Barbara
*Everything was going fine*.

That was a thought Lewis kept strapped across his chest when he first arrived at Briar Ridge: this single thought and as many clothes as he could fit in was all he had. He had no expectations about the town and it still disappointed him; his expectations about the moonshining, however, were simultaneously ruined and reinforced. Where in the first weeks Lewis saw chaos, now he saw a strict and smart humane system, even if it was upheld by a single school teacher, with a voice so smooth even being scolded by her felt somehow reaffirming. Where at first, he saw an impenetrable wall of rough-built prudes, he now started to slowly but surely see *People*, most of whom were washed ashore to this town almost the same way he did; very few were born in Briar Ridge and stayed there. Where at first, he was scared of their forcefulness and their otherness, now he was thinking that maybe, they were just making fun of him.

Lewis would think he was being hazed: treated roughly, played as a crude, cruel joke to see if he passes. But he never saw the end of testing; never saw the reward come, the mean treatment change to the kind one; neither at his father's job nor at Briar Ridge. Wasn't the testing just never-ending? Wasn't everything in life just a smaller test? Was hazing just a made-up concert used by lazy people for comfort? When it would get better for him, it would be a thing he would make with his own hands, not "Deserve" By tolerating it. He was going to build his throne or dig his grave by his own hands, damn it, but he didn't plan to die trying.

For his first weeks in Briar Ridge, Lewis Ashworth survived on crackers, cheese, and a dream. Afterwards, when his stomach started showing signs of giving up, he was begrudgingly forced to cook for himself. To be completely honest, it tasted shitty and bland. His salvation came in the form of a local diner.

Lewis didn't remember who he had first heard about the diner from, but when he did, as soon as his workday ended, he went to visit it straight away. If the cozy look of a surprisingly well-furnished room (or it was the hunger talking) made him relax, the smells coming from the kitchen made him smile so wide his cheeks started hurting. However, on that faithful evening, the diner had another discovery in store for him.

Before this, Lewis believed he was paid pennies. But after Lewis had his well-deserved dinner and took a really good look at his check, he decided that the money he made could help him live quite comfortably, if only inside the territory of Briar Ridge. For now, that was calming. It was calming every time he kept coming. It was calming still.

And he kept coming there a lot. As soon as this drop of comfort landed on his tongue, he was hit with a realization of how badly he needed it to be there. How badly he needed *Something* To keep him going. Maybe he wasn't a good businessman, because bare ambition didn't cut it anymore. He was cold. He was tired.

He wasn't sure which part of Briar Ridge was the most exhausting: the looming danger evident in every step, every whisper, the way shadows stretched and the way forest smelled; the danger the origins of which he couldn't adequately grasp. Or was it the way almost everywhere he needed to be led through handiwork? However intelligent or charismatic he was, at some point, he needed to be able to lift a cart, or drag a bag, or carry the crates, even the thought of which made his back throb. He had not yet discovered a man who would be an exception to this rule.

Or maybe, it was the fact that these two factors combined, the never-ending tremor in his hands from both of them, made him look like a mess. The upkeep required so much more effort than it did in Richmond, but Lewis stubbornly refused to give up. He was always like this; the more Briar Ridge pressed him, the harder Lewis resisted. "Become like us," It whispered, "Cover yourself in dirt, and blood, and calluses, go run around in the woods at night". Lewis considered that, probably, he might be going insane.

Especially on days like these, when everything he did looked legal, the adrenaline wasn't there to uphold his spirits, and Lewis suffered the most. When his brain couldn't sparkle, or get distracted, so there was just sweat, and buzzing annoyance, and matted hair.

But on days like these, he had a place to be his light in the tunnel when everything else seemed lost. He had his own table there. It was quite nice: a lukewarm feeling of false belonging, of closing his eyes and believing that there was *His* Corner in this town where everything was so hostile to him, and he was secretly just as hostile to everything else. The more tired he got, the clearer he realized: it wasn't hazing, or trying to scare him off. They just lived like this. And the longer he stayed, the more he would probably start to live like this, too.

Who made up the idea that scars should look good on a man? Certainly not a man like Lewis. His beauty was being smooth, slick, impenetrable; wearing his own skin as an accessory. He did his best before he came to the diner: he washed himself, he brushed his hair properly, he changed clothes. Out of it all, his hair certainly looked the best: a rusty wave nestled on his shoulders. And yet, this couldn't drive away a tired sadness hung from his neck.

He knew, in a minute it would get better: a spoonful or two of the homemade stew or the well-marinated leg of the wild game would get him back into action (or, in a worse scenario, through this day). His overworked hands ached softly. *Everything was going fine*, he reminded himself. And soon, it was going to get even better.

||
Larry
If there was one thing in this life that Sugar Lou Callahan valued over all else, it'd be balance: dirt-coated knees under clean white stockings; mascara from a pan, blush from a run through the cold; time below ground, time in the sun. Today, she feared, was not properly balanced. 

She had been in the diner since seven o'clock in the morning, held over from her normal early shift all through dinner 'til now. The other girls'd both been pulled from their jobs by family matters, or whatnot. It didn't matter to Sugar *Why* They weren't there, just that they'd abandoned her to a full day with a roof overhead and shoes on her feet. She was starting to itch all over. She'd pouted a bit when Cook told her to stay (she was sure Cook had a good, legal name, but long as she could remember, Memma'd always called him Cook, and Sugar would too), but quickly recovered when he'd sweetened the deal with a few cents extra pay. 

What was another four hours? Work at the diner was never strenuous. If every person in Briar Ridge decided to come for lunch on the same day, it would still be hard to consider that a busy afternoon by the standards of establishments in other, bigger towns. Sugar supposed, then, that it was the maintenance of poise that began to ache her after 8 hours. Here was that balance thing she was so fond of! She could summon poise, sure, but at the cost of equal time *Un*Poised. For every toothy smile to a patron, the universe demanded from her one bare footfall upon the Earth's surface. When a debt was accrued, Sugar could feel it like an extra helping of gravity, poured over her shoulders, all slow and heavy and dark like molasses. 
_ _

She felt it today. Cook sent her out the back door with a bowl of chicken and dumplings for her dinner break, and she kicked off her pumps into the dust. The back of her pale blue and white gingham dress met the ground as she splayed her body out, flat against the young springtime grass, the steaming bowl balanced on her chest where it burned a circle through her apron. She was only hungry for air and sky and stones and the tickle of little bugs in the fine hairs on her arms. The chicken and dumplings could go cold. She'd bring it home for Memma later on. 

As Sugar lay and breathed and let time pass, the moon rose. Cook called her back, but by then it was too dark to track where she'd flung her shoes. The soles of her stockings blackened with damp soil as she searched, and Cook's voice bellowed out of the kitchen for her to *Come back in* God damnit! So, she scurried past him into the dining room, hoping he wouldn't notice the quiet of her steps.

On her circuit of tables, topping up tea and clearing dishes, Sugar noticed a new face in the clientele– and a striking one at that! Could this be the man Bea had told her about, who'd been in for dinner quite regularly in the past few weeks, making bold and flirtatious conversation? The scandal! Bea certainly was the type to be excited by such a presence, but Sugar was more critical of a person's character past whatever quality they asserted the loudest (which, she had found from her study of diner patrons, was usually the one quality these same folks so desperately wanted to present naturally, but didn't quite, so instead they needed to raise their voices about it). She was more interested in whether or not a person could blow all the seeds from a dandelion in one go, or how loud they could make a blade of grass whistle between their thumbs. How did they guide a caterpillar off the path to safety? Did they keep a cat's whisker when they found it shed on the seat cushion? 
_ _

Bea hadn't had any of those details about this auburn-haired stranger, so Sugar supposed she'd just need to find out for herself. She padded up to his table, oddly confident without her shoes.

"Good evenin', sir. My name's Sugar, I'll be takin' care of ya. We got chicken 'n dumplin's on special tonight– Cook's real happy with it. Old family recipe, 'n all." She paused for a breath and to perch her hands on her hips, "What kin I get'cha?"
_ _
Barbara
Lewis raised his eyes at the unfamiliar voice, generously smothered with a southern accent like bread with butter, smile on top like the glistening crystals of sugar, - and his heart skipped a beat. It was a woman and she was gorgeous: face like a frame from a black and white movie, a silhouette delicate and thin like that of a bluebell. Her light blonde hair frizzed around her face in waves, shining even under the dull lights of the diner. It must look majestic when the sun has an opportunity to light it up. Lewis's body relaxed; his hands stretched out on the table, instead of a stiff elbow-bent position he held them before without realizing it. And that smile! Oh, and those dimples! Rare beauty, - how come he hasn't seen her before? Was she new, did she just move in? Or maybe, she changed jobs from being the prettiest mannequin at the corner store, wrapped in satin, making people shake out the last of their money just from one bait of her lashes; to here, serving him food. Oh boy, he was so lucky.

There were women who realized how beautiful they were and the women who didn't. Lewis couldn't decide what type little Miss Sugar belonged to. The ones who didn't realize, loved being reassured of their looks; the ones that did, preferred compliments on anything but. But what was Sugar like? What *Would* She like?

There was innocence in her eyes mixed with the daring confidence in her pose, intrinsic to a person who knew what they were doing, into explosive substance. *Sugar*. She didn't act like a new hire at all. She looked at him like she already knew what he wanted, and well – was she wrong? *"I'll be takin' care of ya"*, she said. *Oh I'm sure you will.*

"Chicken and dumplings sound delightful." Lewis raised his eyes at Sugar, inviting softness painted on his pupils, "I'd ask for one of those heavenly smiles to go with it, but you're probably fed up with guys like me demanding it from you. Cannot blame them: seeing a glimpse of such beauty, cannot wait to see it again." He gazed down, as if slightly embarrassed by his own directness, "The best thing to see after a long day, I'd say. Right after them dumplings."

He smiled at Sugar, sharing a simple joke and carefully feeling her out. Did she like being joked with? She looked at him like they were equals, and even the tempting "I'll take care of ya" Sounded friendly rather than obliging. So, he extended his hand, palm open, for Sugar to shake. Like equals. Would she like that?

"I'm Lewis," He said, sincere, "It's a pleasure to meet you".

At that second, Lewis enjoyed the idea of his hands being roughed up, - that little bit he could enjoy something so annoying. If Sugar would shake his hand, she would feel the callosity, and maybe, feel sympathy for him. Or maybe, she'd empathize: both of them, hard workers at the end of their respective long days. Both of those were fine with Lewis; both would feel like closeness.

||
Larry
Sugar's eyes widened as Lewis animated before her. Immediately, he struck her as a thing the world might set loose to sew trickery. The only thing she'd seen that compared to his slick way was how a piece of cloth moved underwater: taken by currents that could only be perceived when they acted on something else. She didn't know what forces were acting on Lewis, but she wondered more than once if he was an unfortunate fox, spellcast and cursed to walk on two human legs. She blinked twice into the silence he left upon extending his hand, and she took it cautiously. She had read enough folktales to be wary of making deals with such tricksters as this, and suddenly she worried that she had so freely given her name to him, as well as a handshake. 

"Oh," Sugar started, "You ain't gotta say all that, Mr. Lewis. You only gotta tell me what you want ta eat." Her raised brows flattened as she glanced down to her notepad and carefully scratched the words `chicken and dumplings` with her stub of a pencil. 

"I don't rightly know how you could wet your whistle with my smile, so is there somethin' I can gitcha ta drink instead?" She kept her mouth pointedly straight, making an unusual expression as she superstitiously tried to avoid showing Lewis her teeth. Her pencil was poised over her notepad, but her eyes were on him, watching for tufted ears hidden in his hair, or constricting slitted pupils. 
_ _
Barbara
Her hand wrapped around his cautiously, carefully, slowly. It was small and warm, its warmth deep-rooted, like that of loose soil on a summer day that had properly soaked up the sun. Her face, however, did not look half as cozy. Sugar's mouth straightened up into a tight-lipped line, not a speckle of her pearly white teeth visible anymore. Damn. "Am I that scary?" Almost asked Lewis, but the sentence got hooked to the very tip of his tongue. He knew that it wasn't about his looks. He, once again, had taken three steps, when there only needed to be one. Tired and somewhat lonely, he was starved for attention and closeness, so he went from "A" To "D" And threw all he had at a pretty face. Lewis Ashworth, losing his touch. Eligible bachelor and Richmond, and now, rejected by a waitress in a hole in between the forest.

"Didn't have to." He agreed tamely, "I just wanted to. In my book, beautiful women need to be told they're beautiful, otherwise, the world ain't spinning right." 

Lewis peeked at Sugar scribbling down his order. There was something so magnetizing in her movements, so interesting: like everyone learned how to stand, how to hold the pen, how to play with their hair in the same school, and Sugar went to another.

*"I don't rightly know how you could wet your whistle with my smile"*, she said. Well, there were a couple of ways Lewis thought of, - on the spot, no less, - that could do just that; but the thought was fleeting and rather sad. At least, Sugar knew how to stand up for herself: he respected that in a woman. He knew the girls could be called nasty things for saying "No", in that same diner no less; but frankly, he would know jack shit about that. His closest experience to womanhood was being catcalled from the back.

"Maybe you can tell me that," Lewis said simply: no softness, no coldness, just lightly friendly, taking a step back. Maybe he could still salvage his awkward introduction, "What do you like to have with your dumplings?"
Larry
Lewis might be classified as refreshing if he weren't so confounding. Sugar wasn't sure what to do with his compliments; she neither accepted nor denied them, just quirked her head like a dog hearing a word it recognized. When his cool, careful tone was replaced with one more familiar, she relaxed, but not all the way. His newest question sat with her oddly. 

"Well, just about anythin', I suppose." She supplied, wondering what answer he wanted to hear, "I kin bring ya a sweet tea." She tested it out, her eyes flickering between his. Giving a short little intake of breath, she puffed it out and slowly shook her head. 

"Boy, you know Mr. Lewis, I heard 'bout'cha from the girls that usually work the dinner shift here. I thought they was makin' stories fer laughs, but it's true. You're a funny bird, you know that?" Sugar confessed, feeling better as soon as she'd shared her thoughts. Her eyes were wide and earnest. 

"Not that I mind, it's jus' that, I get used ta the same typa folk comin' in here. They talk a certain way. Get they food 'n get on with their day, you know?" She continued, pursuing her stream of consciousness, "Where you from, anyway?" 
_ _
Barbara
Lewis attentively watched Sugar's shoulders relax. He felt his lips quirk up again. So, no seduction. A normal, boring person's voice was in. *Whatever she wanted.*

Sugar's voice sounded careful when she answered like she was walking on ice. Lewis got the impression that she was feeling him up the same way he was doing it with her. Interesting. He wondered what, on her side, she wanted to know about him.

Even her insecurity in her words was charming: Lewis wanted to show Sugar that there wasn't any right or wrong answer. Whatever she'd say, he'd take it. He wanted to ask her about alcohol, ask if she drunk to see how she would react; but he only got Sugar out of her spooked state, and wouldn't be risking his progress.

Sugar's hesitant olive branch of gossip excited Lewis so much he had an urge to catch on fire. He wanted to go all in, throw his cards on the table, tell her that everything she heard was true without listening first, but that would be too intense. A normal, boring person would never do that.

A side of him wanted to smirk and say *"Yes, of course they were talking"*, but he wasn't delusional yet. Even in the quietest of places, he was well aware, his behavior wouldn't be gossip-worthy. He was working on it, of course, but right now, in this diner, he wouldn't talk about the tired pile of a man clogged up in his corner. The girls were very nice to him, of course, but it never went further than a couple of playful compliments. No matter what was said, his hands were always firmly laid on the table, so it was hard to imagine what "The stories" Could revolve around. Especially the stories so wild they deserved laughter. Maybe, he thought, when off the clock, Sugar was a more jocular person.

"I try," He said simply. Sugar seemed more relaxed now, and it was the best thing Lewis could've hoped for, "So, you say, the stories? Can't help but wonder what they are about. Care to share, if it won't get you in trouble?" The lightest teasing. What trouble can a person get in at Briar Ridge? With its whole population of twenty people constantly decreasing, Lewis doubted anyone there ever got fired.

"Would you prefer it if I stayed silent?" He asked without a shadow of offense or hostility in his voice. It seemed that Sugar wasn't about his games, so maybe, asking her directly would warm her up, "Richmond." Lewis added quickly, the word ricocheting off his teeth. It wasn't pleasant, and he tried to chew it off by asking: "And you?". A small mischievous gleam lit up in his eye, harmless, when he added: "Or I can try to guess if you'd like".

It was a weird feeling, talking about Richmond here. It seemed like people in Briar Ridge all carried some mysterious sickness that made them think their town was the only town in the world. And, Lewis hated to say it, it started to rub off on him too. Richmond already began to feel like a distant memory to him, like a picture from his parent's old postcard rather than a place where he studied, where he loved, where he lived. It was like that other Lewis was a completely different person.

"Sweet tea would be very nice," He said, that different person, his smile with teeth well-hidden, chaste, "Please, grab yourself a cup too, if you'd like. I'll pay for it. Consider it a tip for the news."

||
Larry
Sugar actually took a step backward— a half step, really. This man! She could feel him reading her, watching her skin prickle and her eyes move. He moved himself to match her. She thought about how a cat looks on over a rabbit nest until the mother is gone, and then it bunches and relaxes its muscles until it's calculated the right moment to bound in and snatch up a baby in its teeth. She thought about how a cat then toys with the little life it has won, tossing it in the air, and bounding over to take it up again before the thing has time to flee. 

Not that she thought Lewis wanted to *Eat* Her, no— he'd already ordered the chicken and dumplings. She did wonder, though, if he wanted to toss her about. By the way he was adapting himself to her, she couldn't help but feel confident that he was some kind of predator-type; she began to resent feeling like prey. This was *Her* Nest! Why should she put up with cats all sneaking around it? 

"It rightly would get me in trouble, Mr. Lewis, 'n you kin talk all ya like, but what I'd prefer is ta bring ya your food 'n drink, like it's my job ta do." She was standing her ground, but her eyes were still round and innocent, her voice an up-spoken coo. 
"No need ta guess, I'm from here." She clucked, pulling up her notepad and writing down `Richmond,` just in case the girls didn't know it, yet. When she was done, she looked back up at Lewis, trying to discern if he'd changed himself to match her again while she'd been distracted. Her eyes narrowed: he had. 

"I got work ta do Mr. Lewis, I cain't be sitting around drinkin' sweet tea. 'Sides, people usually leave their tips in change, which I would very much appreciate." Sugar turned on her heel in a slight huff, hurrying off to the kitchen to put his order in. She was back with a glass of tea in a few minutes, setting her stare on Lewis from across the diner as she brought it. 
_ _

"Now, Mr. Lewis. I'm gonna ask ya if you'll be needing anythin' else, by which I mean food 'n drink. When I ask ya, you say, 'No Sugar, thank you," *Or*, you say, 'Yes, Sugar. I'd like–' 'n then you say the thing you need. That's how things go around here, ya understand?" She instructed carefully, pleased with herself to have solved her awfully distracting Lewis problem so easily. Truly, it didn't occur to her that he might want to deviate from her rules. 

"Will ya be needin' anything else 'fore your supper comes out?" Sugar was eyeing him expectantly, her lips parted, as if ready to mouth the words they'd rehearsed a few seconds ago. 
_ _
Barbara
Sugar took a step back, and Lewis's heart stopped. Was she leaving? Again? Already? Was it Richmond? "I hate Richmond," He was about to tell her, "And I really like it here," But something stopped him. She wasn't leaving. She was studying him again, this time with something that looked like suspicion. Maybe she recognized him? Knew his father? But then, she didn't say anything, and Lewis decided to ignore it. If she'll share her suspicions, he'll learn about it one day. If not – then it was just a passing idea, and it didn't deserve his attention, since it didn't deserve hers.

Lewis wasn't a fae, of course. He couldn't read her thoughts, however he tried. But if he could, he would've told her that she was wrong: he *Did* Want to eat her. He wanted it so badly he could've had a plate of food before him and still starve.

Of course, he nodded seriously at Sugar sternly telling him about her potential troubles. Even if it was a trick to get him off her, Lewis allowed it. He tried to pretend that he didn't care how she wrote his words down in her little notebook. So, she did want to know him, hm. He bit his lip, delight bubbling in his body. How naughty of her – being so strict of *Him* For his little games, yet making up so many of her own. The diner was far from the rush, and he knew that the other girls never had a problem staying for a chat. In the end, the client was always right, wasn't he?

But Sugar was scolding him like telling her nice things and making the small talk that she, herself, started, was a special diner crime. "You kin talk all ya like", she said, and anyone else would've heard hostility there, - but Lewis heard hope. He asked her if she wanted him to keep silent – and she didn't. It was adorable of her to keep him this invested and entertained.

Was he embarrassing her? He never would've guessed.

"My tips will be right where you want them, Sugar," He called after her, on a breathy exhale, until his breath got stuck crosswise in his throat. She was barefoot. 

The soles of her stockings were brown, but it didn't seem to faze her in the slightest. *Fuck it,* He thought, his heart a drum parade in his ears, *He didn't need to understand her. Why would he need that? Why would he need such a boring, dull, stale thing?*

And then Sugar came back. And Lewis probably expected her to calm down, was prepared to warm her up again, but by her determined walk it was obvious that she had decided... Something. Lewis fixed his wide-open eyes on Sugar and prepared to listen.

And oh, was her idea wonderful: he liked it a lot. Was she trying to contain him to avoid containing herself? What would the next step be, tying him up and pressing him down to stop him from running his mouth? *Seriously, Sugar, if I got under your skin and now it itches, you could've said just that*.

But he didn't mind. He was getting used to her wording. And so, Lewis Ashworth carefully put on his most sultriest, softest, velveteen tone of voice and said, breathy, heavy, so completely seriously, with the same good boy gaze he had when he was listening to her give him *Commands*:

"Yes, Sugar. Of course. I'll do anything you tell me." - and then he laughed. He laughed, because it was funny, and because it was hard to keep a straight face when Sugar was so unpredictable and raw and open before him – he just didn't know where to look yet, "No, nothing else for me. Thank you, Sugar." 

||
Larry
Ideally, Sugar would have wanted Lewis' tone more *Neutral* Than it'd been presented, but the content of his answer was satisfactory. Hopefully this meant she could look forward to an uneventful remainder of her shift, now that he'd been informed of the rules. She looked hard at his eyes before she nodded curtly once, smiled a little triumphant smile, and turned to care for the rest of her tables. 

"Cook, I don't suppose you'd let me work in my stockin' feet for every shift, would'ja?" She asked dreamily, hanging in the pass between the dining counter and the kitchen, her chin propped up in her hands over her elbows as she waited for Lewis' supper to come up. Cook stopped what he was doing and looked, alarmed, at Sugar. 


"You aint– you ain't *Barefoot* Right now, are ya girl?" He demanded. Sugar stood up straight, fear in her eyes. She hadn't considered such a severe reaction.
 
"No, sir. I's jest–" She tried to backtrack, but Cook was already rounding the kitchen door with a dish of hot chicken and dumplings, his eyes immediately falling to the waitress's feet. 

"Oh, Sugar!" He scolded, "Where're your shoes at, girl?" Despite his protest, he handed her the plate. He had no other girls on the schedule, shoeless or not, he needed Sugar and all that came with her. 

"I dunno, sir, I jes'— I jes' musta lost 'em," 
"You take this to that table, then you go 'n *Un* Lose 'em, hear me?"
"Yes, Cook."
"What was that?"
"*Yes,* Cook."

_ _

Cook turned back into the kitchen, and Sugar turned to the dining room, weaving around the counter, her brows pulled together. *It was so dark outside*, how would she find them shoes in the tall grass back behind the alley? Lost to her concern, troubled by the confrontation with Cook, she idly set Lewis' plate before him without pausing to assess whatever potentially greedy/curious/peevish look that her new acquaintance may have aimed up at her. She showed no signs of addressing him before she was pivoting again, her mind occupied only with the new objective set for her: find the shoes. 

Conveniently for Lewis, his table was not so far from the kitchen pass to leave any loud conversations between the staff unheard. If one's ears were... Particularly hungry, any customer in a similar proximity may have picked up on poor Sugar's predicament.
_ _
Barbara
The lack of Sugar's reaction to his little trick surprised Lewis, and slightly cooled him down, but did not upset him at all. So, Sugar didn't mind him doing whatever he wanted, as long as he kept somewhat in constraints of her rules? Well, that kind of predicament he didn't mind at all. Lewis enjoyed her stern look, too: it made his body feel all tingly, and his ears feel warm. She was especially pretty when she was proud of herself.

When Sugar left, Lewis leaned back on his chair. He wasn't listening in intentionally, per se; but as soon as Sugar's melodic happy voice turned into a quieter and scared one, his ears immediately tuned into their dialogue. Unless Sugar was lying, and something worse happened to her, she lost her shoes and the man Lewis didn't know was screaming at her for losing them. Lewis's brows furrowed involuntarily. Was he going to go make her search for her shoes? In the dark, during her shift? What a dumb and needless display of power! As if a single person here would complain! The fact that someone wouldn't just let Sugar *Be*, as if she wasn't the best and most captivating thing that had ever happened to this diner, made his blood boil.

Sugar came back, and Lewis felt like he accidentally swallowed something cold, and misty, and poisonous. She didn't look at him, her eyes gloomy and shifty, she looked distracted and... Hurt. Lewis felt himself becoming even more concerned. What the fuck was wrong with this guy?

Lewis stood up rapidly, food before him forgotten, when she turned away. "Sugar, wait!" He called quietly, taking a step closer to her... And then taking a step back. He never noticed how short she was. Before, with her radiant energy, she was everywhere all at once, high as the sun – and he would never call the sun *Small*. But now, a shadow of her former self, she felt palpably fragile. It was much easier to be confident when she was towering over him, not the opposite. It was too easy to be non-threatening then.

"I incidentally overheard, and..." He bit his tongue, struggling to look at her; seeing her shoulders tense from worry made him more upset by the second. *Cut the crap, Lewis, she could not care less about your stupid smug defense mechanisms*, "Would you like it if I talked to your chef? Told him to leave you alone? Maybe he'd listen to a customer. ...If it won't get you in even more trouble, you know. Seems all I ask just adds problems to your list, doesn't it?" He thought that was all he could offer her. He just hoped his voice didn't sound too intense.

||
Larry
As Lewis called out, Sugar finally remembered herself, and the role that overrided her need to find her shoes. She was supposed to be a waitress *Wearing shoes,* But simpler than that, she was supposed to be a waitress. The color of embarrassment overtook her cheeks as she walked back to Lewis' table, half startled to encounter him on his feet. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis. I shouldn't'a left so soon- is there anythin' you–" Their words overlapped and Sugar snapped quiet to listen to his confession. He was trying to offer a solution, she quickly realized, but in her mind, there was only one way through this impasse: find the shoes. Talking to Cook would accomplish little more than make him madder. She immediately disregarded that suggestion, but did not disregard Lewis' willingness. If he'd offered some solution, she could take that to mean he was on her team. However reluctant she was to make any deals with the creature before her, she admittedly softened as he offered himself with no offering from her, first. 

"Would'ja help me find my shoes, Mr. Lewis?" She asked, ignoring all of what he'd said (oh– but she hadn't ignored it at all! She'd processed his words inside the comfort of her own skull, and had paid forth exactly as many words as the situation demanded. With omitted acknowledgement, she really said so much about how useless his suggestion had been, but also about how grateful she was that he'd offered to help, in any case. Say what you want about Sugar's intellect, but she really is an efficient little lady when it counts). 
"They's out somewheres in the back alley. I ain't suppose you got some matches on ya?" Sugar debriefed, taking Lewis' hand for the second time, and dragging him out through the kitchen to the alley. The moon, no more than a sliver in the sky, offered little guidance. 
_ _

Centered below the importance of her shoe-objective, was the recognition of the potential consequences for accepting Lewis' help. She could navigate anything in a future in which she was wearing her shoes, and where Cook was no longer upset. She could tend her tables, deliver checks, clean the counter, fill the salt shakers– somewhere at the end of that checklist sat the line item: `Settle debt with Lewis.`

"I kicked 'em out there," Sugar pointed straight ahead, where the grass grew tall, except where a path had been folded down to get to the compost pile, "I'll go this way, you go that way. Light a match if'n ya got one, it's mighty dark." She instructed, setting off to the right, and parting the grass with careful hands. 
_ _
Barbara
Lewis expected his suggestion to be disregarded, for him to be pushed off with polite and distracted "I'm fine" And "I'll manage". It was obviously a personal matter; and in matters like those, the help of strangers was nice, but not welcome. Sugar, however, had other ideas.

*"Would'ja help me find my shoes?"*

For a second, Lewis stood still. His tongue laid in his mouth, viscous and clumsy. She was asking him for help. *Him*. For help.

And before he could've considered how he should react, - Should he be eager about? Uncaring? Should he ask for something in return? – Sugar took his hand. And just like that, he was holding her for the second time in the evening.

In his heart, Lewis decided he was blessed. The angel came from the skies to him, to cure his loneliness, hold his hand, make him feel light-headed and needed. But in his mind, he was struggling to comprehend her. Did she like him? Was she sweetening the deal? Trying to understand Sugar was like trying to catch water rings with his stupid human fingers.

As they went into the cold, populated by midges *Outside*, Lewis made his decision. Her brain worked at a speed incomprehensible to him; where he was only walking up or down one step at a time, Sugar could allow herself to jump over five of them at once, just for fun; or roll down the stairs and be as good as new after. Time and time again, Sugar showed him that understanding her was something completely unnecessary in both of their lives. She was right: the best thing he could do was to do what he's told, keep his eyes open, and try to not get in her way. 

And speaking of keeping his eyes open...

"Sugar, what do they look like?" He asked, but she didn't hear him. She already went to search at her designated part of the back alley, as interested as ever in the dark grass under her fingers. He hoped it wouldn't be much of a problem. It would be easier to orient himself by color, of course; but, if he were to find a shoe, he could probably guess it was hers. She was the first girl at the diner he saw walk barefoot.

But Sugar mentioned matches.

Surprisingly, despite never smoking, Lewis usually carried at least a couple of matches with him, - usually, to his work. When everything became unbearable, he took a piece of paper he didn't need, struck a match over the table or the wall, and watched it disappear into nothingness in the comforting circle of the glowing light. That was his break, a way to turn his brain off and on again. But he never had them in his prettier clothes. His diner clothes. But he mixed and matched his outfits every time, so maybe...

Through the thin fabric in his pocket, Lewis felt a small wooden stick. His lips curled into a smile. He carefully extracted it out and struck it over the diner wall. The flame flickered.

Lewis decided to take it as a good sign. 

He tried his best to cover the ground as well as possible, by walking slowly and holding the match closer to the ground. Sometimes he thought he noticed something, so he bent lower to try and pick it up; but it was always a lump of soil, a stone, or a weirdly-fallen shadow. He got more and more annoyed with himself. A captivating woman asked him for help, and he couldn't find a pair of shoes for her? Lewis stood up, sighed, turned around, and then stumbled over something.

There was no way. He stopped for a second, allowing the hope to warm his chest for a little bit longer, refusing to believe his luck. He brought the burning match closer and picked up the small kitten-heel leather shoe. It was brown, which, of course, was the worst color to try and find on the ground in the dark, but he found it. Lewis clutched the shoe in his hand.

"You were completely useless," He whispered to the match.

Then, with his hope refilled anew, he tried to look around for the other shoe. He even got to his knees to feel through the grass. But alas, the second brown kitten heel was nowhere to be found.

Lewis stood up and shook the dirt off his hands and knees.

"Sugar?" He called out, "How's the search going on your part?"

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