added weight pushed me forward into the counter a little, but I didn't mind; she wasn't heavy.
“Hi.” She murmured with a little laugh, resting her head against my shoulder blade. She sighed, her warm, relaxed breath tickling the back of my neck and sending a tremor of feverish tingles down my backbone.
“Hey, baby.” I crooned smoothly, delighted that she'd come close but centering my eyes on the pie. It was exceedingly difficult to keep myself immersed in my cooking; I'd been craving her touch for quite some time and now...
“Remind me: how much longer 'till people start coming?”
I smirked, instantly catching on. “Does it really matter?”
She laughed, the sound deliciously close and clear as a bell. “Yeah, actually, it does,” she said, her hands sliding underneath my shirt to brush up against my abs, her skin warm and tender brushing against my own, “I really don't think your mom would approve if she came in expecting a nice family dinner and caught us snogging in the kitchen.”
I finished scooping the mix into the pie crust and stiffened, struggling to ignore the shivers her touch sent racking through my body. Her hands were close. Too close. “Then you're really gonna have to stop doing that.”
Her hands quickly withdrew, but the rest of her body went with her. “Sorry.”
To my dismay I could very easily hear her footsteps going back to where she had been earlier. For a moment there it had seemed as if she could feel this strong attraction, this urge to touch and cuddle, too, but she was done already? She was right about my mom (and her dad probably wouldn't be too pleased either), but I didn't care. I whimpered uselessly under my breath and tapped my fingers restlessly on the counter, aching for her more than ever.
“What all do you want me to put in the potatoes, babe?”
That's when I had an idea. “I'll show you. Just gimme a second.”
I went back to the refrigerator and selected a few things. Shredded cheese, garlic, sour cream...
I brought them over to her and laid them next to the bowl of mashed potatoes, then assumed a similar position behind her. I was glad for the fact that I was taller, because it would've been hard to do what I was going to if I wasn't. “Give me your hands.” I whispered in her ear, extending my hands for her to take.
She did as she was told, her firm, lightly callused hands resting gently in mine. For a moment, I simply rested my chin on her shoulder and admired the way her fingers slipped so perfectly into the spaces between mine. Her hands were small in comparison to mine but were big enough that I wasn't afraid of crushing them, and her skin, naturally pale but darkened by the rays of the sun, was slightly lighter than my own, but the tones just looked so perfect together...
I guided her hands toward the cheese, the two of us silent as I opened the plastic bag and scooped out a messy handful that would need to be cleaned up later. “Sprinkle it in really well,” I instructed, even though it wasn't really her that was doing the word anyway, “don't put too much in one place...”
Neither of us were paying very much attention to how much cheese we put on the potatoes, but Paige was trying a lot harder than I was. Her slightly clumsy, inexperienced fingers, guided by ones far more skilled, spread the creamy shreds over the top of the little mountain of white fluff.
With a soft purr of contentment I gently pressed my lips against her cheek. “Perfect.” I told her, both of us knowing that I wasn't talking about the cheese.
“Love you, Mac.”
I sighed happily and nuzzled the crook of her neck. That was truly something to thank God for.
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A/N: I kind of fell asleep in the middle of writing this one, and I know that it's a little late for Thanksgiving, but for some reason my file wouldn't open for the past couple of days. Yeah. It was some scary stuff...I thought I'd lost like, 170 pages worth of work.
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