Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Listen, if you’re worried about stability, let me handle that part. I’ve never let you down before, right? So, you settle the finances, I’ll mark the area, and the islanders will be better off with an incline. God knows I’m tired of having to drag my ladder over every time I want to go hunting for windflowers to breed.” 

Jonesy has baby hair sticking in just about every direction, despite a classic sun hat smashed down over her head. She’s also soaking wet from the rain, and Tom finds himself wondering why on Earth she didn’t just bring an umbrella. Now there’s a trail of water in the Resident Services building, and she’s splashing more of it against the counter every time she taps her fingers along the wood. He’s lucky it’s nothing particularly extravagant . 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he starts, a little unsure of how to proceed — the last time Jonesy had picked a location for an incline, they’d only just finished the grueling construction when she’d suddenly changed her mind, and decided to demolish it and build another on the complete opposite side of the island. When it came to bringing up the island’s so-called “curb appeal,” they both had the passion, Jonesy was just a little more… sporadic, to put it politely. Tom liked to think things through with a nice blueprint all planned out, and Jonesy lay plots down within half a heartbeat. It was enough to make his heart skip beats just to try and keep up. 

Or maybe that was just the coffee making him so jittery. Isabelle has told him to stop drinking so much. 

Jonesy pops her wad of gum and grins confidently. There’s a familiar devious sparkle in her eyes, one she gets when she knows she’s won. He’s going to let her have her way; he always does. And most of the time, he’s not disappointed. 

“Okay, so hand over the setup already, Mr. Nook. I’ve got brick to lay and fish to catch, and rain is the perfect time to try and catch some of those tuna I’ve been eyeing out by the docks. What’s the holdup?” 

“I just don’t want you to overwork yourself because you made a rash decision, that’s all,” Tom replies, trying to sound stern but failing. It’s very difficult to rein someone down when they’re about as flighty as an Agrias. Which, if there was a competition in that department, Tom is sure Jonesy would win by a landslide. “Try to at least think about it before you finalize construction permission this time.” 

Jonesy finger-guns him, which isn’t exactly encouraging.

He sighs and rummages underneath his side of the counter, fishing up ground markers and a post to put together the kit. He lays it onto the counter, and Jonesy loads it into her cart, already brimming with excitement for something that has only just been conceived. 

“You’re a peach! And that’s a real compliment, considering I wore down way too many Nook Miles just to hunt those things down to plant here,” Jonesy says smoothly, flipping through her toolbox. Tom rolls his eyes, and Isabelle, just across his desk, snorts into her plants. Jonesy doesn’t seem to notice. “A real sweet rarity.”

“Alright, alright , stop trying to butter me up. I’m not knocking down your debt no matter how many compliments you shower me with,” Tom interjects, despite blushing furiously. He’s never done well with compliments. Makes him feel all kinds of soft inside, and he never knows the appropriate way to respond. He’d think that by now he’d be used to it, especially with the R.R. being who she is, but he’s never quite lost the sweet tooth for sweet talk. Or anything else sweet, really. He’s craving a good chocolate pudding right about now. 

“Asshole,” Jonesy responds, and now Isabelle laughs out loud, unable to stop herself. Jonesy flips him off, grinning widely and trailing her cart behind her. “I’ll see you both later. Isabelle, if you catch Eunice, please lovingly tell her I said I will personally superglue her purse to her if she keeps losing it up in the bamboo maze.”

“I’m on it!” Isabelle replies, still stifling a giggle. Tom eyes her with a less than serious frown on his face. The door to the Resident Service slams in front of them. 

“She’s not that funny.” 

“She is, and you know it. Don’t think I didn’t catch you grinning over there, melting like an ice cream bar left out on the agora - which she built, by the way.”

Tom huffs at this, knowing she’s right. 

“You’re a big softie,” Isabelle continues, spraying her plants with water. “That’s what I like about you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know.” 

“Now I know you don’t owe me any bells, so you definitely don’t need to give me all of that,” Tom grumbles, burying himself in his paperwork. He’s had several phone calls requesting visitation on the island, and he’s got to settle on a schedule soon so he can finalize everything with the Dodo brothers at the airport. Then the itinerary needs to be sent to the potential visitors, and there is usually some haggling with what days they can come and what activities they will be most interested in during their visit. 

Isabelle doesn’t respond, but he sees her give him a look over before dedicating herself to her own agenda, the first being to gently place what he assumes is Eunice’s purse in her lost and found crate. If she had any thoughts on his defensiveness, she doesn’t speak on it. 

He’s forgotten to ask Jonesy about the state of the visitor’s tent. No matter. There is a one hundred percent chance she’ll be back to crow about where she’s placed the incline plans and to redeem Nook Miles. She’s never entirely consistent with the latter, but the former is a guarantee. He’ll bring it up then. He sighs and settles himself in on the rest of the paperwork for the next hour or so, occasionally chatting or taking a stretch break with Isabelle. 

“It’s about lunch time isn’t it?” he asks after a while, peering at the clock just to make sure time really has passed. Isabelle looks up from her book, a sort of shocked look on her face. 

“You’re right, it is,” she agrees, standing up from her chair and straightening her corduroy vest. There’s a stroke of thunder, and the rain sounds heavier than ever outside. Tom can see fog forming in the window panes. Today would have been a wonderful day for a nice warm potato soup, with chives and a creamy sauce, but the forecast hadn’t called for rain earlier. He opens the small fridge to dig out his and Isabelle’s lunch, already feeling his stomach peel in hunger despite having had a snack not too long ago. 

“Here,” he says, reaching over to Isabelle, who leans forward and grabs her lunch appreciatively. 

Isabelle, who is always extremely polite and positive. He can’t have asked for a better assistant. She truly goes above and beyond her station, which is much more than he’d ever hoped for. When he initially invited her to help run the Human Resources department, he hadn’t expected her to catch on so quickly, or to be quite so loving. Not that he’d doubted she’d do a good job. He wouldn’t have picked her if he’d thought she wasn’t cut out for it. But she had surpassed his expectations. He can’t imagine working without her. 

The same can be said for Jonesy, despite her sometimes stressing the ever loving hell out of him. They have, without a doubt, the strangest employee/employer relationship he has ever experienced in business, and he’s been in the business of business for quite some time now. He somehow thinks of her as a sister and a daughter at the same time, and he’s had neither his entire life. 

He certainly hadn’t expected her energy either, when he’d first offered this idea of creating the perfect getaway venture. She’d been much quieter when they’d first met. Now she was consistently barging in and hanging over his counter to talk as if neither of them had work to do. 

Not that he’s complaining. Especially now that the twins are older and at that age where they find him too embarrassing to be around him as much, it gets lonely. And the other residents don’t visit much unless they have a complaint. Besides Isabelle, Jonesy is the only social interaction he really has. He knows this is probably partially his fault. He never meant to become a desk monkey. But there’s a particular comfort in the routine of knowing what comes next. He knows how to deal with chaos he can control. And the paper chaos on his desk is a very controllable chaos, if he puts his mind to it. 

He unwraps his tuna salad sandwich and sniffs at it contentedly before taking a bite into it, humming in relief. Isabelle is scrolling through her phone, laughing to herself every once in a while. He clicks through his computer and reads the recent news articles, looking for something to catch his eye and inspire him. 

He’s halfway through a bite on the second half of his sandwich when the door slams open, and he’s surprised to see it isn’t Jonesy back to proclaim her victory. 

“Eunice! You poor dear, you’re shivering ,” Isabelle exclaims immediately, snatching up a towel and rushing over to dab at said Eunice with it. “Where is your umbrella?” 

Eunice, sad and forlorn, appears even more so than usual, drenched and dripping. Her knit navy sweater clings to her frame and she digs in her pocket for a handkerchief, sneezing into it abruptly. 

“It’s - excuse me - it’s just outside. Doesn’t seem to help much with this rain, however,” she murmurs, taking the towel gratefully and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Thank you.” 

“Of course!” Isabelle chimes in sweetly, making her way back to her desk. “Tea? Coffee? I also have some cider packets if you’d like that.” 

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you,” Eunice replies, shivering into the towel. She brings it closer around her and settles down in one of the waiting chairs. Tom can hear her heels clicking against the floor just before she sits, legs crossed daintily. Her voice is small and meek. “Normally I really wouldn’t be out in this rain to begin with, but I’ve lost my purse and I was wondering if anyone has seen it or turned it in?” 

“As a matter of fact, your lovely R.R. came across it this morning. She told me to pass along the message that she will, and I quote, personally superglue it to you .”

Eunice blushes sheepishly, stammering. “I owe her so much,” she sighs, shaking her head. “It’s a pity I really don’t have much to give. I think this is about the third time just this week I’ve dropped the silly thing.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Isabelle says, smiling widely. She pulls out the purse and lays it in the chair next to Eunice. “She only has the nicest things to say about you every time she comes by. Isn’t that right, Mr. Nook?” 

“The nicest,” Tom concurs, and Eunice visibly relaxed, a bright smile beaming across her face. It’s the happiest he’s ever seen her, including the day her home was finally completely built and furnished. Why she had wanted what seemed like an unreasonable amount of washers, he didn’t know. It wasn’t his business as to why she wanted to feel as if she lived in a laundromat, so he hadn’t asked. 

“That is so good to hear,” Eunice chirps, as Isabelle hands her the now ready tea. Eunice clasps it in both hands, blowing on the steam gently. “I do so adore that girl - although I can’t for the life of me keep up with half of what she says. It is nice to listen though, and be listened to. I never feel as if I’m boring her.” 

Tom can relate. He thinks to himself that Eunice might have just put into words exactly how he feels about Jonesy. It certainly resonates with him. 

“Speaking of Jonesy,” he starts, “I feel as if she should have been here by now. It’s been hours since she came in about the incline.” 

“Maybe she took your advice about thinking more seriously about where she puts it,” Isabelle suggests, pouring herself the remaining Chamomile. 

Tom snorts against his will. “Highly unlikely,” he says.  If anything, she’s found a nice spot to fish and simply gotten distracted. He wouldn’t put that past her.  It’s a much more logical conclusion than the idea of her ever settling down to think something through. 

“She mentioned something about a secret beach?” Eunice offers helpfully, sipping at her tea. “She’s been banging around up the Northside of the island, digging out some kind of path behind the gardens. I really didn’t know what she was going on about, but I figured we’d all find out soon enough.” 

“Makes sense,” Tom agrees, finishing up his lunch and settling back into his work. Jonesy is never quite predictable, except in being unpredictable . He can always count on her for that. That, and an unprecedented determination and surefire work ethic that truly blossomed their island. Eunice and Isabelle prattle to each other softly while they finish their tea, and he blissfully zones into the number work of bookkeeping and financing various loans and offers. The rain has mostly settled, and he falls easily into a rhythm of work, his head propped up against his hand while he studies the files in front of him. 

His nephews have paid out way too many bells for lawn work. He sighs, crossing through numbers and adjusting his accounts. He’ll have to talk with them when they close up tonight. They mean well, and most of the time do an excellent job, but at times they’re a bit overzealous - and a little too generous. It doesn’t take much to impress them, and it shows up in their transaction statements. 

At the same time, a simple wax candle shouldn’t be over 500 bells. He scans the receipt and scoffs in amusement. Jonesy has bought six of them. Six . He wonders why she hadn’t even tried to haggle for a more reasonable price. More than likely, she hadn’t given it a second thought. He continues to study the statements, and finds that several of the islanders have paid more than their fair share of bells on several items. Which means that now he’s going to have to do the math to find out whether they’re owed money or in the hole. 

He can work with numbers, though. Numbers are the same no matter what. You always have a predictable outcome, and you know what you need to get the desired outcome. As mind-wearying as it can be, to trudge through equation after equation, the outcome can be controlled. There is no room for surprise mistakes. Except perhaps the twins haphazardly running the store to the ground with their little to no knowledge on basic economics. He twists in his chair, trying to release the tension that’s been building up in his neck for the past half hour. 

Eunice leaves at last, when it seems the rain has slowed down just a tad enough for her liking. He watches her slowly wobble her way out of the door, her purse left on the seat. He coughs to catch her attention, but Isabelle jumps to action before he can stand out of his chair, rushing after her. He can hear their subdued conversation and blurred voices just on the other side of the door, the rain just a bit louder than they are. The door shuts behind Isabelle with a heavy slam. 

“She is an interesting character herself, isn’t she?” 

Isabelle shivers, which is in positively the most dainty way anyone could. If Tom wasn’t looking, he’d easily believe no one was there. She grins at him, shoes spattering across the floor, and Tom thinks to himself that they definitely need to invest in a nice rug before the wood is ruined completely. It’s been all cloudy skies for the past few days. 

“I have to say, I am really surprised that she even applied to live on a remote island. She doesn’t seem like the type to adapt well to change, or inconveniences,” she cocks her head at him. “Kind of like you.” 

Tom raises a brow at her gentle jab. “Jonesy is rubbing off on you, and I don’t like it,” he grunts, mouth already crooking into a smile.

“I do. Give her a raise.” 

“I can’t do that. Then she’ll get too confident and she’ll be insufferable .”

They stare at each other for a while, trying very hard not to break into laughter. It doesn’t last very long, and Isabelle cracks first, giving into a fit of giggles. 

“It really does surprise me though, that you just uproot yourself and two “nephews” to some faraway place where we’d have to - quite literally - build society from the ground up,” Isabelle muses aloud, pursing her lips. She gazes at him curiously. “What made you decide to do it?” 

He feels the sting before he can stop himself. He hopes she doesn’t see it in his eyes. He’s worked long and hard on creating a veneer of passive indifference. His eyes drop to the stack of work still left, and wonders how much he can clear before calling it a day. 

“I just needed a change,” he settles on. It’s a politician's answer, and he can tell Isabelle is disappointed by it, but she doesn’t pry. Still, the crestfallen look on her brow drives him just guilty enough to feel the need to explain something . 

“I made a lot of choices, Isabelle, choices that led me to question who I was. Especially since I have the twins in tow. I didn’t want,” he pauses and waved his hand around, and Isabelle is looking on, trying her very hardest to accept his roundabout explanation. “I didn’t want them to think they had to grow up and be just like me. I wanted to show them that there are… options. That you can choose anything you want for yourself. That you can choose happiness .” 

Isabelle catches her breath. “Mr. Nook,” she starts, and he fears he’s said too much. She sinks into her chair, and he can see the glaze of thought come over her eyes. He braces himself for the impact. 

“That’s a very melodramatic way of showing them that, don’t you think?” 

He tries not to sigh in relief, and lets out a low chuckle instead. The applicants will just have to wait until tomorrow. If they’re truly dedicated to an unpredictable lifestyle, he won’t have a slew of complaints in his voicemail in the morning. 

“I mean, couldn’t you have just moved to a different town?” Isabelle is still wondering. He’s not sure she realizes she’s thinking out loud. The clock rings out it’s default theme, chiming ten-o-clock to everyone in earshot. 

The twins should be closing up shop by now. He gathers up their ledger and stands from his chair, stretching. 

“That’s us, Isabelle,” he tells her. She’s clicking her pen, no doubt in the midst of signing yet another letter for an approved applicant. The process of being accepted just to visit the island is a monotonous and prolonged process, but it’s worth it to ensure that not just anyone can come creeping onto the island shores. The island is made to be paradise; he’ll do anything to be sure it remains that way. 

“Go on ahead, Mr. Nook, I’m just ten minutes behind you,” Isabelle returns. She sounds distracted. He follows her gaze to the window, where he can see the fog and the rain still. The sky is darker now. He wants to ask what’s caught her mind, but if he expects her to respect his privacy, he’d better set the tone. He just gives a small approval before exiting his work space, pausing at the door. 

“Lock up before you leave, alright?” 

“I will, Mr. Nook.” 

He hesitates, watching her chew her lip over a sheet of stationary in her hands. There’s lightning that colors the sky, and he finally leaves the building, letting the door slip shut behind him. 

He’s forgotten an umbrella. He’s about to be soaked and miserable. He groans and tries to channel a spontaneous mindset before dashing out into the rain, trying not to think too much about how it’s soaking into his shoes. 

He stops by the shop, but the twins are already gone. He can tell as soon as he rounds the corner, and doesn’t see the lights. Which means he’s run this way for nothing. He’s starting to think that maybe having a faster mode of transportation might not be a bad idea. He shakes himself and rushes away from the store and towards home this time, cursing under his breath. He doesn’t understand how Jonesy was piddling around all day in this weather without any sort of protection. 

He still hadn’t seen her again since the afternoon, he's come to realize. It’s definitely odd, and he’s unsure of what would have kept her away. There wasn’t even an evening visit, even if just to give him a hard time. The island is small, and she’s capable; surely she isn’t in any trouble. But it worries him all the same. If he doesn’t hear from her by morning, he’ll go looking. 

“Uncle Tom- Uncle Tom, why are you all wet ? Jesus , didn’t you bring an umbrella?” 

“...an umbrella, Uncle Tom?” 

Timmy and Tommy are at his heels before he can even shut the door to his own home, which means they didn’t bother to go through the pantry at all and try to whip up dinner for themselves. Maybe he’s asking too much for fourteens. He sighs wearily beneath their chattering and shrugs out of his now soaking loafers, leaning them up against the baseboard to dry. He hopes they’ll dry by tomorrow, anyways. They’re the only business shoes he has. 

“Alright, alright - what do you two want to eat?” he asks, easing himself out from their arms. Scrawny and growing taller everyday, the twins are becoming more and more out of his reach. He’s never been a parent before these two, and he wonders if they all feel this way, when their babies reach to teens. That they’re slowly losing them. The hugs are more sparse, the conversations die out. He knows that he’s not the best at initiating conversation, outside of talking shop. 

He wonders if it’s his fault, that he feels alone at the end of the day. That he sleeps lonely. 

“Pizza! Pizza!”

“...Pizza!” 

They sound like a chorus, if hungry teen boys were a choir in a chapel. On this island, he thinks, they most likely are. He pushes himself out of his thoughts and into the present moment, shaking his head at them. 

“We can’t have pizza, we just had fried salmon earlier this week. It’s not healthy …” 

He watches their faces fall. Wide brown eyes narrow slowly. Timmy begins to scowl, although he doesn’t say anything, and Tommy sniffs and shrugs his shoulders. The house is silent suddenly, the life gone as quickly as it had initially ambushed him. He’s snuffed it again, without realizing how or why, and he’s just so tired. 

“...but I guess, since it’s a Friday, I’ll make an exception.”

Tommy squeals. Timmy punches the air in excitement. “Yes! You’re the best !” he screeches, shaking one of the kitchen chairs chaotically. Tom tries not to let his anxiety increase with the volume. Tommy squeezes him in the tightest embrace, and he can feel him shaking in delight. 

“...the best!” he’s echoing. 

“Well, let me get to the pizza,” Tom chides gently. He gives Tommy a pointed look, holding up the worn yellow book. “And we need to talk about this ledger, young man.” 

“ After pizza,” Timmy insists, coming up behind him and shoving him into the kitchen. He nearly trips over Tommy on the way to the fridge, finding himself disassociating just to quiet the chaos in his head for a moment while he tries to focus on how to bake pizza. Pizza. 400 degrees in the oven. Fifteen minutes. Pizza. 

Timmy and Tommy are hollering over each other at the kitchen table while he places the pizza in the oven, and he hears a resounding crash and a pile of dominoes spreading out. They don’t seem to need him anytime soon. He closes the oven door and leans towards the small window in the kitchen. Although the rain has halted for now, the clouds are thick as ever, and it looks as if it will be storming all night.

He peers into the fog more carefully, where he can see some of the islanders still meandering around. Why anyone would be out in this weather is beyond him. But they certainly look happy. He watches as Cheri and Kody have what appears to be an engaging conversation, their faces lighting up in excitement as they carry on about whatever it is they’re engrossed in. He feels intrusive for wishing he knew what it was. The longing is there anyways. 

Something catches his eye on the far north side. The clouds look black, almost like smoke. He cranes his neck towards it to get a better look, but then Tommy is calling his name, and the oven is beeping at him. He glances towards it one more time before leaving it be, grabbing the oven mitts. Perhaps Jonesy has found her so called secret beach, and is having a celebratory campfire. He grins softly to himself, pulling the now done pizza out of the oven to cut.

Surely it’s nothing to worry about. This island is a haven, he’s made sure of it. And if it is any sort of trouble, he’ll figure it out soon enough. 

“Alright, settle down,” he chastises, carefully setting the pizza in the middle of the table. He smacks two pairs of greedy reaching hands away. “Let it cool down first, before you burn your tongues. Can’t you see the steam still coming off it?” 

When the boys finally tumble off to bed - after a good long argument about exactly what time should be considered bedtime for boys their age - Tom finds himself sitting at the foot of his own bed, watching the record player as it slowly spins out soft crooning music. He cannot find it in himself to peel off his shoes, and rests right where he is for a moment, drifting off with the music, his mind wandering. He has to forcefully shake himself out of it just to stand. He hopes Isabelle left work when she said she would. He can’t imagine how tired she is as well. 

He doesn’t understand how Jonesy is out so late either. She runs around all day and still has the energy to be out and about, undoubtedly livening up whoever’s presence she’s in. He shakes his head and grins fondly to himself, finally gathering the strength to change into bed clothes so he can settle in for the night. 

His bed is comfortable. He’d made sure of this when he’d moved. He doesn’t consider himself to be particularly picky or in need of the finer things in life, but he did want a nice bed. Still, his nights are restless most of the time. He often fights to sleep, only to wake a few hours later and have to start the battle all over again. 

No matter. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. He’ll have coffee in the morning, as usual. Isabelle will just have to forgive him. His eye catches the smoke trail again, just outside his window, and he’s pretty sure that’s what he drifts off to, the lulling cadence of the music slowly luring him into sleep.

Chapter Text

There’s something... odd about the paintings. Jonesy can’t put her finger on it, but there’s something that’s not quite right about them. There’s also poor lighting in the small shanty, which only leaves her to believe she might have made the wrong choice just following a stranger into his abode on a boat. It’s the price for spontaneity, she supposed. It’s a good thing she has an axe handy, just in case things get messy. 

There’s soft music playing on an old stereo, and she’s surprised - and yet sort of not surprised - that it’s Sinatra. She’s seen enough crime shows to know that sometimes psychopaths love the stuff. This could be the setup for her murder. 

“Pretty neat, aren’t they, cousin?” 

Jonesy blinks slowly at the endearment. He has to know they’re not related, right? They look nothing alike. But he’d insisted, and he had been so friendly, and she’s never been against making new friends. Everyone on the island had this way of being so genuine, and she had just assumed he was a visitor she hadn’t seen at the campsite. As the Resident Representative, she had felt she should introduce herself if he was going to stay awhile. He had a very charming way about him too, and it wasn’t too hard to be convinced to check out his artwork on sale. 

Fuck, he might actually be a psychopath. 

“Yeah, they’re pretty dope,” is what she says. But she glances towards the exit, trying to calculate just how hard it would be to whack him once across the head while he was turned around, and then make a run for it. She’s trying to raise her adrenaline, just in case it has to happen. And if she manages to escape and this strange guy doesn’t kill her, Tom Nook definitely will when he finds out she just did something so, in his words, rash . 

“What did you say your name was?” 

He cocks his head at her, and she can’t decide if he’s genuinely amused or if he’s deciding just how he’s going to bring about her demise. “I didn’t,” replies, putting out his cigarette butt against the sink he’s been leaning on for the past several minutes. Something about that grosses her out more than the obvious fact that there’s definitely mold in here. He extends a hand, and there’s a moment where she hesitates before finally taking it. It’s softer than she expected, which is kind of comforting. Surely murderers don’t have soft hands, right? 

Well, if they wear gloves, maybe they do. She steels herself and tries to remain calm and not immediately hurl over the side of the trawler. 

“It’s Redd,” he tells her, and after a firm shake, lets her hand go. She wipes it against her shorts. She’s definitely sweating. Either it’s the mugginess of the weather, or her gut is trying to tell her she’s in danger. She’s not sure which. “That’s Redd with two Ds, mind you.” 

“Redd, huh?”

He nods.

“What’s with the whole cousin thing? That’s your sales pitch?” she questions, hands on her hips, and he coughs, chuckling under his breath. If she wasn’t so sure he was most likely a psychopath, she would swear he looks a bit sheepish. “Think if you lure them in with the false sense of family you’ll get more bells out of it?” 

He definitely looks insulted now, she can see it on his face. In fact, she’d say he almost looks hurt . But then he’s grinning and waving his hand nonchalantly at her, a tell-tale blush creeping along his cheekbones. 

“You caught me,” he sighs, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I can’t pull a fast one on you. But I already knew that. Which is why I consider you a close relative already.” 

He saunters over and drapes an arm around her, and she’s wishing she had a drink or two right about now. The over-familiarity is nothing short of strange, and she is nowhere near drunk enough for strange of any kind. “We’re two clever foxes, eh, cousin?” 

“Hmm.” That makes her snicker. She’s been called a lot of things. Clever is not one of them. She hangs her arm around Redd’s neck anyways, leering right back and matching his laugh, her hand on her axe. If he tries anything funny in the next ten seconds, she’ll show him a really good joke that has a killer punchline. 

But he’s off in a minute, gesturing to the artwork again. “You seemed to really be attached to this Calm Painting ,” he insists, and she remembers why it had thrown her off. It’s the name . He’s given them all very generic names, and she’s fighting fuzzy memories of art history to place what it’s actually called. If he is a genuine fine arts salesman, he should know that. He’s deliberately giving it a different name, though. 

“You mean the Seurat?” 

She doesn’t miss the incredulous look in his eyes. She wonders if he even knew what the original painting was. It had taken her a minute to remember the name. She has an inkling that he has no idea what pieces he’s picked up. 

Redd coughs. “Yeah, that,” he mutters, before picking up his chipper tone again. “A real stepping stone in the art renaissance, hmm?” 

“If you’re into pointillism, yeah,” Jonesy returns, inspecting it again. Either this Redd has somehow gotten his hands on the genuine artifact, or he’s excellent at re-creating masterpieces. She’s been around enough to know either is possible. “Personally, I can respect it, but it’s a bitch and a half to do.” 

She can’t identify the expression on his face. It looks like genuine curiosity, almost a spark of childlike interest. She recognizes that familiar sparkle in his eyes. But he doesn’t act on it, nor does he say anything, so she doesn’t want to presume. There’s a flickering silence before he glances at her, almost expecting her to continue. She doesn’t. She wants him to be the one talking more, seeing as he is the stranger on the island. 

He finally speaks. “You’re an artist?” is what he asks. She grins at this. 

“I dabble.” 

Redd is definitely giving her a genuine smile now. It looks different from the strange and threatening smirk he was giving earlier. It has to be the eyes, she thinks. She’s always been particularly drawn to watching people’s eyes. Watching how they light up or dull down. Redd had had a dead glaze in his eyes up until now, which is why she’d thought that maybe he was a psychopath. But now? Now she can see it, that little twinkle, even in the low light. 

“Me too,” he admits, and there’s the kicker. This must be a hobby of his, which makes her wonder again why he doesn’t know A Sunday Afternoon. And now that her heart rate has slowed and her eyes have adjusted, she takes the time to look around and realize the clues all around her. There’s remnants of paint tubes and half filled dirty cups of paint water everywhere . Not to mention stacks of sketchbooks and graphite lying around. 

“Looks like a little more than dabbling ,” she comments aloud, and he flushes, shrugging. She runs her fingers over the top sketchbook, and then taps at it lightly. She glances up at him and sees he’s been watching her intently as soon as she touched it. “Do you mind if I…?” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah! Just…” Redd snatched the book out from under her, flipping through it quickly. He seems relieved when he hands it back. “Sorry, I’m not proud of all of my work. But this one is safe.” 

Jonesy cocks an eyebrow at him. “Safe, huh. What, you draw a lot of sex or something? No judgment, I get that,” she says, scanning the pages. Redd chokes, but leaves her to it, humming whatever is on the stereo. 

It’s very detailed. He has to be self-taught though, to be so naive about the artworks he’s selling. That only makes his personal work all the more impressive. The technicality is superb, and the amount of thought put into each piece is very apparent. There are a couple of freehand practice pages here and there, but even those catch her attention. She forgets she is standing there for a moment, lost in the pages, when she hears him clear his throat. 

“I forgot your name, kid, I’m sorry.” 

“Jonesy.”

“Right! Right. Look, did you wanna buy anything, Jonesy? I wasn’t under the impression that you just wanted to come visit little ol’ me. Not that I’m complaining. Always good to make connections.” 

Jonesy smirks. “I mean, I did want to say hello. That’s sort of my job around here. But,” she pauses to take a look at the painting again. It’s an original Seurat, she feels sure of it, now that she has had more than enough time to inspect it. “You’re right. The mention of art pieces caught my attention. Our museum curator has done nothing but babble on about how excited he is to add an arts wing in the building.” 

She winces. That sounded a bit rude. Blathers lives up to his name, but he is a nice enough fellow. “I’m happy to help,” she continues. “I like the guy.” 

“Sure, sure, that’s your job, as you mentioned,” Redd agrees half-heartedly. He’s already measuring out butcher paper and painters tape, carefully removing the piece from its stand. “And you dabble yourself, so this has to be just as thrilling for you, eh?” 

“You could say that, yeah,” Jonesy replies. The boat is eerily quiet again, as he quickly gets to work wrapping the framed piece and taping it together. It’s Ella Fitzgerald now, low and soft on the stereo, and there’s a long and awkward pause. The only sound is the paper crinkling as it’s folded and creased into place. Jonesy is having the slightest suspicion that something is not quite right again, but she isn’t sure what. Redd places the now wrapped parcel on the table, but when she reaches for it, he moves it away quickly. 

“Bells first, please. Sorry. It’s a company policy,” he explains, a sharp-toothed grin in place. “And I’ll place it in your mailbox, if you’ll just jot down your address for me.” 

There’s another red flag. “You don’t have to do all of that,” Jonesy starts, smiling gently, but when she tries to place her hand on the parcel, again, he slides it away, ever so slightly. “I can carry it with me.” 

“There’s no way I’m letting a beautiful dabbler of the arts like yourself carry such a huge artifact like that! Especially when you have so many other things to worry about. Let me handle the shipping. It’ll be free of charge, on me. Family discount.” 

The words are coming out of his mouth so smoothly. Jonesy assumes if she was into men, he’d be her type. She likes easy talkers and laid-back personalities. But in this situation, everything feels off. There had been a moment when she had felt sure Redd was being genuine, but that moment seems to have passed, and the unsettling aura is back. There’s something he’s hiding. She’s just not sure what .

Despite her better judgment though, she counts out the owed amount, and hands him the bells. 

“Thank you for your purchase, cousin,” Redd chirps, a little too cheery, pocketing the bells before she can ask any questions. What’s done is done now, she supposes. Hopefully she didn’t just make the worst financial decision of her life. And if she did , by any chance, she doesn’t necessarily have to tell Mr. Nook about it, right? At least she knows he’s not a murderer. 

She’s pretty sure by now, anyways. 

She wants to try to continue the conversation and possibly bring back that warmth she’d seen in him. But before she can try for anymore small talk, he’s edging her towards the exit. The sun is so bright in comparison to the darkness in his tent that she has to squint to watch her step as she clambers out, glancing behind her to see Redd waving her off. 

“You’ll have it in the mail by tomorrow! Pleasure doing business with you!” he calls, just before disappearing again. She looks after the flap, watching it close, before shaking her head and heading up the beach, still mulling over everything that had just happened. 

Isabelle hadn’t mentioned any visitors this morning. She wonders if maybe Redd just hadn’t realized that he was supposed to stop by the Resident building. After all, he has his boat docked on the far Northern side, and that’s nowhere near the airport or the neighborhood. Most of this area of the island is pretty barren now, especially because she has been busy landscaping it. Which, speaking of, she still has her secret beach to work on. She grins at the sudden reminder, already distracted and settling into work on piecing together outdoor lounge chairs and a small table for drinks. 

It’s an easy project, but it’s a long project, and by the time she settles in to check the time, hours have gone by. She’s been out longer than she’d anticipated too, and she’s forgotten to bring water. She hadn’t thought of it in her excitement to finish her beach. She takes a long look at the furniture she’s built, patting the arm of the lounge chair in satisfaction, before crashing into it, closing her eyes. There’s sweat on her brow, and she’s feeling herself grow lethargic from the heat, but the chair is one-hundred percent comfortable. The only thing that could make it better would be a good drink in hand, and an umbrella. She’ll have to work on getting one of those put together. She can probably find a DIY from the Cranny, and then pester Mr. Nook at his workbench while she crafts it. 

“Shit!” she exclaims. She never told Nook about the incline. She’d completely forgotten. 

She jumps out of the chair, rushing towards the main town, only stopping at her house to grab a drink before she passes out from dehydration. The situation she had just been through was all extremely odd, the more she thinks about it. That Redd had been awfully friendly up until the purchase. The way he’d hurried her off the boat afterwards was suspicious at best. 

Maybe it was the fact she’d snooped through his art. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. Art is a private sort of thing. When she looks back on it,  she realizes she might have made him uncomfortable without realizing it. She almost thinks about heading back to apologize, but from the way he’d seemed eager to get her off and going on her way, she doesn’t think he’ll welcome her returning all too well. 

“Hey, Jonesy!”

“Jonesy!” 

The sun hits her eyes again, and she squints out for a moment or two before making out the shape of Ketchup, who is flagging her down from the agora. Right behind her is Cheri, and she doesn’t miss the fact that they’re wearing pretty complementary outfits. She makes her way over, already grinning and ready to hear what they have to say. 

She’s not supposed to have favorites, but these two are, without a doubt, the most fun to spend time with. She probably spends more time with them than she does in the Residential building, and that’s saying something, considering she’s in there quite a lot. They’re bubbly and outgoing, and it’s easy to make conversation with them. The fact that they always have island gossip doesn’t hurt, either. 

Well, almost always. She’s pretty sure they don’t know about their little northward seaside visitor. 

“Jonesy, we have the coolest idea,” Ketchup is practically bubbling out, she’s so excited. Cheri is holding a box that’s part way open, wiggling her eyebrows madly. Ketchup loops their arms together, walking her towards the public seating. “You remember how we were all out at the small campsite by the airport and we had a total jam sesh?”

“I’m a little fuzzy on the details, thanks to the tequila we had, but yes, I have a slight memory of it,” Jonesy replies, taking a seat with them and thinking back on it. It had been a nice warm evening too, and they’ve had nothing but rain since then. It had been a week, until today. She’s thinking they’re due another small get together in the same fashion. 

“Well, Cheri and I were thinking… we should totally start a local girl group! You, me, and Cheri! We could practice and then put on local shows! And maybe we could even tour like K.K.,” Ketchup sighs, folding her hands together in admiration. “Maybe we could even tour with him…” 

“God, wouldn’t that be dreamy?” Cheri interjects.

“ He’s dreamy,” Ketchup murmurs, still clearly visualizing a pop star's future. 

Jonesy grins and shrugs at this. “As long as I get to hash it out on drums,” she replies. “You know how I like a good beat.” 

She’s instantly bombarded by a group hug from both of the other girls. “We gotta come up with a name!” Cheri exclaims, squeezing her. “It has to be a really rad name too. Nothing too cheesy, but definitely creative. Something that defines us!”

“We have all night to figure that out,” she tells them, grabbing their hands. “And I have the perfect place.” 

Their eyes light up, because they already know exactly what she is referring to. She’s been telling them for weeks that she’s been working on making a hangout spot for them. It took long enough just to clear the trees and create a whole new path to lead up to it. Cheri shakes the box, which Jonesy still hadn’t seen inside yet, but she supposes that will happen soon enough. She hops off of the seat, gesturing for the other girls to follow, and they eagerly oblige, right in her heels, invested in small talk as they follow behind. They’ll have to make a pit stop at her house, but she’s sure they won’t mind. The drinks and food will make it worth the wait. 

“God, did you see Kody working out on the beach today? The true getaway package.” 

“Cheri! You are such a creep.”

“What? He was out there, in public , swinging his “glutes” around. What's a girl like me to do? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Jonesy, just ahead, laughs. “Gotta admire art when you see it, huh?” she eggs her, watching Ketchup sigh and shake her head, grinning in disbelief. 

“You’re both unbelievable.”

Jonesy winks at Cheri and slows her pace as they near her house, slinging an arm around Ketchup. She heads into the kitchen with her, digging through the cabinets for chasers and whatever liquor she has left from their last get together. There’s half empty bottles of whiskey, less than a pint of rum, and the tequila is completely gone. She winces and gives Ketchup a questioning look, holding up the whiskey. 

“Jack and rum sound good? It goes well with coke. Or we can just down shots and call it a night.” 

“Let’s do it with coke, sis,” Ketchup cringes, grabbing at the cans. “You know I can’t stand the taste of alcohol on its own. You’ve got me confused for Freya.”

This is true. Jonesy never thought she’d meet someone who could down shots like water until she’d met Freya. That girl’s power to swallow liquor as if it was nothing both amazed and scared her. She handles the alcohol in one arm, dragging Ketchup back out again, where Cheri is waiting, sunglasses down to stop the glare of the sun. 

They’re discussing a couple of different names by the time they reach the beach. Ketchup dumps the coke cans onto the table, taking the setup into account. 

“Jonesy, it looks amaze , girl,” she practically squeals, settling into one of the chairs immediately and sinking down. She stretches out and kicks her sandals off. Cheri isn’t far behind, plopping down on the chair next to her, dialing in her phone. Jonesy shakes her head, laughing under her breath and setting down the liquor. 

“What’s the mood tonight, ladies?” Cheri asks, fingers tapping away. “I’m thinking upbeat or empowering, especially since Jonesy just completed a no doubt hard and tiring project.”

“Yes!” Ketchup agrees, clasping her hands together. She’s already measuring out shots to mix drinks, humming cheerfully. “Get the mood started, Cheri!” 

Cheri obliges. It’s a good get together, and Jonesy finds it especially gratifying after having run around the island for hours to accomplish anything. If she had set hours, it wouldn’t be a problem, but there’s no real boundaries on her job, and she tends to over work herself without meaning to. She forgets to relax every once in a while, which is why she’s more grateful than ever that she is lucky enough to have friends like these two. She takes one of the drinks Ketchup made, lifting her cup to them in a mock toast.

“To the girls,” she announces. Cheri sits up from the chair to clink their cups together. 

“To the girls,” she returns.

“We could call ourselves To The Girls!” Ketchup chimes in. Jonesy shares a look with Cheri before shrugging. 

“We can write it down,” is what she says. 

Cheri is distracted though, eyes landing on the boat docked only a few feet away. “Wait,” she interjects, halting Ketchup’s train of thought. She points, to which the other two follow with their eyes. “What’s that?” 

“Oh!” Jonesy exclaims. She grins sheepishly. “I forgot to tell you guys. We have a new islander. I think? I don’t know. He’s an art vendor of some sort. I bought something from him today.”

“On that dinky, dirty thing?” Cheri questions, crinkling her nose. “You’re braver than me. I wouldn’t get near something like that!” She stops herself, caught in a thought. “God, that sounded snooty. I’m sure he’s nice.”

Jonesy doesn’t respond to this. She’s not entirely sure if nice is the way to describe who she’d met on that boat. Although he wasn’t exactly rude, either. She pours herself another drink, plopping herself down on the sand in front of them. 

“Let’s see what’s in the box, Cheri,” she says, waving her drink towards the object in question. “I’ve been dying to see what genius concoction you have hidden in there.”

This seems to satisfy them, and they’re pulling out outfits for their local band idea. Jonesy has to disagree with about half of them, but they come to a compromise that as long as she doesn’t have to be too dressed up, she’ll wear the matching colors of pink and yellow. Ketchup designated band roles, and it takes a good hour long conversation before she and Cheri agree to take turns on solos. Jonesy looks on, drinking her weight’s worth, knowing she’s going to regret it tomorrow. Possibly not, though. She’s never really had designated hours for work. 

“Hey! No one told me this was the party side of the island!” 

The three of them stop mid-conversation, turning to see where the voice came from. Jonesy’s face breaks into a wide grin, waving immediately.

“Would have invited you!” she calls back to the boat, where Redd is leaning against the helm. “I didn’t take you for a party kinda guy.”

Redd hops off into the sand, and Jonesy doesn’t miss the way Cheri’s eyes widen in interest. She gives him a once over, but says nothing, grinning to herself and pretending to have a sudden distraction with her phone. Redd approaches them, hands on his hips and a wild light in his eyes. But perhaps it’s just the campfire. “Then I did a lousy job of introducing myself to you earlier, cousin,” he replies. He cocks his head towards the drinks. “Mind if I pour myself a glass?”

“If Red Solos count as glasses to you, pour away,” Jonesy invites, waving him towards it. “Help yourself, primo .” 

“That’s your cousin ?” Ketchup asks, eyes wide. Jonesy has to laugh, throwing her head back. She gives Redd a look. “Yeah, make that make sense, Redd,” she tells him, while he chuckles and scratches the back of his neck. She points towards the two girls. “These are my friends, Ketchup and Cheri. Ketchup and Cheri, this is Redd. The romantic little artist on an ark.”

“I wouldn’t call myself an artist ,” Redd starts, flushing, but he doesn’t get far. Ketchup and Cheri are a good several drinks in, and they’re up in an instant, bombarding him with drunkenly excited questions. It doesn’t take long before he’s settled right in, almost as if he’d known them for much longer than half an hour. Jonesy finds it pretty admirable; although the islanders are friendly as a whole, the way Redd has made himself right at home is a little endearing. He has Cheri dying of laughter on his arm, and Ketchup with a hand over her mouth, aghast at whatever he’s just said. They’re all a little drunk, she can tell, and Redd is definitely thriving off of the company. 

“Oh these are darling ,” Redd is murmuring, and Jonesy has no clue what on earth he’s prattling on about until she sees him holding up the outfits that Cheri and Ketchup have set aside. “You ladies have an eye for color. There’s nothing more enviable than a good palette.”

Ketchup beams with pride, and Cheri claps in delight. They’re eagerly sharing their plans for a local band, to which Jonesy notices that genuine spark again. Redd makes himself comfortable in the sand, and she watches as his eyes bounce back and forth between the two girls, intently drinking in every word they’re saying. Her read on him is complicated. He clearly has something to hide, according to his behavior earlier, but at the same time, he seems to have an old and gentle soul somewhere underneath. Something is just not adding up. 

Her intuition only flies all the more off the rails when she hears a familiar voice, shouting very non-familiar things from behind them. She whips around to see Tom Nook storming towards them, with Isabelle right on his heels. She can’t see either of their faces, but from the tone of his voice - and the crowd of the other islanders behind them - she knows instantly that it’s not good. 

“Redd? How the hell did you find this place?” Mr. Nook’s voice thunders across the beach. Cheri and Ketchup freeze their conversation, turning to look at Jonesy for some sort of explanation. She can only shrug at them, before putting her eyes back on Nook. He seems to have his gaze fixed on Redd, who doesn’t respond. 

“Boss?” she calls after him, trying to catch his attention. Maybe he’ll explain. Or maybe it’s not as bad as she thinks. Maybe the alcohol is rendering her dramatic.

“ Snookums ! Long time no see, buddy!”

“Get the fuck off of my island!”

Scratch that. It’s about as bad as she’s thought. Actually, she’s pretty sure it’s much worse.

Chapter Text

“Come on now, Tom, is that anyway to greet an old partner?” Redd crows, leering at him. 

There are a thousand questions going through Tom’s mind at this moment. But the main one is repeatedly making itself known, almost flashing in front of him in bright red letters: How . 

How has this slippery son of a no good liar found him? He had taken every precaution to ensure that he had no chance of following or encountering him. And yet, here he stands, staring down the beach, seeing him there, and he’s the same as he remembers. Charming, cocky, and counterfeit . He could sock that aggravating smile right off of his face, except it wouldn’t be very professional of him. But Redd had always been so good at pulling the unprofessional out of him. It hurts to think about. 

When Isabelle had informed him this morning that there was a boat on the far northside of the beach, he had initially assumed it was a random passerby. It couldn’t have been a visitor, seeing as they had a process in place for all of that. His best guess had landed on someone merely stopping by. This island is not usually someone’s destination. But then Isabelle had taken a closer look and revealed the nature of the boat and the flag’s trademark symbol, and his blood had almost quite literally run cold. 

He never thought he’d have to hear, see, or even think about this crooked character again. The last one has been harder to do over the years than he’d imagined. Now, he’s having to do all three. 

“Mr. Nook?” Jonesy calls again, and his vision clears, just enough to finally tear his eyes away from Redd to lock onto her. Now he’s wondering just how long she’s known about Redd, and exactly what they’ve been doing together this entire time. At least now he knows what distracted her from stopping by the Resident Services again. Unfortunately, he’s not too eager about what he’s found. 

She’s waiting on an answer, drink in hand. “Is something wrong?”

“Jonesy,” he murmurs, just as he reaches her side. Two of the islanders, whose names he can’t remember, are staring at him, wide eyed and petrified. He tries to calm his heart rate at this. It won’t do any good to scare anyone off. Redd will only have a field day with that. When he speaks again, it’s through clenched teeth. “When did this scamming little fraud find his way on the island?”

“ Snookums , you’re too flattering…” Redd croons, but Tom holds a hand up, scowling. 

“Don’t you even start ,” he growls at him. “You’re lucky these ladies didn’t know who you are.” 

“I just met him earlier today,” Jonesy is whispering out of the corner of her mouth. She glances up at him without moving her head, and he’s grateful that she seems to be picking up on the situation quickly enough to try and have some tact, despite her obvious intoxication. “I bought a Suerat off of him.” 

“A what ?” Tom nearly chokes, but catches himself just in time. 

“I thought he was just a new visitor. He seemed nice enough.”

Tom nods at this, patting her shoulder. He’s trying to be gentle, but he’s stuck in tunnel vision, still eyeing Redd across the campfire. Not only had he managed to plant his feet on this island, without his knowledge nor his permission, he’s already managed to fool three of his islanders into thinking he was a standup sort of guy. He knows the truth to be more sinister. 

“You’re not allowed to be here.” 

“And what are you going to do about it, hmm? Surely you wouldn’t be so inhospitable in front of your entire community?” Redd takes a step forward, taunting. He’s already enjoying this. Tom has never forgotten how he hates him, but he’s remembering the details of why so clearly. “We wouldn’t want our fearless leader to be such a poor example, now would we?” 

“For you, I’ll make an exception,” Tom threatens in return, trying to remain collected. He has to stand his ground. There is no way he is going to let Redd verbally maneuver his way onto this island. He gives Jonesy a glance, jerking his head towards the Resident Area behind them, and it takes her a moment before her glazed eyes snap to attention, and she waves the other girls towards her. There is a fleeting moment where he feels pained, watching the way they run to Jonesy and away from him. Even Jonesy’s eyes are wide, confused and waiting for an explanation. He won’t be giving it to her now, unfortunately. This isn’t the time nor the place. 

She gives him one last questioning look before chatting up the other islanders until they’ve placed their interest in what she’s saying. Isabelle - bless her heart, frazzled and winded  - is besides her in an instant, obviously relieved that someone has a handle on things. 

“Alright, so I don’t have enough booze for everyone, but if we go back by my place, drinks are on moi ,” Jonesy is announcing. Tom has to stamp onto Redd’s foot before he can make any move towards them. “And then we can hit the boardwalk and do a little karaoke, how’s that sound?”

There are some cheers coming from the other islanders, and Jonesy gives him a reassuring wink before continuing, already making her way towards her home. “I know that Cheri and Ketchup have some performance practice that they’d love to let you guys sit in on, right ladies?” 

The girls seem to sputter back to life, both babbling at once, and he watches as the crowd finds their interest in whatever is going to occur at the boardwalk. It leaves him wishing that he was also going. Unfortunately, he’s stuck with the grunt work of the situation. It isn’t as if he hadn’t signed up for it. He just hadn’t realized that the work in question would be this disaster of a situation.

Redd is watching him with absolute delight. It’s obvious that this is all amusing to him. “Tom, Tom, ease off will you?” he clicks his tongue at him, patronizing enough to leave him slightly homicidal. “You’re not still sore about our little disagreement all those years ago, are you?” 

With the villagers gone by now, there’s nothing stopping him. He lunges forward and clasps Redd’s shirt, thrusting him backwards into the sand. Redd sputters and coughs, that same aggravating grin still plastered across his face. Smug. If Tom was a worse man, he’d wipe it off permanently and bury him six feet into the sand. Redd is lucky he is not a worse man. Or perhaps he’s lucky that Tom doesn’t want to ruin Jonesy’s pride and joy of a beach with Redd’s sorry hypothetical corpse.

“You know exactly what you did, you lying piece of shit.” 

Redd chuckles at this, but he doesn’t get up. He’s leaning against his elbows, almost as if waiting to be hit again, as if that’s what he wants to happen next. The worst part is, this disgusts Tom so much he almost doesn’t want to continue pummeling him. He knows this is Redd’s way of playing with his emotions. He’s been around the criminal long enough to know how he worms his way into people’s minds or hearts for his own financial benefit. He’s been on the receiving end before. It won’t happen again. 

“Now get out of here, or the next blow you get from me will leave a mark that you won’t recover from.” 

“Wow, Snookums, a blow already? We just reunited,” Redd sneers, slowly standing. He dusts the sand off of his clothes, his eyes never straying. “I always thought I was the more lewd one, but you’re really…”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Tom shouts, fists clenched and ready. He takes a swing, cracking Redd across the jaw. Redd jumps to his feet, hands up, but he ducks the next hook, hitting him with an uppercut. Redd grapples at his shirt, and they’re both down, scrambling to land a hit on each other at whatever chance they get. Redd jams a knee into his side, and it takes everything in him not to scream. He inhales sharply instead before jerking Redd’s head down by his ear and clambering over him, a harsh hand slamming him down into the sand again. He aims his fist again, but Redd catches him barely in time, clasping at his wrist and thrusting him off as hard as he can, panting. Tom scrambles to his feet, and Redd follows. 

They’re in a standoff, and Tom can hear his heart beating in his ears. They’re both breathing heavily. He will beat Redd onto his boat if he has to. He doesn’t care if that’s what has to happen to get him to leave . It’s a worthy price. Not to mention, he now knows he still has years of wounded sensibilities that he’d love to drop kick on Redd right now. Redd has finally dropped his smile, his face darkening. He holds his hands up, backing onto his boat. His true colors are out now, Tom can see it on his face. He watches silently, still coiled and ready to spring, if need be. The pretense of familiarity and warmth is gone. He would almost shiver at how easily he’s transformed, if he cared.

“I see how it is, Mr. Nook ,” Redd’s voice is full of faux respect, slippery and venomous , and Tom wonders where he got the audacity to be offended, as if he is the victim in this situation. His talent of being obtuse to everyone around him is not surprising, but it stings nonetheless. He bows mockingly before tugging at the anchor. “You move out here and decide you’re just too good for city folk like me, eh?”

“You know that’s not what it is,” Tom returns. His heart rate has not changed, still quick and ready to pounce. He keeps his fists at his sides, waiting. He’s afraid of what will happen if he dares to let them unclench for even one second. Old habits are hard to kill, and Redd is one of his oldest and longest running habits. “Your words mean nothing to me now, Redd. I’m not the naive young man you met all those years ago. I won’t fall for your magic tricks.”

“A pity,” Redd sighs, wistfully. Tom cannot tell if this is a genuine emotion or not, and promptly decides either answer is a poor one. Redd hoists the anchor over his shoulder, and their eyes lock. Redd does not move, as if waiting for something, but whatever it is he wants, Tom refuses to give. He crosses his arms and waits until Redd finally rolls his eyes and grins, giving a small wave before disappearing into his boat. 

“Pleasure seeing you again, Snookums!” he hears, just as he’s turned around. It takes everything in him to not give a response. He knows that this is exactly what Redd wants. 

He stands there on the beach, his back to the sea, waiting until he cannot hear the engine chugging away, and even then, he waits, just in case. It takes longer than he’d like to admit before he turns, half expecting to still see him there, eyebrow cocked and grin crooked. He doesn’t quite know how to describe the way he feels when he faces an empty shore. He isn’t sure he wants to try. 

His hands are still shaking as he trudges towards the Resident Service building. If the islanders who see him want to ask anything, they don’t act on it. He can feel them whispering to each other or simply staring after, curious and probably more than a little afraid. He owes the two girls from earlier an apology. He could see from their dashed and torn expressions that he had confused and probably traumatized them. It definitely wasn’t the paradise experience he’d promised. He’ll have to find some way to make it up to them. Jonesy seems close enough to them; he’ll ask her what she thinks is best. 

Whatever he does, he’s going to have to clean up this mess. Somehow. For now he just breathes in, and out. If he just takes enough slow deep breaths, maybe he can calm the shaky feeling in his stomach. Coffee is probably not the best option, but he still finds himself craving it’s warm and sweet comfort. He gives his watch a quick glance to see how much time he has before entering the Resident Service building, making sure it isn’t time to swing by the twins at the shop yet. Up further South, he can hear the islanders, having a grand old time on their own, any worries they’d had from earlier seemingly forgotten. There is definitely a good bass going, tremoring under his feet. He sighs, weary. At least some of this island’s residents are having a good time. 

He’s met with Isabelle and Jonesy, who had been previously engaged in a deep discussion before he’d barged in, doors swinging open on their hinges. Isabelle makes herself busy with heating up water, but Jonesy leans her elbow on the counter, eyes dark and curious. She’s going to face this situation head on, he knows, and she won’t stop until she gets a satisfactory conclusion. Unfortunately, he also knows that he does not have the best temperament to follow her ambition in this particular venture. He’s already plotting how to avoid this conversation despite knowing it’s a failed endeavor.

“You okay, Mr. Nook?” she asks carefully. He can tell she wants to find a way to lighten the situation up a bit from the way her hands make small fists as she punches the air playfully. “If you need a punching bag I just gifted one to Kody a while back. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind letting you borrow it.”

“I got my licks in, thank you,” Tom replies smoothly, keeping it plain and simple. Jonesy whistles, raising her hands and clapping. Always one for the theatrics. He rolls his eyes. 

“You wanna let me in on the information, Boss? What’s the 411 on the guy that had you out there terrorizing my private beach like we’d stumbled into Bundy?”

Tom doesn’t want to talk about it. He’d rather pretend it hadn’t even happened at all, to be honest. He’d like to go home and warm up the cinnamon buns left over after a very messy and panicked breakfast this morning. Every time he thinks of Redd, he sees red - no pun intended. He cannot stop replaying what had just gone down between them, and every time, his pulse climbs up again, against his will. He pushes into his work area and collapses into his seat before replying. And even then, he doesn’t answer her question. He has questions of his own for her concerning Redd.

“How did you even get involved with him?”

Jonesy colors a little, laughing guiltily. “I kinda just... wandered into his boat?” she gives weakly, tugging at her hair. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t really think about it when I went in there. Not my strongest decision, in retrospect.  His pad is super sketch, by the way.”

Tom feels his blood starting to boil again, and he knows it’s not her fault and he shouldn’t be mad at her, but the frustration with her windswept behavior is bubbling up anyways. Usually the consequences are only inconvenient. This particular result is making him want to disappear from existence. He cannot fathom for a moment why she would just meander onto his boat and make small talk with the man. Perhaps it’s just his twisted vision of him, but Redd practically oozes suspicion and deceit when he sees him, which he’s made sure is rare.

“ Amazing artist, though,” Jonesy is continuing. She’s focused on Isabelle now, grabbing her hands. She fake swoons and Isabelle laughs. “And the pipes of an angel . You should have heard him…”

“I don’t want you going near him again,” Tom interrupts. Jonesy drops her act with Isabelle and is trained on him again, crossing her arms. “And why is that ?” she questions, pushing up against his side of the counter. It feels inquisitive, and even though he’s pretty sure he’s the boss, he feels like a rowdy student at the principal’s desk. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it. If he does, he’s not sure what’s going to come out. He knows it will only be a mess. He didn’t move hundreds of miles away, uproot his small family and invest millions of bells just for chaos to follow him. Otherwise, it was a poor venture. He’s starting to think it is. He seems to have a knack for putting his bells in the wrong places.

“He’s a sham, Jonesy. I’ve had bad business with him before. And I really despise the fact that you just wandered onto his ship, without any idea who he was, without letting me know first.”

Jonesy rolls her eyes and snorts. “Okay, Dad ,” she teases. He doesn’t smile. Her face drops. 

“Wait, you’re serious?” 

“I’m always serious, Jonesy. Just because you don’t take it that way…” he starts, but she’s already losing her stern brow and trying hard to stifle a giggle. “I mean it. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Soren you bought is fake.”

“You mean the Suerat?”

Tom exhales heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose hard. He’s finding it particularly hard to breathe. He can almost see the smoke coming out of his nostrils. “ Whatever it was, it’s probably a rip off. You got scammed. If I know Redd, and unfortunately, I do, I’m sure of it.” 

Jonesy reaches over for him, pulling his chair closer to the counter. He can hear the wheels slowly turn as he slides across the floor. She looks worried now, and serious. He quickly decides it’s not a good look on her. 

“Just don’t worry about it, okay?” he continues. Her face scrunches up in thought. She looks upset. Something is turning in her mind, and she seems perplexed about it. “I get that he seemed like a great guy, but trust me…”

“No, not that ,” Jonesy stops him, sneering playfully. She shoves at him. “I was thinking about Blathers. He was so stoked about an art wing.”

She sighs in disappointment, pouting. “Where am I gonna find someone now?” She turns back to him, and he sees it already in her eyes. The same glint when she got the incline, which he still hasn’t seen. He’s shaking his head before she can even talk.

“No, Jonesy , I’m serious, no…”

“ C’mon, ” Jonesy is begging, hands shaking his in a prayer clench. He can’t let her win though. Not this time. Not for this. “I promise I know art. I could totally just play him back! I don’t even think he knows what’s fake and what’s real. He didn’t even know the name of the Suerat. I had to tell him! I could get him back and haggle to get him to downcharge, I can beat him at his own game…”

“Jonesy, no you couldn’t! He made it his entire career to cheat people. I know !”

“You know? How do you know him? You never answered my question!”

“Just trust me!”

“Who got you K.K.? Who helped you build this island from the ground up? Me , boss! You can trust me . I'm telling you, I got this…”

“And I’m telling you to stay away, Jonesy! Just listen to me and stop being so irresponsible for once !” Tom interrupts, a whirlwind fist slipping out of her grip and colliding with his counter. It is louder than he’d intended it to be, and in an instant, he knows he’s made a mistake. The silence that follows is heavy and frightening. Isabelle gasps quietly next to him, not knowing what to say. He can see her shrinking into her chair out of the corner of his eye, burying herself in her plants.

He swallows hard, heart sinking and pounding heavily in his stomach as he watches a strange look come across Jonesy’s face. This is not how he’d expected this conversation to go. She looks angry, as if she’s about to lash out at him. He will deserve it, if she does. He holds his ground, waiting for her counterattack.

“Hm. Okay .” Jonesy mutters, smacking her tongue. Somehow, her calm demeanor stings worse. He finds himself wishing she would yell at him. Tell him off a bit, so they’re even.

“Jonesy…” he starts, reaching for her, but she turns and leaves him alone with Isabelle, letting the door swing-slam behind her. The deafening hollow in the air hurts, especially in comparison to the commotion that had just conspired. It feels like a slap. 

His hands are shaking. He’d completely forgotten to get coffee. It’s no matter now. Coffee wouldn’t be strong enough at this point. He needs a genuine stiff drink.

“Isabelle, I…” His voice is shaking too. This isn’t good. Quite the opposite- this is horrible. This is exactly what he had been trying to avoid by moving so far away. He had worked so hard to build a paradise, to protect himself, and it is falling apart so fast. He couldn’t fix the problem; he made it worse . Redd, even after all of this time, still has a hold on him, as desperately as he’d tried to pry himself free of it. Not only has he failed to keep himself safe, now he’s exposed the entire island to it. And he’s sure that they’ve seen Jonesy leave the building the way she did. He doesn’t think her to be a spiteful or petty person, but he cannot find it in himself to blame her if she does tell someone about it. 

“Mr. Nook,” Isabelle starts, voice very quiet. He turns to her desperately. He’s just lost Jonesy, he’s sure of it. He was extremely out of pocket for shouting at her that way. There is absolutely no way their relationship will be the same after the disrespect he had just shown her. He can’t lose Isabelle too. She looks perplexed, as if arguing inside herself about what she wants to say, and it’s sickening, because he’s sure she’s afraid he will snap on her the same way. This isn’t the image he wants to make of himself to anyone. 

“Isabelle, I’m so sorry you had to see this. I’m…” Tom freezes. He has nothing to say. There is no excuse for what he just did. There is no reason to explain why he’d behaved the way he had - none that would make sense, anyways. After everything that had just happened in the last few hours, he’s exhausted . His hands are trembling terribly. There are a thousand thoughts crowding into the forefront of his mind, and none of them are pleasant.

Isabelle pours a cup of tea and slides it towards him. He looks up, shocked. She sits directly across from him, hands folded atop his desk. She breathes in very slowly before speaking, and he braces himself internally before meeting her eyes.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” she asks, when their eyes lock. Her voice is soft, but stern. He winces. “And I need the truth .”

Chapter Text

Pushing ice against his cheek hurts, but if he doesn’t deal with it now, it will leave a bruise, and then there is no earthly way he’ll be able to come up with a tall tale about that . Tom had a heavy hand though, so he’s confident that there is going to be a bruise anyways, ice or no ice. He’s going to have to nurse this for a week or two before he returns. 

He didn’t know what else he’d expected when Tom saw him again. Somewhere in his mind, he wanted to believe that maybe, after all this time, the anger had died down for him. He knows that this was just wishful thinking, but he is a wishful man. He’s come to accept that. It comes with its drawbacks though, his bruising cheek and stinging heart being two of them. He sighs aloud, holding the ice against his face and wincing at the cold. He lowers the needle on the record, settling into the old recliner. He lets the compress rest against his cheekbone for a minute longer before tossing it away, restless.

He almost hadn’t believed it when he’d heard about the place. Tom Nook had always had this idealized version of society - and economy, he had always gotten onto him about that - and somehow, he had realized it. Redd remembers doing a double take when he’d heard the words Nook Inc coming out of a passerby’s mouth. He didn’t ask any questions, but he’d listened in as she’d excitedly explained to her family and friends that she was moving, as soon as possible, to this apparent paradise on a remote island. Even then, it took awhile before he finally mustered up the curiosity to come take a look for himself, and low and behold, it existed. 

A part of him is proud of Tom. Despite everything, he still has such soft feelings for the guy. If he had a choice, he’d demolish them entirely. He’s sure Tom does not return the sentiment, especially after their brawl.

He hadn’t been prepared to fight. Before Tom had connected his fist with his jaw, he hadn’t planned on laying a hand on him. But he had riled him up too much, as he was prone to do, and Tom is still sore about their past. 

He really can’t blame the guy. What he’d done was close to unforgivable. But he couldn’t let Tom stay comfortable with him. They were getting too close for his own sanity. Even now, there are still remnants of Tom Nook with him, in his music choices, in his sketchbooks, in his coffee. He’ll never drink it, he hates the stuff, but something about the smell brings back warm memories that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let go of. He tells himself it’s because he likes the song, because artists practice faces for perfection, because he needs coffee to wake up - hey who doesn’t? Caffeine is an addiction. 

As many times as he plays Call Me Irresponsible though, it never fails to render him in tears. He can scribble away his memories of Tom’s face on paper until his sketchbook is full, it’s never quite perfect enough for him. He can pretend he’s going to trade away the coffee pot every time he encounters a wandering market, he still finds himself every morning with that same pot full, same heart empty. 

Tom had never felt the same. He knows this. It was for the best that he’d severed things before he’d embarrassed himself. It doesn’t change the fact that he stays wistful, reminiscing a little, fantasizing a lot. But memories and fantasies are easier for him to cope with. There are no repercussions for them, no matter where his mind wanders. It’s reality that comes with consequences he’s afraid of. If he saw a therapist, they’d probably tell him he was afraid of not being in control, and that he’ll sabotage a good thing just to avoid a hypothetical bad thing. But hey, it hadn’t failed him yet. 

Nursing his bruise though, he’s wondering if maybe it has this time. 

It isn’t as if he’d expected to just instantly sweep Tom off of his feet the moment they’d reunited - although that would have been perfect, if you asked his opinion. But he hadn’t expected the reaction to be so explosive, so violent. He’s never known Tom to be a violent man. At the very worst, he had assumed Tom would have merely smarted off a bit, before begrudgingly letting him make camp and do business. Each in their own corner minding their own, so to say. Besides, from what he’d gathered talking with the islander girl who’d bought his painting, his business was needed . Tom had never turned down an offer for the good of the community.

He flips his sketchbook open, the one she’d been looking through earlier. There was something about her he’d liked, although he couldn’t put his finger on it. Smart, for one, seeing as he couldn’t trick her into an exuberant price.  He always got along well with other like-minded folks, and she seemed to have the same tastes as he did, but with a name to it. He gets the feeling he would have learned a thing or two from her. But it’s something else, too. 

He groans, realizing. He’s lonely . The world of business is not one for making friends, in his personal experience. The moment some wide-eyed genuine soul comes his way, he’s tempted to drop everything to try and build some sort of connection. At least Tom has his island. He doesn’t even have a family member badgering him on his phone. No one calls, except to accuse him of some sort of fraudulence. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. He knows he should stop, but the black market is easier to enter than to exit, and the money keeps the game appealing. The only drawback is that he can’t quite spend the money to live as lavishly as he’d like, otherwise he’d be caught in an instant. But the addiction stays the course, and he follows behind at the helm, at its beck and call. 

There’s no point in moping about on it. He swirls his Scotch, watching the ice cubes clink against the glass. He can’t help the sentimentality that he feels anyways, but he has to shake himself out of it. He got one deal out of the entire excursion, for now. He’ll have to find a way to slip back onto the island, worm his way into the other islanders' hearts, and make it damn near impossible for Tom to refuse his business. If he gets a hold of this Blathers fellow, that might be his golden ticket. A museum can’t be that hard to find on such a remote island, especially considering it has wings and all. It has to be an extravagant place. His curious side would like to see it as well, just for himself perhaps. He’s not denied a little personal pleasure, surely. 

He sips at the Scotch, his mind humming now. It’s a sure fire scheme, but he has to mull it over for any kinks. He can’t have a hitch in his plan or it will all blow up in his face. Similar to the way tonight went. He has to think this one thoroughly. The resident girl he’d met had been nice enough. He could whip up some sort of romantic tale for her to take his side and assist him. It will have to be believable though, or she won’t fall for it. He’s sure of that. No doubt Tom has already revealed his disgust for him, and logically, she’s more likely to stay loyal to him than take the side of someone she’s only just met. He’ll have to implement a little bit of truth in there, just as bait. He has a striking suspicion that if he sways her, he will sway Tom. 

It’s settled. His melancholy is forgotten at the bottom of his empty glass, and he’s reaching for his graphite. He wants to remember her face. He runs the pencil against paper, and runs his memory against the day, forcing himself not to mull over every second he had been lucky enough to be within six feet of Tom Nook. Closer, even. He hadn’t changed much at all in the face. Round cheekbones and wide, deep set eyes, thick eyelashes and dark irides. A long and rounded nose, prone to scrunch just before a sneeze or when he’s particularly thoughtful or angry. Curvy mouth, full lips. Thick hair, curly as ever. He remembers all of this from before. It’s the rest of his body that gives away time; Redd knows he’s not the same himself, but he can really see the years in the way Tom has softened around the middle, rounder and more plush in comparison to their past. They were both spritely and nimble once, Redd remembers. He can’t count on his fingers the number of times they’d run through the city, feeling like they had nothing but themselves and their dreams of creating something . 

At the time, they’d had an apartment that they’d split rent on, and it was no le chateau , but they made do. Tom had a way of making a space a home, he had to give him that. Redd had always found the place run down, and he can recall several times making drunken promises that soon they would be living like kings, but Tom had always shook his head, settling into the old recliner, claiming that it was the only throne he needed. And even though Redd hated to admit it, he began to feel that way too. After the collection of mugs started to take space on the counter and the throw blanket was worn down to lint balls and frayed ends, he saw it. The stacks of vinyl, the VCR tapes, the reruns they promised not to watch all of but ended up losing precious sleep to - he saw it in all of it. Home. 

It  just soon became painfully obvious they were dreaming of creating two entirely different worlds - and that those worlds just couldn’t coexist. They went from cooperative nights to hour long fights in a matter of what felt like minutes. Never mind the fact that they’d started this together, a rift started. Redd wanted to make more money, Tom wanted to make honest money. He has to face the music that Tom had lost his trust in him long before he’d done what he’d done. His so called betrayal was just the final straw for Tom. But for those few and fleeting moments he’d been with Tom Nook, he had started to believe that they could be something together. He is sure about two things: one, he is head over heels for Tom Nook, always has been, and probably always will be, and two, Tom Nook does not return the feelings, and never will. But if he can keep their friendly -or less than friendly- rivalry within walking distance, he’ll take it. He’ll just have to figure out how.

“Damn it,” he curses aloud, putting the graphite down. He’s drawn Tom again. The record is still spinning, but the music has stopped. 

He’d meant to draw the girl. What was her name? Josie? Jolene? It was something with a J, but the name escapes him. He’d wanted to sketch her profile, as a condolence gift in regards to the entire fiasco he had unintentionally put her through. He may be a bastard on the Autobahn to hell, but he’s no villain. At least, he tries not to be. He can’t help but feel a little guilt-laden at dragging her into his little lover’s quarrel. He tears the sketch of Tom out, nearly crumpling it, but one last glance and his resolve weakens, and he places it on the small table next to him gingerly instead. It’s no matter. It isn’t as if Tom will ever come and find it. He’ll simply have to start over, and focus this time - which means the Scotch will have to remain untouched. 

He sighs heavily and leans over his book again, training his mind on her face. Wide eyes, lithe frame, thick brows - he closes his eyes and runs through her on the trawler, meandering about the paintings and artifacts. Calculating eyes, she had - bright. Similar to Tom’s bright blues, except she has the color of honey in hers. Subtle cheekbones. He doesn’t quite remember the shape of her mouth, but he remembers her laugh, full and warm. She must do a damn good job in her appointed station. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d felt so easily welcomed. He wishes he’d had more time with her. Perhaps she would have told him more about Tom, had he asked. She seemed fairly close in the small interaction he’d observed between them, or as close as anyone could get. Tom had never really opened up to anyone, outside of the twins he’d taken in. He sure did miss those two. He wonders how they look now; if they’ve grown tall. If they like coffee the way that Tom does. They used to help in the shop - they must be masters at it now. He muses on this, scratching away. 

He’s not sure it looks quite like her, but he’ll make the comparison the next time he sees her. His cheek is throbbing now that the alcohol has worn off, however, and he finds the gentle rocking of the boat rendering him drowsy. Bruised ego or no, he’ll have to dock his home somewhere soon, unless he wants his pillow to be some sharply edged rocks along a foreign coast. He gives the sketch one last look over before deciding he’s satisfied for the moment, making his way onto the deck, letting the stars guide his way. He tries not to think about how even the stars make him long for earlier days, and steers the boat slowly, his heart anchoring in his stomach. He’s sure not even his Scotch will fix that. 

Chapter Text

When she stomps back down to the beach, Redd is not there. There’s no surprise about it though, now that she seems to have a better handle on the situation. She crosses her arms and curses out loud. 

“I better get that Seurat in the mail tomorrow!” she yells at the sky. Of course, it doesn’t answer back. The stars, now out, twinkle softly at her. She kicks at the sand angrily. 

She should have trusted her gut. Something was odd about him, and she had known it from the start. But she’s not necessarily angry about the art. No. She knows without a doubt she had placed her hands on a genuine article - and even if she hadn’t, she hadn’t spent too much on it. But there’s something between him and Mr. Nook that keeps her mind reeling. 

She’s never seen him lose his temper, let alone curse the way he did, loud and publicly . Actually, she can’t recall ever hearing him curse at all, and she’s sure she’s tried his patience before. Sometimes on purpose, most of the time by accident. Still, even then, Tom Nook has never raised his voice in the time she’s known him. Never . 

Had it shaken her? Sure, a bit. But more than that, it made her curious. And furious . She’s confident about one thing: this Redd character did something that Nook found unforgivable. Whatever it was, it must have hurt badly for him to react the way he did. She probably shouldn’t have pushed him on the subject. He might be right about the rash thing, now that she’s properly reflecting back on it.

“You alright, love?”

She turns, expecting Ketchup, or Cheri, and she’s ready to immediately explode everything she’s feeling, but it’s Henry, wide-eyed with a cup of tea in hand. His nightshirt is ruffled, so it’s clear he left his home after his preferred bedtime just to look for her. He looks as if he’s debating whether he should have even approached her or not, so she has to be wearing an intimidating expression. She softens her face, smiling and stretching out her hand for his. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you were someone else,” she says quietly. He seems to accept this, offering a small smile back and squeezing her hand. 

“Quite a commotion, wasn’t it?” 

Jonesy snorts at this. “You could say that,” she replies. Henry has always had a very particular way of communicating. But she’s always liked that about him. They get along very well together. Despite his eccentric personality at times, she finds him a soothing sort of person. Even now, he hands her the cup, which she was sure was supposed to be for him. She takes it anyways, grateful. 

“How is Mr. Nook?”

Jonesy huffs, and Henry ducks to hide a smile. “He’s as alright as he can be, I guess. How did the festivities go after I left? I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as fun without me around.”

Henry notices her deflection, but doesn’t pursue it, and she silently thanks him for it. She isn’t sure she’s ready to talk to anyone about what has just happened, seeing as she doesn’t even know for herself. There’s no point in gossiping without facts. Henry sits, pulling her down with him. He crosses his legs and sits back, singing softly at the night sky. It’s all fine with her. She’s always been drawn to the life Henry brought to the island. He sings the same few tunes, over and over (particularly Drivin’ ) but she doesn’t complain. Especially now, it fills her mind and leaves her at ease.

“Do you remember when I first met you?” she asks suddenly, and he stops mid-measure, giving her a meaningful glance. 

“Yes. I remember thinking you were a complete savage running wild,” he responds smoothly, and she elbows him, a mock-hurt expression on her face. 

“And I thought you were a complete snob !” she returns. Henry rolls his eyes. 

“Having elegance and class does not make someone a snob, ” he points out, which only makes her snort into the cup. He frowns in concern at this. “If you just sneezed your phlegm into my cup, you can keep it, love. Think of it as a memento from me to you.” 

“I could say the same to you about my phlegm ,” Jonesy teases, and Henry shudders, shaking his head. She throws her head back and laughs, and after a while, he relents, shrugging and grinning despite his disgust. He squeezes her hand fondly and they sit in the grass, listening to the stars and the crickets. Jonesy sips at the tea. “This is so delicious, thank you. You always give me the best gifts” she says, leaning on his shoulder. “I think I needed this more than I realized.”

Henry grins laying his head against hers. “I figured,” he responds gently.  “It is good to see you back to your smiling self.” 

It’s silent for a moment more before he continues. “Jonesy, you’ve been one of my favorite people to get to know on this island.”

“Okay, you don’t have to lie for me, Henry, I know pity when I hear it,” she jokes, but when he looks at her, she knows something is up. She sits up, alert, setting the teacup in the grass, clasping his hands. “You know I love you so dearly, right?” 

“I know,” Henry murmurs. He sighs heavily. She can see it in his eyes, a strange sort of sadness. He stares at her for several minutes before looking at speaking again. “I… I’m thinking of leaving.”

“Because of tonight?”

Henry chuckles, shaking his head. “No, although I can see why you’d think that. But it’s something I’ve been meditating on for quite a bit.” He loops his arm in with hers, and she knows he means to comfort her, but she feels as if she wants to puke. Henry was her one calm on the island, and she’s not sure how she feels about him wanting to leave, especially right now. A large part of her wants to tell him to stay, to make him not leave. She knows for a fact that if she begged him to stay, he would, just for her. She knows this because she’d do the same, if the roles were reversed.

“What made you start thinking about all that, then?” she asks instead, despite everything. At the end of the day, it’s his choice. If he wants to leave, she’ll have to accept it, even though it will come with heartbreak. 

Henry doesn’t quite answer her. “You know,” he starts, instead,  “when I first met you, I was so nervous. I’d never ventured outside of my town before. Everything in my life had a schedule, was in place as it should be. You were so convincing, though, that I made the move. And I don’t regret it. Living here has been an amazing experience.” 

He nudges his shoulder against hers. “Now, I sort of yearn for another adventure, if you can believe it. The bug has bitten me, and I’ve been stricken with wanderlust.” 

Jonesy grins. “So… I can’t convince you to stay?” she teases, elbowing him. They both laugh, but it dies down quickly. Henry’s eyes are sad, and she can sense he’s torn about the decision. But she knows if he’s made up his mind to go, she can’t be selfish enough to guilt him into staying. She can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Henry deserves the world. The least she can do is let him see it for himself. 

“I’m going to miss you,” she settles on. Just the simple truth.  

“Me too,” he replies. They’re quiet again for what feels like hours, sitting side by side. They settle on small talk, although it feels pointless when the time seems so limited now, but Henry promises he will write and send postcards, and Jonesy promises she will attempt at being more graceful. She wants pictures of wherever he goes, but he must be in the photos as well. 

“But of course, love,” Henry assures her, winking. “I must make my mark on the world. I’ll want every bit of evidence that I’ve made myself out to be well-traveled.” 

She holds herself fairly well while he is there, and then cries for a good while when he leaves for the night. Today has gone from bad to, well, worse . She squeezes the teacup in her hands, mind racing, the coolness of the grass seeping through her clothes. It is nearly midnight, and she cannot even think about sleeping when there is so much to think over. Not only have things seemingly gone wrong for Mr. Nook, now a dear friend is leaving, and those are two things she does not like, happening at once. She’ll have to put together something for Henry, before he goes. An actual memento . Something that the two of them shared. It shouldn’t be too hard. Henry is one for the finer things, but he has a sentimental heart, and the sentiment is prioritized over the prestige. At least for Henry, it does. 

The shop is well past closed. Cheri and Ketchup may be awake, but they hadn’t really interacted with Henry as much as she had, and she’s not sure they’d know exactly how to help her. Besides, if she went now to ask, she knows for a fact they’d ask about what had happened with Tom Nook at the beach, and she does not have an answer, still. And it doesn’t look like she’ll get one from Mr. Nook any time soon. She is pretty sure if she talks to anyone right now, they’ll ask the same questions. 

She starts to feel sprinkling over her head. It has been raining a lot on the island lately. She rolls her eyes. The sadness is trickling into irritation, quickly. 

“When it rains, it fucking pours, huh? That’s what they say, isn’t it?” she calls out into the clouds. They only open up more, and there is a heavy rainfall now. She’s drenched. She didn’t bring an umbrella either, although she doesn’t think she is entirely to blame for that. It isn’t as if it was in the forecast. Not that she’d checked. She just assumed from the day long sunshine that it would have been fine. Her mistake. She groans. 

She knows one other person who is immensely sentimental that she could talk to. Someone who, more than likely, is not aware of what has occurred. She makes up her mind to take a little trip to the museum, despite knowing a five minute question is well on its way of being a five hour question. It’s a worthy sacrifice, for Henry. 

“Blathers? You awake in here?”

She peeks her head into the office, where Blathers is nestled into the chair behind a large oak desk. He peers up at her over thin-rimmed glasses, a book wide open on the desk. He was clearly mid-read, but she’s hoping that this will have him give her a quick and simple answer, and then she can go to bed and sleep the rest of this nightmare day away. 

“Jonesy!” Blathers calls, eyes lighting. “You know I’m always awake at this time, my dear.”He bookmarks his page, folding his hands over the book. “I’m the nocturnal sort.”  

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course! I’m an open book. But wouldn’t you like to get dry first?”

She’d already forgotten about the rain. She shivers on cue, as if Blathers took the spell off of her, and she can feel again. She takes a deep breath, urging herself not to cry. Not here and not now. Crying is useless anyways, and she needs advice, not pity or comfort. Although, Blathers does seem like the type to give an excellent hug. She’s not close enough to ask though, so she doesn’t pursue the thought. 

She nods, sneezing. “That’s a good idea, actually,” she says, grimacing at him in embarrassment. “You don’t happen to have a towel on you in here, do you?” 

Blathers chuckles before getting up from his seat slowly, rummaging through the large polished armoire behind him. While she wraps herself in a large old blanket, trying to acclimate her body to the heat, she drops her question about Henry leaving, and is quite proud of herself for not tearing up at all, outside of having to swallow a large lump that’s been living rent-free in her throat for the past hour or so. Blathers ends up getting quite into it, but it works out in the end, as he gives quite a few suggestions, and she settles on the idea of creating an oil painting of him. Henry would love to show it off where he chooses to build his next home, and she can already see him displaying it proudly. 

Unfortunately, the entire idea of the artistic venue just reminds her of her other dilemma, the one she was trying to forget, and was doing a fairly good job at up until then. She sighs heavily, and Blathers eyes her, the question written on his face. 

“I guess I have to tell you the bad news too, then,” she admits, crossing her arms and slumping in place. The blanket feels heavy. Blathers waits patiently. She sighs again, and fixes her gaze on the electric fireplace. “I thought I’d found a way to get you some artifacts for your art wing, but… we ran into a slight problem.”

“Is that so?” Blathers hums. She can see the disappointment in his eyes and the droop of his mouth. She wants to wither away and rot.

“It’s just - I didn’t realize the vendor was someone Mr. Nook hated so much!” she blurts. It’s apparent; she just cannot keep secrets. But maybe Blathers can. Ironically enough, she trusts that he will. She waves her hands in exasperation, the blanket falling from her arms. “I did get you a beautiful Seurat original - I’m pretty sure anyways - but this Redd guy is a whole scam and half, apparently! At least according to Mr. Nook…” 

“Oh- Redd, hmm?” Blathers says. His eyes widen, as if he’d spoken too soon, and he is surprisingly quiet. She knows instantly that he’s hiding something, from the way he suddenly just can’t seem to keep eye contact with her.

“You know something, don’t you?” Jonesy accuses knowingly, pointing at him. Blathers shifts in his seat, attempting to bury his interested face in the book in front of him. He does not reply, but she can see the guilt crawling all over his face. “You do! Spill. We both know how you like to talk about things you have knowledge on, so spill the tea, Blathers!”

“Spill the - what?” Blathers squawks. She doesn’t miss how he seems to clutch at his own mug, just near the edge of his desk. “I beg your pardon?” 

She plops down on the seat opposite of the desk, throwing her legs over the arm and crossing them. She folds her arms, staring him down. “I mean , tell me the truth,”

“It’s not my truth to tell,” Blathers replies, taking a sip of his tea. He cocks a brow at her. “And I’m not entirely sure it’s your truth to know, young lady.”  

Jonesy feels herself color at this, but it doesn’t deter her. “Well, someone is going to have to tell me,” she pushes, despite Blathers’ small reprimand. “And I am pretty sure I’m not gonna get it from Mr. Nook.” 

Blathers exhales softly, surrendering. “To be frank with you, my dear, I really don’t know what all went down between them,” he murmurs, faraway in thought. He sinks into his chair, his eyes wistful. “I only know that they were close, once. Inseparable , even. You might even dare say that...”

He pauses. The rain is pattering outside steadily, and the hearth crackles lowly beside them. Jonesy waits for a moment for him to continue. When he doesn’t, seemingly lost in thought, she leans forward from her chair and puts a hand on his arm. 

“Say what ?” she presses. She can feel the thick fibers of his sweater under her fingers. “Please. I need to know. I don’t like seeing the bossman upset. But Redd seemed like a really sweet guy, and I - it just doesn’t make sense. C’mon , Blathers. Help a girl out here.”

He looks at her again, finally. “I’ve already had a rough night,” she continues, grinning softly. He slowly cracks a small smile. “I’m a damsel in distress . I need some assistance.” 

“Well, I… it’s just that it was only speculation on my part, really,” he begins, and she scoots the chair closer in immediate interest. “But I would dare say that they were… well, for lack of a better word… soulmates .”

Chapter Text

Story will be postponed until Friday. My cat passed this week, and I started a summer camp for kids, so I am a bit behind! Thank you for understanding.

Chapter Text

He hasn’t seen her in two days now. The dread is settling in. She probably wants nothing to do with him. He has been by her house several times, and she has not been home. He has checked the beach, the ocean, the gardens, the library, and the cafe, and there has been no sign of her. The Able sisters have not seen her, and neither have the twins - and that investigation on its own was a difficult one.

“You didn’t fire her or tell her to go away, did you, Uncle Tom? We like her!”

“... like her!” 

Tom had shook his head, and the look of relief in his boys’ eyes was close to heartbreaking. Having the side eyes from the other islanders was hard enough. Seeing his own family look at him as if he’d mutated into some sort of monster was more than he could bear, especially considering their rift was already pretty wide. The notion that they were certain he’d gotten rid of their Resident Representative - and apparently, someone they enjoyed having around immensely - painted a very vivid image of the impression he’d given everyone that night. 

He groans, rubbing his temples. He cannot stand letting Redd stay in his mind so much, but it comes anyways, and he remembers that night more than he’d like to. His thoughts wander back and forth, between seeing those all too familiar eyes look at him again, and Jonesy’s face when he’d lost his temper with her. He still cannot pinpoint exactly what her emotions were. He knows without a doubt that she was angry, but there seemed to be more. 

He just wants to find her. He just wants to talk to her.

He has some coffee beans he’d ordered from a catalogue that he knows are extremely warm and rich. Jonesy likes coffee - perhaps not as much as he does, but she likes it all the same, and if it’s a rare find, she will especially appreciate it. It’s a small gift, but he’s hoping the token will soften her up whenever he finds her, and then they can patch things up. The past two days have been much lonelier than usual without her around, and without her presence to distract him, he is starting to slip back into daydreams that leave him confused and upset. Fantasies and ideas that he thought he’d buried a long time ago.

When he and Redd had been - it’s hard for him to even think of how they’d been friends, once - there were many times that they’d shared in front of an old generator, warming their hands and trading ideas. He had big dreams, too big for Redd, who would always laugh and tell him to be more realistic . But he listened, all the same, and Tom distinctly remembers a time when his hands were so cold that Redd had held them while he talked. He detests it, but his heart still races when he thinks about those nights, freezing but feeling as if he were engulfed in flames all at the same time. 

There were so many times he’d wanted to say something then, so many times he was sure Redd was going to confess something to him. There would be too long of a pause, and Redd would sigh and mutter to himself, and he would brace himself, and then - nothing would follow. Redd would hide behind his vinyl, and he would brood into a glass of whiskey, wondering what should have happened. He still does, sometimes, when he can’t fall asleep - and those nights are often. He catches himself holding his own hand sometimes, remembering more than he wants to. Wishing for things he knows he should not. 

A low chorus of giggling catches his attention, and he shakes himself to attention. It’s the two girls from that night, painting each other’s nails and immersed in some sort of secret conversation, nestled on a picnic blanket. It only reminds him, again, how socially inept he’s become. Redd was always better at the connections part of business. 

There he goes, thinking of him again. It’s been worse than usual, since that night. He grits his teeth and makes his way towards them, coughing awkwardly when he’s near so that they’ll pause whatever conversation they’re engaged in before he can hear it. 

They turn, immediately. Cheri - he remembers her name now - screws the lid back on her polish before setting it down. He can see the glare of the sun in her shades, but her mouth has dropped from its previous smile to a neutral line, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it, and he doesn’t have the slightest clue what it means about how she feels. Ketchup grins and waves at him, but she can’t seem to look him in the eyes, suddenly finding herself occupied with the basket in front of her, fingering the fraying edge. 

“Have either of you ladies seen Jonesy?” 

The girls glance at each other for a brief moment before looking at him. “She said she was going to scout for another islander, now that Henry’s gone and moved out,” Ketchup finally sniffs, when Cheri does not respond. “He was so sweet… ” 

“And he gave the most amazing gifts.” Cheri adds, sighing. “The island is so quiet without him now, too. No one sings in the plaza anymore like they used to, since he left.” She looks up at Tom over her sunglasses. “But she set off this morning. I don’t know when she’ll be back, to be honest.”

She purses her lips, and Ketchup is strangely silent. It is a painful type of awkward. Tom knows without a doubt that they know everything that’s gone down the past couple of days. Especially after his public spectacle. Jonesy is friends with all of the islanders, and there is no way she didn’t vent to at least one of them. And that’s all it takes for everyone to know everything about everything. 

“Want us to pass on a message for her?” 

He swallows. “No,” he replies, quickly. The expression Cheri gives in return is unreadable because of her sunglasses, but he is sure she’s already speculating. He’s seen Jonesy around these two enough to know that they are particularly close, and he can almost feel the resentment towards him. They have a strong, sisterly love; he can see it in the way Cheri seems almost defensive for Jonesy’s honor. Ketchup as well, although her feelings come across in a different way. Either way, he is not in their good graces at the moment. Not that he blames them. In truth, he is glad of it, and wishes he had the same sort of folk in his own pocket. 

There is a long pause. “Well,” he sighs, after he cannot stand it anymore. It is either the heat of the sun or the heat of their silent condemnation, he cannot tell which. “If you do see her anytime soon, just let her know I’m looking for her.” 

Cheri gives him a salute, which for some reason leaves him more uncomfortable than ever. “Will do,” she says, with Ketchup nodding, finding her sandwich again. She doesn’t look up from it. 

He almost immediately hears their voices, low and somber now, as he walks away. He can feel his anxiety trickling down his spine in rivulets. He has half a mind to turn around and speak with them again, just to clear things up, but he is certain that anything he does now will only garner more painful conversations and idle gossip in his absence. He’ll have to leave things as is, for the time being.

He feels his adrenaline crashing just as he re-enters the Resident Service building, where Isabelle attempts to pretend she had not been eagerly awaiting his return by turning in her swiveling chair and typing furiously on her keyboard. Her cheeks are burning though, and he can see a bit of perspiration on her forehead. 

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he calls from the door, trying to cut the tension. She seems all too eager to oblige, nodding and turning towards him almost as quickly as she had turned away. She adjusts her office fan towards her and tousles her shirt by its collar, panting comedically and grinning. 

“You’re telling me,” she returns. She waves an arm through the air. “A.C. must be broken or something. I’m sweating up a storm in here. Not the best look for a Human Resources Rep.” 

She cocks an eyebrow. He hears the slow swivel of her chair before he sees her eyes on him. She folds her hands atop her desk. “Which, speaking of - not to pry, but - have you seen our Resident Representative anytime recently? I know it’s a bit of a touchy subject, but I’d wanted to gift her a small Lily of the Valley in congratulation for bringing our island’s ratings to five stars. I’m up to my ears in requests to visit!”

Tom feels himself sag without controlling it. The feeling is contagious, because Isabelle instantly droops with him, brows pinched in concern. “I’ll take that as a no, hmm? I am sorry to hear that. I know you’re,” she halts, thinking, “ eager to patch things up as soon as possible.” 

He does not respond to this. He doesn’t know how to. He retreats into his side behind the counter, sinking into his chair. There is still coffee left from this morning. For some reason, his stomach can only turn just thinking of drinking it. Perhaps it’s the ungiven bag of beans still in his clenched and sweating hand. He sets it down on his desk, feeling how its papery wrapping has already worn down and wrinkled from his earlier hours-long grip. Just besides it, there is still a stack of files waiting for him to order and respond as needed. It feels more overwhelming than usual. He just cannot find the energy for simple tasks (although that may simply be from him traipsing about the island in its humid heat, with little to no water). 

But sitting at his desk doing nothing is no good either. He fidgets in his seat, shaking himself out of his thoughts yet again. 

“I’ve only just missed her,” he says aloud, to which Isabelle seems to perk up again in interest. “Some of the residents informed me that she’s gone out scouting for a potential new islander, in light of Henry’s move out.” 

“Oh, you know, I had already forgotten,” Isabelle murmurs, sighing sadly. “The poor girl. She did love him. I’d seen them quite often together. I’d say they got along quite well. It did come as a shock to me, that he had wanted to leave. When he’d come to tell me he wanted to schedule a move out I almost called a bluff!” 

Tom knows it is probably not because of him, but his sneaking guilt and self-criticism tell him it is. And that if he keeps it up, he’ll frighten off all the other islanders as well. It is more than likely that Redd will be back around again, as he knows there is potential business now, and he will have to deal with it, like it or not. Salt on his wounds, he supposes. It is a part of business that, deep down, he had always known he would run into and would not be able to avoid forever. Still, he had been hoping it wouldn’t have been like this. Not with Redd. Not after everything they had been through together.

“It was quite a surprise, hm?” he responds, but he is still lost in thought, again. He had assumed that it would be he and Redd against the world, creating a strong and beautiful alliance. Redd had always been a bit more spontaneous and reckless, and they’d had several in depth conversations in agreement that Redd would man interpersonal connections and commerce while Tom would hold the fort, keeping charge of their finances and having the final say in agreements and trades. 

It had worked for a good long while, and they had become a good pair. Outside of business even. There was no complaint from either of them when they found themselves still in each other’s company, hours after they should have gone home. That was when they’d decided to move in together. It was a winning situation for both of them - as they could save money and continue to cook up ideas - and cook, in general. Tom distinctly remembers baking so much more back then. His sweet tooth has not gone away, but his love for creating sweets has dwindled quite a lot. A sad truth. 

“All that sugar is going to make itself at home right about here , Snookums,” Redd had teased him, pinching him just on the waist. Tom remembers this was something Redd would do quite often, which had driven him insane . He’d never told him to stop though, and he still thinks about Redd’s hands on his hips sometimes, despite it hurting him in different ways now than it had then. 

“I’m sure she’ll find someone to replace him though,” he continues, trying to ignore the fact that sometimes, he thinks of how easily it could have been Redd across from him right now, teasing him with that agonizing crooked smile. If Isabelle had noticed he is not quite in the present, she does not show it, humming in response and offering light-hearted suggestions as to how he could patch things up with Jonesy. 

Had Redd mentioned anything at all to Jonesy? She hadn’t seemed to know very much at all, but she’d seemed so keen on keeping him around. Or perhaps she really just had been eager to give Blathers an art wing. It is the least they could do for the poor fellow. He had always been so dedicated in lending a helping hand, even as far as traveling from the mainland. He really had a passion for the Sciences and Arts, and it wouldn’t do to let his personal feelings get in the way of that. In hindsight, had he just told Jonesy to be cautious and to keep Redd away from coming onto the island, it more than likely would have been the better entrepreneurial choice. 

He hadn’t expected it to hurt so much though. In all honesty, he had thought he would have been over all of this by now. He hadn’t realised he was still nursing the sting of unrequited feelings, and when it had all come to a head, it had felt like sutures being brutally ripped apart, with no thought or care for the wound it was re-opening. The kneejerk response had been humiliating. The more he ruminates on it, the more he regrets it. 

There is no point in dwelling on it, he knows, but he can’t help it. And until he sees Jonesy again and patches things up, he’s sure he won’t be able to stop it. 

It is a good few hours of forcing himself to work and falling into a listless routine of watching the clock and opening a file folder, just to put it back - when he hears her voice, and an outcry from some of the villagers. He wants to look out the window and call for her - bang on the window pane until she turns to him. But he doesn’t knock on the glass, and he watches her embrace Cheri and Ketchup, and he turns back to his deskwork, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He feels Isabelle gaze on him, and he is certain she wants to tell him something. To urge him to go now and catch her while he can. 

“Mr. Nook…” she finally starts, and he’s unsure who is fretting more over this, himself or Isabelle. He’s sure he is causing her blood to rise, the way he’s pacing back and forth by the window, cup in hand. 

“Alright, Isabelle, you’re right ,” he surrenders. No point in avoiding the inevitable. It is nowhere near as bad as he is making it seem, anyways. 

“I hadn’t said anything yet…” Isabelle starts, but he’s already out the door, blinking in the sunlight, seeing clouds ahead. He’s wondering if it will ever stop raining so much on this island. He turns the corner, taken aback but not surprised that Jonesy is already far ahead, with whom he supposes is the new islander. He can only see the back of his head, but it is an entirely different character from Henry, that is without question. He can tell by his stance and the way he projects his voice with everything he says. From what he gathers, Jonesy seems almost unsure how she feels about him herself. She’s smiling though, waving about characteristically and no doubt talking the poor man’s ear off, despite her still painfully missing Henry. 

He wishes he had taken the time to be closer to her sooner. He knows loneliness, and he knows losing a friend. At the very least, he could have been there for her in the way she has for him. He feels it again, the guilt of snapping on her so quickly. He should have been there for her, instead of being so warped into his own mind. He’s going to amend that. It’s now or never, and he’s not settling with never.

“Jonesy!” 

She turns, mid-conversation. “Hang on, Lucha, I’ll give you the tour in just a minute, I promise ,” she explains, and the new resident - Lucha - shrugs and waves her off. Tom suddenly feels very small, watching her swivel on her foot and shade her eyes to get a good look at who had called her name. Even more suddenly, he feels his heart swell, as her face almost instantly lights up, contrary to what he’d feared her reaction would be. She’s barefoot as always, in torn up mudded denim overalls rolled up to her knees, and her fishing pole is swinging dangerously in her hands as she runs towards him, arms waving wildly. 

“Mr. Nook!”

“Jonesy.” 

“ I’m sorry. ” 

They both blurt it out. Jonesy puts her hands on his shoulders, before he literally makes himself pass out from the stress. Somehow, he feels she knows he is feeling lightheaded from their unspoken tension.

“No, boss, seriously, I’m sorry,” she continues, shoving at him gently. “I meant to tell you. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I should have realized there was something else going on.” 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

He says it very quietly, but it is the truth. And his voice is wavering, which is not good considering the islanders are nosy, especially Ketchup and Cheri, who have slowed down in their stroll, whispering to each other low whispers. His breath is stuttering, and when he returns the favor of resting his hands on her shoulders, he feels nothing but gratitude when she takes over the conversation, and quickly. He cannot have another fiasco - or Jonesy might be out searching for yet another new islander.

“Yeah, you really fucked up there,” she agrees, shaking him. “But… I know all that anger and hurt wasn’t meant for me. And I’m sorry for not making that clear for you, and for making you worry. I should have told you I wasn’t mad at you when I left the way I did.” 

“You weren’t?” 

“No- absolutely not ,” she insists. She smiles, winking. “I’m in your pocket first, Tom Nook. I know I tease you all the time, but I like you, you know?” She stops, backing up a bit just to look him in the eyes. “You’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. I knew something was wrong for you to react like that. I’m your friend , Tom. I’ve got your back, I promise.” 

She grimaces. “I uh… just kinda got distracted, and forgot to tell you all that. I’m really sorry about that. I mean it.”

He doesn’t respond, and he isn’t sure why he keeps finding himself short circuiting lately. He feels his eyes start to well up, overwhelmed, and for a minute, he starts to lean in, but then stops himself, feeling unsure of what the appropriate thing is to do in this situation. What is professional . 

“ Christ ,” she huffs, rolling her eyes, but pulls him in for a hug. He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“ Thank you ,” he’s murmuring softly. 

“Now, get it together, will you? And don’t ever put me in a position where I have to say those kiss-ass kinds of things to you ever again , it’s disgusting ,” she gripes, pushing him away as quickly as she’d pulled him in, and he is relieved to hear himself able to laugh and pull back, eyes still bright but the tears dried before they could fall. “You’re my boss . You should seriously consider lowering my debt by a grand or so for the extra service.” 

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and he knows Cheri and Ketchup will be dying for her to tell them what just went down. Somehow, he doesn’t quite mind as much anymore. A weight is lifted, knowing that everything between them seems alright again. 

“I might consider that,” is what he says, and when Jonesy only exhales humorously and begins falling into her crass nature again, assuring him that they are not in a whore house, he doesn’t need to pay her for anything , he can only nod patiently, falling into the rhythm of her cadence again, letting her voice take over his thoughts. It feels like opening dusty curtains and letting the sunlight right back in, and it feels a bit dramatic, considering it’s only been two days, but it’s the truth of how he feels. 

“To be honest, I…” Jonesy is saying, and he brings himself back to the present, his focus on her again. She laughs, flushing guiltily, tugging at her hair. Her finger is twirling around the loose line of her rod, and he wants to tell her about how dangerous that is, especially with such a sharp hook, but she catches him off guard, explaining, “... I told everyone thatI was out looking for a new islander, but that was only part of the truth. The other part was I was totally gonna try to find that Redd guy so I could give him a black eye for you.” 

“ Jonesy …” he reprimands, but he cannot say it with conviction. He wants to believe he is shocked at her confession, but finds it’s really quite in her character, now that he thinks of it. She grins, giggling wildly.

“Admit it, I’m the best Resident Rep you’ve ever had on this island!” 

“You’re also the only one I’ve had on this island,” Tom tells her, but he doesn’t deny her claim, either, and he doesn’t think twice when she loops her arm in his, calling to Lucha up ahead to say he’s a lucky winner, having the prized Resident Representative and the island’s esteemed leader showing him around. 

“I got coffee for you, by the way. The ‘fancy’ kind,” he mentions, just before he forgets, and it’s the warmest feeling, when she smiles at him in excitement. 

Chapter Text

That’s so romantic,” Ketchup sighs. She’s sitting, cross-legged, with Jonesy lying her head in her lap. They’re on Jonesy’s bed, pillows towered aside and sheets rustled. Jonesy has opened her bedroom window, but it’s let in more flies and other vermin than it has any wind. The floor fan hums soothingly, shaking its head back and forth, almost as if it is listening. 

“Yeah, I suppose . If you like tragedy,” Jonesy replies. Ketchup gives a noncommittal grunt to this, fingers in her hair. She was supposedly attempting to practice braiding when she’d asked her to lay down, but Jonesy is beginning to suspect that Ketchup just wanted to touch her hair. Not that she’s complaining. She does like the attention, and a good head massage feels lovely, especially from Ketchup. She has some sort of magic in her fingers: Jonesy is sure her hair is tangled beyond repair, and she hasn’t felt a tug too painful yet. 

“Are you kidding me? The tragedy is the best part!” Ketchup argues. “Everyone loves a good mutual pining story. The angst of it all…” 

“But I’d rather it just all be upfront, you know?” Jonesy responds. She’s thinking about it all, and she sort of gets it - the romance of the pining. The mystical what if . But it leaves everything so complicated it frustrates her, sort of similar to how she feels right now, about this entire situation. She angles her head to look at Ketchup, who scowls at her. “Wouldn’t you rather just skip the complication and just… be honest ? You get the happy ending faster.”

“Stop moving your head, Jonesy!” Ketchup argues, waving her hands in exasperation. Unfortunately, her hands pull Jonesy’s hair with them, and they’re both screaming, Jonesy in shock and mild pain, and Ketchup in apology. Jonesy rubs her sore scalp, sitting up. 

“Good things are worth waiting for sometimes,” Ketchup replies, after it seems the commotion has died down between them. She straightens out the blanket underneath them, patting it down. There’s a small breeze, finally, and Jonesy wipes the sweat off of her forehead, rolling her eyes. She can’t help but grin, though, at how convicted Ketchup seems of what she’s saying. She knew that Cheri and Ketchup had the same sort of mind in certain cases, but it’s clearer now more than before: Ketchup is truly the hopeless romantic kind. Even now, she’s still sighing to herself, no doubt concocting all sorts of scenarios that are nothing short of dramatic. “Can you imagine what it will feel like when they finally say I love you to each other?”

“Or if they just have an encore of the other night, this time with an addendum of broken bones? Yeah, I can imagine,” Jonesy returns, trying and failing miserably to not sound too condescending. Ketchup rolls her eyes and throws a pillow at her. 

“Don’t ruin my moment!” she fusses, pouting. 

“Hey- if I knew that’s how it would go, I’d be all for it!” Jonesy defends. She holds her hands up in surrender, before sagging her shoulders and sighing. “I just know that that’s really how it’s gonna go.”

She scoots closer. Ketchup is already shaking her head, as if she’s sharing a conspiratorial train of thought. Jonesy knows she isn’t the cynical type either, though - she had just seen it all first hand. Ketchup had as well, which is leaving her wondering why the other girl is even supposing there could be any happy ending to all of this. She doesn’t know how she would get them to even talk to one another. 

“On top of that,” she adds out loud, to which Ketchup leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, “we don’t actually know if they ever were anything! That was just Blathers talking, and you know how he is.”

“I do ,” Ketchup agrees, simply. “And I know that he’s super smart about a lot of things. That’s why I’m pretty sure he was onto something.”

She shifts and pulls at Jonesy, dragging her closer by her arms. “Now turn around and let me finish! You can’t go around with a half-done hairdo with my name on the line!” 

Jonesy complies, despite her patience wearing thin. It’s hot, and she wants to swim. But while Ketchup hums away, content with finishing combing her fingers through Jonesy’s hair, Jonesy runs over everything Ketchup has just said. Regardless of what conclusion she comes to, if Blathers is correct or not, there is one thing she knows for sure: they have to fix this. She and Mr. Nook might have made up their small disagreement, but that’s only made it all the more obvious to her how much the entire Redd Alert (she and Ketchup have decided that is what they’re calling it) situation has affected him. Mr. Nook always gave her the impression that he was sad and old and lonely - which is why she had always made it her mission to pester him as often as possible - but it’s become more pitifully obvious than ever. 

Ketchup pats her on the back, and she sits up, still lost in thought.

“All done! Check it out,” Ketchup is crowing. She pushes at her, urging her towards the mirror. “Go, go - take a look.”

Jonesy hops off of the bed, making her way to the dresser as ordered. She doesn’t know if Redd is even going to ever come back to the island, after that, and she doesn’t know how she’ll approach him if he does. Now that the initial anger is worn down, and she’s thinking about everything that’s been said and done since, and everything is muddled and complicated. And she hates complicated. She touches her hair in the mirror, grinning softly. 

“It looks nice!” she exclaims, and she catches Ketchup’s shy grin in the corner of the mirror. She blushes and fiddles with the hem of her shirt. 

“Well… it’s still a bit lopsided…” she’s murmuring, and Jonesy jumps back onto the bed, swinging her arms around her. She’s going to have to figure this out, but for now, she is with someone she likes spending time with, and she’s not going to ruin it by spending the entire time thinking about someone else’s problems. 

“Come on, let’s find Cheri,” she says, and pulls at Ketchup’s hand. “I want to go swimming; it’s way too hot today!” 

“She’s probably with Kody, you know,” Ketchup insinuates, waggling her eyebrows. Jonsey rolls her eyes and grins. It’s definitely true; Cheri has been nonstop asking after Kody and striking up a conversation with him whenever she got a chance. Now there was a romance she saw promise in. At least Cheri went after what she wanted and gave it all a chance. 

And she didn’t have to worry about any of it. 

“So let’s invite him to swim with us,” Jonesy decides. “We have to practice for this band thing we want to do anyways, right? I’m sure Cheri would love to hear his opinion.” 

Ketchup agrees full heartedly, leaping off the bed and already out the bedroom door. She’s calling for Jonesy to hurry up, and Jonesy quickly snatches up the airplane bottle from her dresser, taking a small sip before pocketing it and rushing out the door after her. She can hear Ketchup on the phone, no doubt already informing Cheri of their plans. 

The kitchen table is a mess. She needs to find her sunglasses. There’s bills and various letters all over the place, and she slides papers back and forth until her eyes finally land on them. She slides them onto her face, patting herself down before leaving the house. The keys are in her back pocket, her phone in her hand, and her whiskey is in tow. Everything is accounted for. She picks up her drumsticks by the door, debating and then deciding to carry them along, just in case. 

“Jonesy! Freya is with them, is that okay?” Ketchup is shouting, just outside the house. Jonesy slides her door shut behind her. She’s already nodding, sidling up next to her, lacing their fingers together. 

“As long as she brought her own drinks, I’m fine with it! I’m not sharing.” 

Ketchup giggles and nudges their shoulders together before passing along the message. They stroll, hand in hand, getting distracted in the fruit orchard on the way. The oranges are juicer than usual, and it’s welcome in the heat. Ketchup pulls out a small pocket knife from her bag, and they end up resting under a tree for a good while, sharing slices of pears until they’re full, and the sun is not so high. 

They find Cheri and the others perched on the reclining lounge chairs of the neighborhood beach. Freya, characteristically, is holding a cup of what is most likely alcohol of some kind, clearly under its influence. She’s waving her hands reliving some wild story, with Cheri clasping her hands over her mouth and Kody throwing his head back in laughter. Whatever it is, they had only just missed it, and join them at the seats. Jonesy bumps her hip against Freya, scooting her over so she can sit next to her. 

“You telling the tattoo parlor story again?” Jonesy asks, slipping out her bottle and unscrewing the lid. Freya shakes her head and clinks her cup against the mouth of Jonesy’s bottle before they take a drink together. Freya swipes at her mouth, leaning back against the recliner, an arm draped over the side. 

“No - although I could ,” she replies, smiling cheekily. She gestures towards Cheri, who’s holding her sides in laughter. “Cheri told me about your ladies wanting to start a girl group, and it reminded me of the time I snuck backstage for my favorite band and-”

“Don’t! Don’t! I can’t hear it again,” Cheri wheezes, waving her hands desperately. Ketchup and Jonesy share a look when she leans against Kody’s shoulder, holding onto his arm for dear life. Kody seems to be coming down from his own hysterics, trying to steady Cheri on the recliner that they are sharing. 

“To spare you the details, don’t overdose on Tequila,” Freya says simply, taking another drink despite what she had just said. “You will always regret it.” 

“ That depends on what kind of a person you are,” Jonesy teases, winking at her. “I’ve never regret a single thing I’ve done while wasted.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, welcoming our community leader’s apparent ex lover was not a regret?” Freya questions, eyebrows raised. Jonesy slaps art her arm playfully, eyes wide in mock hurt. 

“You wound me. And please tell me that’s not already all around the island?” 

Freya’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me, dear, you really think that hot gossip wouldn’t already have circulated by now?” she asks. Cheri and Kody look away, shamefaced. Jonesy covers her mouth. 

“That’s horrible! Poor Mr. Nook.”

She means it when she says it, she really does, but something about it is underlyingly funny all at the same time. She squeezes Ketchup’s hand, trying desperately hard not to laugh, but a small snicker slips out anyways. 

“God, he has to hate that!” she continues, and she’s still in shock, but she’s giggling despite herself. She groans, burying her face in her hands and pushing her hair back. “What am I supposed to do ?”

Freya gives a sympathetic shrug. “Make a scene that’s bigger than that,” she suggests. Jonesy rolls her eyes. As if she could possibly think of any bigger news than a lover’s quarrel. It doesn’t matter now, if it’s true or not, the entire island is under that impression now. She wonders if Mr. Nook has any idea. Knowing him, he probably does not. She’s starting to think there may actually be some perks to his hermit lifestyle. Imagine knowing that an entire group of people are in your business? 

“We could… put on a performance here?” Ketchup adds. She reaches for Freya’s drink, taking a small sip gratefully. “We did want to come together to practice. Now we have a reason to!” 

“Cheri was telling me you girls had some ideas,” Kody chimes in, suddenly intrigued. Jonesy doesn’t miss how his eyes don’t leave Cheri. He fidgets in his seat. “I’d love to hear them.” 

“I bet you would,” Ketchup mutters under her breath, and she and Jonesy have to hold themselves together. Jonesy pulls out her drumsticks, tapping against the wood of the recliner. 

“Well, this music is not gonna make itself!” she chirps. She points to Freya and Kody. “You’re our audience, except with more benefits, like being able to tell us we suck if something’s off.” 

“As long as I get to throw panties at the drummer, I’m good,” Freya replies, making herself comfortable on the recliner opposite of them. Jonesy grins and winks at her, whistling. Ketchup chokes and her mouth drops, as if surprised by Freya’s audacity. At this point, Jonesy feels as if nothing Freya does or says will surprise her. She’s known her long enough to know her boundaries pretty far. 

“Alright, give me a beat, Jones,” Cheri says, holding her water flask as if it were a microphone. 

When they’re tired from rehearsing (and Jonesy gets hot enough to jump into the ocean), Cheri makes a run to grab drinks from the juice bar, taking everyone’s order before she goes. Jonesy let’s herself float against the waves, feeling them slap against her skin. The wind is starting to pick up, but the air is as hot as ever, so the water is welcomed. Ketchup and Freya sit where the beach hugs the shore, their legs and feet being gently splashed with the tide. She closes her eyes, letting the sun hit her and her mind wander off. The sound of the ocean rushes around her, and she hums contentedly. 

“Jonesy?”

She flounders around, opening her eyes and doggy paddling to Kody, who’s treading water right next to her. He moves closer, glancing back at the beach before turning to her again, something clearly on his mind. 

“We’re bros, right?” he asks. Jonesy nods. 

“Well, duh,” she responds, leaning forward to shove at him. “We gotta hang out more. You have to leave the gym more often though for that to happen.” 

“You know my gains are important to me!” 

Jonesy scoffs. “Yeah, okay ,” she teases. Kody grins sheepishly, glancing off to the side for a moment. 

“Seriously though, can you help me out with something? I feel like you’ll be cool about it.” 

She’s starting to feel like that’s the general vibe the entire island has for her. Not that she’s complaining. She dips underwater to cool her head and pops up again, watching Kody’s face. 

“It’s about Cheri, isn’t it?” she says more than asks, smiling. Kody flushes, and he can’t meet her eyes right away. He stammers for a minute, and she catches him looking back again, almost as if he is panicking. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” Jonesy continues, grabbing his shoulder. “I just noticed, that’s all. You know she’s super into you too, right? You should invite her to spend time with you.” 

She gives him a knowing look. “She loves any kind of brunch, and she likes to go for jogs. I’m sure you can make those things work to create a pretty good first date.” 

Kody lets out a huge breath. “Fuck- seriously ?” he asks, clearly relieved. There is an unbeatable smile spreading across his face. “I mean, I sort of had the impression, but I didn’t know if maybe I was just making it up because I wanted it to be true…” 

A larger wave smacks at them, and catches them off guard. It knocks off Kody’s sunglasses, and Jonesy gets a mouthful of saltwater. When she comes up for air, they’re both coughing and spluttering. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jonesy snorts, still trying to expel all the water in her nose and ears. She cocks her head towards the beach. “Besides, I think your girl is headed back right now.” 

Kody whips around, surprisingly fast for someone in water, and Jonesy is starting to think that maybe Ketchup isn’t so crazy about the true love thing. Kody certainly seems to be infected with it, already calling for Cheri and making his way to the shore, legs smashing against the waves as he splashes towards her. Jonesy takes her time wading back, but she can tell from the way everyone is reacting that Kody’s proposal for a first date went really well, and she sighs in relief. 

“Well, there’s one question answered,” she comments to Ketchup, while squeezing her hair out. She sits herself next to her, shaking her head and splashing her. Ketchup squeals and pushes at her, laughing uncontrollably. 

“Jonesy the water is so cold!” she gripes, trying to frown. It doesn’t last long. She breaks down eventually, grabbing their drinks from the tray Cheri is holding. 

They sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying their drinks and the ocean beside them. The sun is just behind the clouds now, showing off its pinked and purpled shadows. Kody and Cheri are lost in their own conversation, and Freya strikes up small talk with Jonesy and Ketchup before heading home, her sandals flip-flopping in the sand as she walks toward the neighborhood. Ketchup wraps a towel around herself, despite being the driest out of all of them. 

“Walk me home, Kody?” 

He’s pink cheeked, but he doesn’t decline the offer, standing with Cheri when she asks. He hesitates for her hand, unsure of how to approach her, and she snorts, reaching out and clasping his fingers before he pulls away out of intimidation. Jonesy can see it on his face, a calm sort of happiness. It reminds her of when she crawls into bed after a long day, relaxed and contented. 

“See you ladies tomorrow!” Cheri yells over her shoulder, and then it is just the two of them again. Jonesy digs her toe in the sand, languidly making shapes. Ketchup sighs and leans her head on her shoulder. 

“Was that enough romance for you, then?” Jonesy teases. “You happy now?” 

“I can never have enough of a good romance,” Ketchup argues back, pouting. “Besides, there was no flair! He just asked her out and she said yes so casually !”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” Ketchup replies. She’s looking down at the shapes, poking her own toe into some of them, making pictures. She draws a triangle over Jonesy’s square. “A heart fluttering, breath racing kind of thing, I guess. Isn’t that always the best kind? When you’re just… blown away by them? Your true love?” 

“Huh,” Jonesy remarks. “You know, I’d always thought I’d like it the other way around. You know, that when you find someone, you feel at home around them. A nice kind of safe and calm kind of thing, if you get my drift.” 

Ketchup doesn’t respond. “You always know you're safe with them,” Jonesy continues. “Like a family, but you get to pick them.” 

“Isn’t that just like having friends?” Ketchup asks. 

“Why not? Shouldn’t your true love be your best friend anyways? Someone you have the most fun with?” 

“Maybe,” Ketchup murmurs. Jonesy can see her eyes fog over in thought. She wants to pry and ask if it’s something else bothering her, but she doesn’t want to make her talk about anything she doesn’t want to. And besides, Ketchup has always been a hopeless romantic. It could just be she’s never thought of it that way before. 

Maybe, if Mr. Nook and Redd ever were in love, they just hadn’t been able to accurately identify it either. It’s a thought. Maybe they were just as lost about it as she and Ketchup are, with their own polarized ideas of it. 

“Maybe it can be both?” she offers, after thinking on it long enough. “Maybe your heart can race because you’re just so happy you’re with the person you like the most.” 

Ketchup smiles. “I really like that, actually,” she replies softly. She sips at her drink until it is gone, and then stands slowly, stretching. She puts a hand up over her eyes. “It’s getting late. I’m really ready to watch a horror romance.” 

“There is no such thing.” 

Ketchup winks. “There is , if you try hard enough,” she jokes. Jonesy rolls her eyes, but dusts herself off from sand and other particles from the ocean water. She can still feel the way it had lapped up against her legs as she walks home, only stopping to say goodbye to Ketchup as they pass her house. 

She’s still thinking about their conversation when she’s back on her secret beach a few weeks later, trying to craft a mini bar just to save the walk. She’s mid installing a fridge behind it, mulling over everything again, wondering if there was something she could have done. Something she should have done. That, or perhaps Ketchup is rubbing off on her, and she’s turning into a hopeless romantic. Not that that’s a particularly bad thing. It just might not be altogether accurate. 

It also didn’t erase the fact that somehow, Redd had hurt Tom Nook. Lovers or not, they must have been close, for it to matter so much. And it must have been something pretty bad for Mr. Nook to be so defensive and unnerved about it. Whatever it was though, Redd had seemed unbothered by it, and that was the part that worried her the most. She’d meant it when she’d said Tom Nook was a friend in her eyes. She didn’t want to be trying to rile up old feelings for the sake of a maybe love story. 

And almost as if on cue, the wind begins to pick up, and the smell of smoke catches her, and she glances upwards, face setting when her eyes land on the familiar trawler. 

“Alright, we’re settling this shit. Now ,” she manifests aloud, putting down the cords she’d been fiddling with just a minute ago. She makes her way towards the small indent of land where the small boat had last been anchored, where she can see that he has already been settled for quite a bit of time. She clenched her fist. 

Depending on how he answers, she might not hit him. Emphasis on the might. 

Chapter Text

Her sketch had turned into a painting. He hadn’t planned on it, but here he is, scraping strokes across the canvas, humming softly to himself. Maybe to the painting too, he doesn’t know. He thinks she’ll appreciate the time he’s taking to use gouache. It’s a new medium, and it’s taking him longer to figure out the right amount to apply, but he loves the texture of it. He wasn’t sure who’d started it, but his last tour around through the mainland showed him that it’s the latest craze in the art world. 

Possibly she’s heard of it too, and will be in enough of a tizzy about it that he’ll be able to win her back over. Just enough to be able to get his foot on the island, enough to hitch his business here as well as everywhere else. 

And maybe just enough, still, that he can get a good look at Tom again. Even if it’s from a distance. Just a foot in, that’s all he’s asking for. He doesn’t think that’s too much, even considering everything between them. 

It’s white wine in his glass today, because he just feels the need for a bit of class. He’s opened the windows just a crack to let a little light in and set an ambiance. When he’s finished, he plans to find the girl, and strike up a conversation. Will she wind her arm back? He wonders. Will she take a swing and slap her palm across his cheek, and give him a piece of her mind? 

She doesn’t seem to be the dramatic sort. Nevertheless, he’ll need to be prepared to disarm her immediately, just to give himself a fighting chance at befriending her again. The painting should aid him in this. If he opens up with gifting her with it, she will perhaps, thank him first, and whatever thoughts had initially crossed her mind will be disbanded by her need to admire his work. Hence the gouache. 

He is engrossed enough by the idea that he does not hear the flap of his burlap door sway to the side. He’s had a policy to never have his back turned on a visitor or customer, but he’d been lost in his own world for a moment, and has a close call with his wine glass when he hears her voice pierce through the trawler.

“You wanna tell me exactly how you know Tom Nook, Redd?” 

Redd nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the voice behind him, catching him off guard. Mid-painting too, which means that his first instinct is to cover up the art with an old potato sack and whip around to defend himself, for both the art he was just creating and the investigative question. The paintbrush clatters against his glass of water. 

Just like that, she’d spoken. No greeting, no friendly gesture. As he should have known, and as he did know. 

“Ah- cousin! We meet again,” he greets, already putting the salesman drip in his voice. He wipes down his painted fingers and makes his way towards Jonesy, who strangely is still standing at the opening of the small boat, crossing her arms and scowling uncharacteristically. It was to be expected, he supposed, given their situation. 

“Don’t you cousin me unless you’ve got the answers I’m looking for,” Jonesy returns coolly, popping her gum. She lets the door flap fall shut behind her, and while he has at least a good five inches on her, he backs away just a bit as she steps forward. She’s determined, and he’s intimidated. Just a bit. His hand falls, nonetheless.

“Of course! No secrets from family! But come in first, have a seat,” Redd insists, pulling out an old wooden chair. Jonesy hesitates for a moment, before rolling her eyes and settling into it. She’s still watching him with a hawk’s aggression, and he makes himself scarce by turning to his cabinets and taking out the coffee grinds. He pours them into a filter, filling his kettle with water to boil. 

“I also have several new rare art pieces I’m sure you’d love to get your hands on…”

“I don’t want art ,” Jonesy interrupts, unamused. She kicks out the other chair next to her and flips it towards her. “ Sit .” 

“But the coffee…” 

“Redd, I don’t give a shit about the coffee.” Jonesy chews at her gum, staring up at him pointedly. “Start talking, and fast .”

It’s clear he is not going to manipulate his way out of this. He sighs and plops down on the seat she pulled out for him, leaning back and trying his best to play it casual. If she doesn’t know the whole truth, he should still be able to play this off fine. He doubts Tom told her anything at all, and probably never will. All the better. He can at least tell the story at his own liberty. 

“Alright, you want to know how I know good old Nookie, huh?” he asks, grinning. Jonesy’s gum pops again, and she doesn’t respond. The silence blankets them for a minute or so before he finally continues. 

“Back in the day, when he and I were about your age - younger, full of ideas, energy, you know the like - we had run into each other at a little entrepreneurial event on the mainland. Neither of us had heard of the other before, but it had felt like an instant connection.” 

Recalling the moment aloud unsettles him more than he’d thought it would. Jonesy is still trained on him, her posture not relaxing. Her arms are still crossed. 

“So what happened to your connection? It was a bad dial up?” she asks, pushing for him to go on. Her mouth twists in sarcasm. “Who cut the cord, Redd? I need answers.” 

“Okay, okay , hold on now, I’m getting there,” Redd responds, hurriedly. He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Going back without wanting to. Thinking on what they had been. Wondering what exactly they had been. “Let me finish.” 

Jonesy blows a breath that he simply feels is hot. Her fists are clenched, which tells him that she had planned to do much more than a slap on the wrist when she’d approached him. He tries to assuage the tension between them, smiling and offering a low chuckle. 

“There was quite a bit before we had a little hold up. Tom and I had a similar goal, you see, to make it big in the business, but we had different motivations for it, and different ideas on how to get there.”

Strongly different opinions, he recalls. He can still remember their very first argument as if it was yesterday. It had gotten very heated in the moment, and Redd had been sure then that they would have gone separate ways. But they hadn’t. He feels the boat rocking underneath them from an incoming wave. Jonesy waves a hand, beckoning him again. 

“So, we began to go different ways, in a sense,” Redd admits. This much is true. The more they’d begun to disagree, the harder it became for them to work alongside one another. “Not for lack of trying. We’d still collaborate and attempt some sort of compromise that could keep us both satisfied.”

He sighs. Lies or no, this is always his least favorite to remember. “Tom was disappointed in me for trying to work the system in our favor. In my humble opinion, if you can’t beat them, join them, you know? I just wanted to help us get to the top, as quickly and as easily as possible, so we could both pursue our dream. But Tom… Tom has this rosy colored concept of business. He seems to be under the impression that everything will turn out in his favor eventually, and played by the book, no matter how I tried to get him to understand that sometimes, you had to play the field.”

“I mean, he did manage to create this entire getaway, and his own company,” Jonesy interjects. She crosses her arms, again, and Redd can feel her admonition in the way she stares after him. “He seemed to manage his own way just fine.” 

This had been his first thought, when he’d arrived. Somehow, Tom has done exactly what he’d set out to do, in just the way he’d wanted to accomplish it. Unless he’d given in to some of Redd’s suggested ways and simply not acknowledged or admitted it to another soul. Somehow, he knows this is not the case. 

“But this still doesn’t tell me what happened,” Jonesy continues, leaning forward. Now she seems more curious than infuriated, he notices, as she has let down her guard and is open in the way she carries herself now, resting her arms on her knees in wait. “So you had a bit of a disagreement. I understand that. But it seems the two of you had been fairly close. Surely he wouldn’t be so upset with you for a bad business venture that it would terminate your…”

He doesn’t miss the way she hesitates. 

“... partnership.”

He can hear the beating of his heart in his ears, pummeling him in a guilty fear. Not that it mattered much, what she may suspect. Wherever her thoughts may go, they remain thoughts. As do his. His thoughts did not change their course of fate. He doubts hers will fare much differently. It does cause his blood pressure to rise though, knowing how close she is to knowing. He wonders if Tom really had known all along, and simply hadn’t addressed it because he has been disgusted by it, and had been too polite to want to start a row over it. Surely he’d known, if a basic stranger had figured it out.

“You’re right, we were fairly close,” he agrees, and chooses not to elaborate. The less she knows the better. The less he remembers , the better. Seeing Tom again has just reopened every fresh fear, desire, wound - any and every emotion he has felt before, but all at once. He clears his throat, and stirs his brush in the water, and hopes she does not notice the way his eyes have fogged up. 

“The arguments became worse. I felt that Tom didn’t respect me, as his friend, but especially so as his business partner. It was insult and injury each time we had a go at it. Tom began to make inquiries without me, and invest in ventures before running the proposal by me beforehand. He knew I knew, of course, but it had come to a point that we had almost silently agreed to simply keep our business separate. This only negatively translated into our personal relationship.”

He has to look her in the eyes if he wants to sell this. So he does, as he knows he should.  It’s also a good interpersonal skill, to meet the eyes of the person you’re speaking with. He’s realizing too, that he’d colored her eyes wrong, probably from his faulty memory, and wonders if he should scrap the painting entirely before presenting it to her. 

“I did something... rash . Out of anger.”

He sees her swallow, and he wonders what he’d said that has caught her in some sort of web, but it’s no matter. He can spin the rest of the take now, easily. He folds his hands together, continuing. 

“Tom and I had a safe, see, where we kept savings for investments. One of our arguments had been where to put it, and what to invest it into. One night, we had a particularly bad disagreement. I remember it being the angriest I’d ever seen Tom Nook.”

He flushes, sheepish. “Save for the night at your beach. I truly am sorry for that, by the way. My behavior was…. not my best, to put it lightly.” 

“So I saw,” Jonesy replies, out of the spell for only a moment. She’s settled into the chair though, and she doesn’t seem to be wanting to have a go at him anytime soon. “It’s the alcohol. It makes us all a little stupid, huh?” 

“You’re telling me, ” Redd sighs aloud. It may not be the entire truth, but it’s still hard to tell. It’s never been something he is proud of, despite how he might play it off. “So, after our argument, while he was asleep, I took the money. If Tom wanted to see rash , I was going to show him rash. I took the money and I ran, and I blew it on everything I’d ever wanted to do that he hadn’t let me.”

He chuckles darkly. “Tom called me numerous times afterwards, of course, but I never picked up my phone. Eventually I got tired of him calling and I tossed it. I keep burners on me now. But I hadn’t looked back. We came close to running into each other again a few times, but managed to narrowly avoid it each time.” 

He leans back, resting his head on his hands. “And there you have it, little lady,” he finishes quickly, and he watches her face drop in disbelief. “I betrayed the confidence of a business partner and probably friend. But the world of financial security and finery calls me, you know.” 

Jonesy laughs, loud and nervous. “That can’t be it,” she argues, uncrossing her arms. He shrugs, but she isn’t buying his nonchalant behavior. He wonders if she can hear the way his heart is thundering in his head - if she can hear the intense rushing.

“It is what it is. I am quite the scoundrel,” he replies. “I do feel bad about it, sometimes.”

“No,” Jonesy interrupts, and it isn’t the slightest bit quiet, the way she says it. Quite the opposite, in fact. He isn’t sure if it is a rogue wave or her voice that caused the boat to suddenly quake beneath them. She points a finger at him accusingly.

“You may have known Tom Nook before me, and maybe you know him better than me, but I know this: Tom Nook is the most gentle and caring creature I’ve ever met in my whole life. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, not once. Not at anyone. So I wanna know, cousin,” and Jonesy is standing up over him now, a hand on the table, “what exactly did you do to him that made him not only yell at you, but cuss you out in front of the entire fucking island?!” 

“I said before, we were business partners. I told you the story. I scammed him. I outwitted him and I stole his money. ” 

Jonesy scoffs at this, revealing one of his sketchbooks, and he feels the blood drain from his face. He doesn’t know when she had gotten her hands on it, and he doesn’t know how. In any other circumstance, he would have been proud of her for slipping it under him, almost as if she were his protege. But it is not the case and all he knows is that she is holding it before him, her fingers laced in between the pages. His heart leaps to his throat as she lets it fall open, just so he knows that she knows. 

“So you just create thousands of sketches and paintings of all your business partners, cousin ?” 

Redd flushes hotly. “I hate that you’re using that against me,” he growls. Jonesy grins, still holding the sketchbook at an arm’s length away from him. He jumps for it, and she backs away, hand on the door. 

“Doesn’t answer my question, Redd,” she replies softly. 

“Don’t make me say it, Jonesy,” he pleads, and he realizes that it is the first time he’s genuinely said her name. 

“Well, you don’t really have a choice,” she states dryly, “Because I refuse to play telephone with you two. I need to get the bottom of this now , or Mr. Nook’s word is final.” 

“You wouldn’t boot me off the island.”

“I might.” 

This isn’t going the way he’d planned at all. Jonesy looks absolutely disappointed in him, which he finds strange, because they’ve only just met. He wonders who had ever put in her head that he should have been held to a high standard to begin with. It has to have been her naivety and positive nature. He suspects it’s why Tom seemed to like her so much.

He’d made her eyes blue. That’s what he’d gotten wrong. 

“I don’t care what you say,” Jonesy murmurs. She closes the sketchbook, handing it to him gently. “I know you’re a good guy, Redd. I felt it when we first met, and I’ve only felt it more the more I’ve learned about you. So… what happened? Tell me the truth.”

Redd sighs, relenting. “Can I at least make some coffee first?” he asks, meekly, the salesman demeanor gone. There is no point in pretending, not with her. Somehow, he knows he will regret it. “I’ll need something to look at while I humiliate myself in front of you.” 

Chapter Text

“Tom? Tom Nook? Did I get that right?” 

His eyes light up, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, you’ve got it! Tom Nook, that’s me,” he rambles, and Redd finds it somewhat endearing that he has no shame in his clearly babbling tongue. He may have also had a bit too much to drink, which only goes all the more to show how naive he is. It’s clear he’s never been to a soiree like this before. It’s almost frightening. Redd reaches forward a bit, lowering the cup in Tom Nook’s hand. 

“You regularly have brown like this, Snookums?” he teases. 

Tom Nook glances down at his drink, and then back up again, eyes wide. “I…I…” he stammers, shocked. “I didn’t realize. It’s only a Daiquiri.” 

Redd has to bite his lip not to laugh. “Daiquiri’s have Rum in them. You know that, right?” he asks, brow cocked. Tom Nook covers his mouth, catching a small hiccuping giggle behind his teeth. Redd has never seen such a wide and genuine smile, he’s sure of it. Not in this world. He grins back, but he can’t let it be full. Not yet. 

“I suppose I’d better put this down then, before I make any more a fool of myself than I already have.” 

His hand is still over Tom Nook’s. He slips the drink out of his hand, raising a mock toast. “No need to waste, hmm? I’ll finish it off.” 

Tom Nook just nods, and he downs the sickly sweet drink. In retrospect, he would have believed there was no alcohol as well, had he not known already. There’s a hint of pineapple and a copious amount of whipped cream. More than he’d like, if he’s honest. He’s more of a scotch on the rocks sort of guy. Tom Nook stares after him, as if he’d secretly been dying to finish the drink instead. 

“Let’s get you one with less… surprise, shall we?” he suggests, and Tom Nook’s face lights up again, a hand on his arm, clutching gingerly at his sleeve. 

“Yes! I’d like something a bit sweet, if you don’t mind,” he slurs, stumbling against him as they weave through the crowd. Redd chuckles, despite himself, and steadies Tom Nook just enough so that he doesn’t end up flat on his face. 

“Oh, I can do sweet , Snookums,” he implies in jest, winking. It doesn’t land, however, because Tom Nook merely smiles wide in pure excitement. It’s clear he thinks Redd was referring to a drink. He shakes his head at the innocence beside him. It’s a curious thing, then, that he’s here, mingling with moguls from all over the mainland, all of whom he knows have less than kind intentions. Or at least, he’s sure most of them are malicious in some sense. 

“Better yet,” he amends, with this in mind, patting Tom Nook’s shaking hands a bit. “Why don’t we get you a nice glass of cold water first? You’re looking a bit lost.” 

Tom Nook doesn’t respond, for lost indeed is the right word. He’s transfixed on the chandelier above them and the columns around them, cooing at the intricate detail and splendor of the place. Redd has never known someone to be quite so transfixed by an old building, but walking alongside Tom Nook, he feels as if he’s seen the place for the very first time, even though he’d been here on quite a few occasions. It’s a damn good thing he’d scooped this fellow up when he did. He would be eaten alive by some around here. 

Which is why he finds himself still with him, this enchanting stranger, at the bar with two glasses of water, instead of out making his rounds (and avoiding certain ones). There were quite a few projects he’d started and made promises to meet certain quotas for, and had fallen short. He owed quite a lot of people money, that was for sure. People who would not be happy to see him spending what they saw as their due on buying someone drinks. 

In his humble opinion, he can’t be blamed. Tom Nook has lovely eyes, the kinds people sing about. He’d know. He’s crooned in bars before for some extra cash. He knows all the classics. He blames them for his cursed romantic affliction. 

“Has anyone ever told you have angel eyes?” 

Tom Nook coughs mid-drink, the straw falling from his mouth. He grasps at a napkin, and Redd reaches over and thumps his back until he can breathe again. 

“I.. um, no, not really, but they’ve never said anything particularly bad about them either,” he replies, finally, after clearing his throat. Redd doesn’t miss the way he can’t meet his eyes just now, cheeks a dusky pink. He gets the impression that Tom Nook doesn’t do very well with compliments, or that he just hasn’t had very much practice. “Thank you, though. That’s very kind of you.” 

“Kind, Scmind , I call it like I see it, Nookie,” he says, elbowing him. “I’m not doing you any favors.” 

He flags the bartender down, ordering himself another round of scotch. The chair under him swivels smoothly as he turns back to Tom Nook, who is occupied with his own drink again. The guy really loves sugar. He smirks to himself. 

“So what brings you out here anyways? You don’t seem like the big city type.” 

Tom Nook slides his drink aside, eyes catching the light from above them. If he had a sketchbook right now, he would whip it out immediately, taking in the entire moment for memory. It’s the dazzling lights and the drink placement, of course - it almost fits into the Fibonacci sequence - but it’s also this Tom Nook’s eyes. They’re a deep blue on their own, but Redd keeps finding himself falling into them and wanting to commit to them, as they catch light wherever they turn. 

“I’m not,” Tom Nook explains, and Redd would normally drowse away and wait for a phrase that hints at dollar signs and revenue, but he’s just so enchanted by his company that he cannot even pretend to be aloof about it all. “My friends at home didn’t want me to venture out here either. But - and I know it sounds a bit silly- I have something I’d like to create, and I needed to be here to get it done.” 

Redd’s ears are perked, and he isn’t sure if it’s the drinks, the ambiance, Tom Nook, or just his idea being so damned spectacular, but he truly doesn’t care. He lets Tom Nook sober up, continually flagging down water for him while he explains, in great detail, on how he’d like to create an attainable paradise for those who need it most. Tom Nook, he discovers, struggles in his own way, his mind dark and merciless to him at times, and he only wants to bring himself and others like him the peace they crave and deserve. It’s an enterprise of the heart, and he wants to tell him it’s folly, to pursue it. But somehow, he cannot bring himself to break his heart on it. 

“You could come too, if you wanted.” 

Redd feels himself blush, which is a rare occurrence on its own. “Who, me? I could never be tied down, Snookums,” he jests, despite the loud and intruding pounding against his eardrums. If he doesn’t check himself, he’ll be swept away much too quickly by this fellow’s wild ideas. He doesn’t need another hard lesson on why it simply doesn’t work that way. But perhaps he can save this Tom Nook from having to learn the same lessons he had. He wouldn’t mind being a mentor of sorts. 

He leans back in his chair, swirling his drink. “Then again, I wouldn’t mind helping you out. I’ve been around the business block, so to say. I could give you some pointers.”

Tom Nook grins, and Redd realizes that his eyes really are just that bright, alcohol or no. Like an ocean, or sapphires, there’s an inescapable array of colors, a kaleidoscope of blue. He downs his drink before he says anything stupid out loud and mortifies himself - and possibly threatens his credibility in the realm of entrepreneurship. He’s already done enough, and he’s lucky Tom Nook is new enough to the field that he hasn’t heard of his reputation quite yet. 

“Would you really? I could use some help, actually,” Tom Nook admits, looking away bashfully. “You’ve already been kind enough to help me now. I wouldn’t want to impose anything, though.” 

Redd claps him on the back. He feels a bit bad, considering that Tom Nook has no idea that he’s probably just shook hands with a devil, but he doesn’t plan on anything malicious, despite his normal routine. Something about Tom Nook makes it hard for him to imagine he would - although if worse comes to worst, he will do anything necessary to save himself. He’s just hoping it won’t come to that, and it shouldn’t, if things go according to his plans. That should be fairly easy, as he suspects Tom Nook will be leaning quite heavily on him for any advice and guidance. His fears are for nothing, more than likely. 

“Well, now that you put it that way, I suppose I don’t mind being imposed on,” he decides aloud, and Tom Nook is already shaking his hand, sharing details immediately on how he plans to bring his ideas to fruition. Unless he has a lot of money, Tom Nook is going to need to raise some revenue or invest a lot, and quickly. He can handle that. He knows how to weasel his way into partnerships and wallets. While Tom Nook relays everything to him, he plans internally on how to support it, and himself. Tom Nook wanting to begin an entirely new community is the perfect avenue for him to set up shop and sell his trinkets and art, and Tom Nook is nothing less than thrilled to hear about it. 

“I’m just so glad to hear I have something I can offer you in return,” is what he says, and Redd has to bite his tongue and find a sudden interest in his lapel to not respond that Tom Nook’s simple company is more than enough. It’s been quite a while since he’s had someone look at him as if they believed in him, and while it may just be Tom Nook’s naivety and abundant optimism, it still pangs at him in the pit of his stomach. 

They exchange numbers just before parting ways, and Redd finds himself eager to send a message almost as soon as Tom Nook is out of his sight. He has quite a few patrons he needs to avoid, however, and so pockets his phone instead, and slips through drunken groups and meets with only counterparts he knows he can trust. Most of them, of course, being less inside the building, and more so around the back, under the pretense of a smoke break. Not that it’s too much of a pretense. It is a habit he’s tried to cut and just given up on. He has just enough funds to pacify anyone who is particularly at odds with him due to what he owes them, and leaves feeling more than a bit successful. 

He’s humming on the way home when his phone buzzes against his chest, and he’s already wincing in preparation of a threatening phone call or dubious message, but is relieved - and overjoyed - to see that it is a simple text from Tom Nook: 

It was so good to meet you, truly. I felt so overwhelmed until you caught me. Thank you. I can’t wait to work with you soon! 

He taps something back, the pleasure was all mine , and the like, but his fingertips are buzzing, and it takes everything in him to not bombard Tom Nook with a slew of messages. He cannot deny that he is ecstatic, however, for this chance at starting over. Tom Nook is akin to a light at the dock; he is a way out from his current predicaments that he’d fallen into. Not that he wants to completely depend on anyone - let alone someone so new - but it is a doorway. 

And Tom Nook made his heart beat so fast . Redd has always believed in love at first sight, but the feeling itself is indescribable, he thinks. No books nor songs could prepare a heart for the reality of it all. He’s pretty sure it’s what he feels, anyways. It’s perhaps a bit naive of himself to be thinking in such a manner, but when he had first locked eyes with Tom Nook, it was undeniable. He wanted to know him, to be around him - God , he wanted to just hold his hand. He’d tried very hard to find the mystical love thing, since he was young he’d been obsessed with the idea, but he hadn’t had to try with Tom Nook. 

Or perhaps he’s a bit whiskey-addled. That is yet another habit he hasn’t managed to curb just yet. Along with money laundering. 

Romantic whims or not, however, there is a business proposition in the wings, and he finally garners the courage to text back, ignoring the thrumming in his ribs. 

The first time they meet again, his knee is trembling against the underside of the table. Tom Nook is shaking too, but he’s sure it’s for entirely different reasons than why he is. He’s brought his documents and files in a flashy suitcase that he specifically remembers lifting from a men’s boutique west town, and Tom Nook has some papers paperclipped into a file folder that he’d pulled out of a small knapsack. It’s charming, but it won’t do, and he is sure to tell him that first thing. 

“Sable made this for me,” Tom Nook says, and his bright blues waver. “She worked really hard on it.” 

“And that’s so charming, Snookums, I mean it,” Redd dismisses. “But you can’t use it as a business piece! I’ll arrange a nice carrier for you, huh? On the house. Call it a little welcome gift, seeing as how we’re partners and all.” 

When Tom Nook immediately falls into thanks and blushing (and stammering, of course), Redd decides it’s just who he is, even with no alcohol involved.  Which only worsens his dilemma, as he suspected it would. It’s barely turned ten in the morning, and he already feels the need for a drink. Tom Nook is explaining the logistics of what he’s looking for, and they settle into making set plans. He has to hold his tongue when Tom compares investing to gambling, and try not to laugh when he details the outrageous timing within which he wants to complete this new community. But there are small things here and there that he sees potential in, and somehow Tom already knows a substantial amount of people who he could finalize partnerships with. 

Two weeks in, and he’s met them - whether through phone or in person. The most interesting character, so far, seems to be a certain gentleman who has a deep passion for the arts and sciences, and who talks a bit too much, but seems just as eager as Tom does. He has a debilitating fear of insects, however, and it poses the question as to just how well he’s going to do in this venture, considering there will be insects in every imaginable place. But they all have one consistent flaw - they’re all much too eager and much too naive. All from the country. Talented, without a doubt, and with a lot of potential. But they have the same simplistic ideas about business that Tom seems to have, save for one. 

“Sable told me not to come here,” Tom admits to him. They’re sitting on Tom’s couch, and Redd had had to take off his shoes at Tom’s insistence. Tom is a coffee drinker, he’s come to find out, although he likes a lot of sugar in it, and Redd finds it fairly consistent. He’s also noticed that Tom talks about Sable quite often, which means they were more than a little close, and something about that bothers him. He has no room to  be possessive, but he can hardly help it. He’s been that way with everyone and everything he’s ever become close to. So far, only his seedy business has stuck around. “She’d said nothing good ever comes from the city.” 

Redd scoots a bit closer, picking up the contract in Tom’s hands. If their knees bump, he doesn’t mention it. But he can feel his heart thumping loudly, shouting into his throat, daring him to say something. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you want something - you go for it. But for once, he’s afraid. He hums at Tom’s little story, pretending he doesn’t wish he’d met Tom in his hometown, and ignoring the fantasy of them intertwining fingers in very tall sunflowers. He doesn’t even know if Tom’s home had sunflowers, but he envisions all countrysides with sunflowers.

“Well, she’s not too far off,” Redd supplies, although what he wants to say is that Tom should just forget about her. “But I’d like to argue there are a couple good things about this busy city life.” 

“Well, yes, I told her,” Tom replies simply, sipping at his coffee. “I told her I met you.” 

Redd chokes on his coffee, and Tom has to thump his back quite a few times before he can breathe again.

If Redd had thought it was hard before, to not want to be around Tom, he definitely finds it difficult now, every time they meet up to work. He swallows the quiver in his throat when he first suggests to Tom that they share a flat together only a month later, just to save on money, and he replays the memory of Tom embracing him so tightly he felt as if he could breathe for the first time in a long time. He can hardly sleep that night, as suddenly his mind races without his permission. He feels jittery, and he blames it on the coffee. He’s never really cared for it, but the smell of it reminds him of Tom, and he likes that part. It’s comforting. 

He gets up and starts a pot, just to sit next to it and inhale deeply and sigh.

Tom clearly does not feel the same, or he is just naive, because every small advance Redd makes is met with a disappointing response. Any flowers he leaves cause Tom to reminisce about his hometown, any soft candlelight music played have him babbling about the latest music trends he is into. Redd’s compliments are taken somewhat into account, and sometimes he is given compliments as well, but Tom Nook compliments everyone, and Redd finds himself sure that Tom does not mean it any special way when they’re directed towards him. Still, he thinks about what it would be like if they did .

“Redd, are you listening to me?” Tom asks, and he looks worried. Perplexed. It’s three months now, and they are both stressed, and things have not gone according to plan. Tom is chewing on his bottom lip, clearly frustrated, and Redd is imagining what it would be like if he kissed him. If only kisses were magical, and really did ease every trouble. 

But they don’t, and they do not have money, and Tom does not want to strike any bargains that he feels are unfair. It does not matter how much Redd argues that the people they’re cheating are cheaters themselves, Tom is sticking to some Golden Rule in his mind, and it is costing them. There are times he is so frustrated at Tom he feels as if he will lose his mind. The part of him that he is not proud of grows in anger and impatience, and his hunger and greed for money claw at him. But he cannot disappoint Tom. He does not want to. As easy as it would be to crawl back into the proverbial gutter of business, dealing in his own way, if Tom does not want it, neither does he. Even if he does. 

“Tom, it’s just not going to make sense to turn down anymore offers. We have to give Mr. Swallows an answer, and soon . And there are a lot of benefits in this contract. Look…” 

“I read the contract, Redd,” Tom exhales, exasperated. “I knew you weren’t listening. I don’t like the demands. It would require too much of my customers. I want this to be attainable.” 

“Nookie, you’re asking big business to just supply you with a loan large enough to support randomers to a new, unknown place? Just like that? You don’t even have a credit line. Banks will hardly offer loans at all to someone with no credit history, let alone big loans.” 

Tom glances up at him, perplexed. “But I’d pay them back,” he argues. His coffee cup trembles in his hand. His brows are wrinkled, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip in agitation. “How do I even start a credit line if they won’t let me in to begin with?” 

Redd sighs. He takes Tom’s hands in his, and he wants to believe that Tom’s smile is from his touch, but he is not sure, and he is afraid to ask. Damn him and his soft heart and foolish fancies in love. He swallows the grimace and pretends he doesn’t hear his money-laundering habits screaming at the base of his skull. 

“Alright… why don’t I see if I can pull some strings? I’ll be frank with you, my credit is not the best - it could use a spit shine or two - but I’ve got a few connections.” 

He doesn’t mention who the connections are, and he decides it doesn’t matter. Tom’s face is everything he needs. When they embrace, he holds on just as long as he can, without making anything too obvious. Heavens forbid. Tom seems anxious enough as it is, and the last thing he wants to do is add to it. Besides, he doesn’t know how he would take it if he was rejected. That would certainly sour their partnership and leave things rather awkward.

It doesn’t take long though, until things sour on their own. Redd finds himself more and more frustrated, not only with the business propositions, but also in the way Tom seems to not respond to his advances. If he would just outright say no , there would be a difference. But there is nothing instead. Just a void of an answer, where Tom is either completely naive, or just refusing to face the reality because he is afraid of turning him down. Redd is beginning to suspect the latter, because Tom is arguing with him more and more often as time goes by. It is almost as if Tom doubts his credibility and talent altogether, and that stings even more. 

He knows he’s not perfect. But it feels that no matter how much he tries, it doesn’t meet Tom Nook’s shining expectations. 

“Snookums, take a break. There’s nothing better than a little wine and a little Manilow to make you feel at your best again,” Redd suggests, in a desperate attempt to have a foothold somehow. Somewhere. He doesn’t mention the fact that Tom is mulling over a proposition that he hadn’t even been invited along to look at or listen to, and that this wounds him. He’s done nothing to garner mistrust, and yet Tom does not trust him. More than likely, the positive dealings Tom has quickly cultivated have infiltrated him with information that Redd had hoped he would never know. 

“Not now, Redd,” Tom grumbles. His coffee is on the edge of the table, forgotten. He’s highlighting the sheets in hand, scribbling through some lines and adding notes on others. “I’ve got to read through this before tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I noticed you got a contract there. You didn’t tell me you’d been about to see anyone today.” 

He hopes the way he’s said it insinuates enough. Tom drops the contract onto the table with a loud slap and rubs at his face with his hands. There are tired shadows in his face, and if Redd didn’t know better, he’d have been sure Tom was going to raise his voice at him. But Tom has never been a violent man, and Redd would have had his quips and barbs ready, if needed. Not that he’s ever dreamed of cursing at Tom. The thought alone is heartbreaking. 

Tom is drumming his fingers against the table nervously. It is an odd contrary against the soft music in the background. “I know,” Tom admits, quietly. Redd is astonished - and a bit hurt, too - by the lack of guilt in his voice. “I wanted to do this one on my own.” 

“But we’re partners , Tom.” 

The desperation has never been so obvious. Redd can feel Tom slipping away, and he doesn’t know how to loop him back in. For once, it’s not for a financial upper hand. Unfortunately, his true motive hurts much worse. They lock eyes, and the longest minute passes before Tom finally tears his gaze away. 

“We are,” he replies, but the way he speaks leaves Redd unnerved. “And I like you, Redd. I really do. You’ve done so much for me. You’re everything I’d want in a partner and more.”

Redd has to refocus his train of thought. Tom obviously means business partners. It doesn’t stop him from the quick fantasy of it meaning something different. 

“But I really don’t agree with so much of what you’re saying, and doing. I want to do this... the right way.” 

Redd bristles. “You mean you want to do this your way,” he near spits, he’s just so angry. And hurt . And heartbroken. He’s already suspected that he’s not good enough for Tom, but for a moment, he’d thought maybe he could be. But it’s become quite obvious that in Tom’s eyes, he will never be good enough in general, let alone good enough for him . “Because it has to be your way, to be the right way, am I understanding you correctly?”

Tom is visibly upset. “That’s not what I’d meant…” he starts, wringing his hands, but it’s too late. 

It is the largest argument they’ve ever had. It is hours of yelling, and cursing, and pleading (the cursing mostly on Redd’s part, the pleading mostly on Tom’s part, the yelling on the both of them). It is slamming fists on tables and waving hands in exasperation, but worst of all, it is everything that Redd had feared all along, and had tried to avoid and failed . He had done everything as clean as he’d could this time around, and he’s still fallen short. It’s why he’s never bothered to run a clean business in the first place. 

He’s pacing in the aftermath, his mind and heart racing. Tom has gone to bed, the door shut. He’s sure he is not sleeping. He cannot pinpoint one part of his body that is not throbbing. A thousand things are running through his mind at once, and he doesn’t know if he wants to scream, cry, or put a hole in the wall. He opts out of the last one, as it will just leave a permanent mess in the flat that he’s not too keen on looking at later on. 

“You don’t like how I deal, huh?” he questions aloud, to the closed door. His frustration is at a boiling point. The cap is about to burst. “I’ll show you how I deal , Tom Nook.” 

There is a safe, where they both have kept any savings they’ve built up so far. Tom Nook may not trust him, but he can prove himself. He’s done asking Tom for it. He’s going to show him . Then things will be right again, and maybe this sick feeling that keeps him up at night will go away. He fusses with the lock, hesitating for a moment, but then he remembers Tom’s final words before they both froze, and things really teetered into a dangerous place:

Sable was right about you .

Tom never explained what he’d meant by that, retreating to his room instead, horrified. Redd clicks the safe open and begins packing the stacks of bills in his suitcase, invigorated. He will prove both of them wrong. He snaps the suitcase shut, giving one last glance around the flat. Something small is warning him against all of it, but he flicks it away. When he comes back, full of riches and good news, Tom will see. And then maybe, just maybe , he will be good enough in his eyes. 

And then maybe he can work some courage up to tell Tom Nook that he’s in love with him.

With this hope in mind, he pushes himself out of the door, taking every penny of their savings with him. 

Tom calls him almost immediately after he’s left the city, bombarding his phone with multiple text messages and calls. Most of them are angry and detail his feelings of betrayal. Redd saves each and everyone, as a motivation. He replays them every night that he is gone, remembering why he has to succeed this time. He doesn't call back though, and somehow, he knows he should, but he doesn’t despite knowing this. He clings to the idea that the element of surprise is the best, and that Tom wouldn’t listen to him anyways. 

Days turn into weeks, which he’d expected. He pockets his phone every time Tom calls, and eventually he turns it off completely. Eventually, Tom stops calling. All of this he’d planned for, and while it stings at him with guilt, he runs business as usual, sure that he will eventually have what he needed. But then weeks turn into months, and deals go sour, and the money and his hope dwindle, and the thought of finally calling Tom and owning up is tempting. He doesn’t though. He can’t bring himself to relay the news that Tom had been right all along. If Tom had been furious and untrusting of him before, he will surely feel this way now. In Redd’s mind, it is easier to just let Tom live with the idea that he had scammed him, and call it a day. It isn’t as if he hadn’t done such a thing before; Tom would surely hear about it from other business partnerships eventually, anyways. His reputation travels far ahead of him. Besides, the extra money in his pocket is nice, for once.

He can’t delete the messages though. Quite the opposite. He still replays them, night after night, and sometimes regrets his decision. But at this point, it is much too late. Nevermind the fact that he was - and still is - head over heels for the country boy whose dreams were too big for the city. There is no turning back now. Tom will more than likely want nothing to do with him, anyways. Redd supposes that this was inevitable. They would have had to part, one way or another. He’d rather it happened this way. Something about being seen as a thief and a liar was better than unrequited - or worse, rejected - love. 

He gives himself three days to cry about it. Three days, and then he’s back to business, although Tom Nook plagues his mind in his dreams and in his art. Sometimes, he still makes coffee, just so he can sleep.

Chapter Text

Redd’s eyes are shiny as he sniffles, but he swipes at his nose, and if he had teared up at all, Jonesy wouldn’t have known for sure. She’s pretty sure he’s on the verge of tears though.

“So you just didn’t tell him anything? That is - quite literally - the dumbest sob story I’ve ever heard,” she says, despite this knowledge, crossing her arms. She had hoped that the story was much more satisfying than this. It sounds like a load of bologna to her. “You expect me to believe that? I’m not smart, but I’m not an idiot either.”

Redd chokes mid-sip on his coffee.

“Excuse me? That’s a bit harsh , don’t you think?” he defends, and Jonesy swears she can hear a bit of a growl in the base of his throat. She’s wounded his pride, she knows it. She’s finding it hard to care, and also very hard to not smash his face against the table. “I’ve made myself vulnerable and you’re reducing my pain to mockery? Dumb ?” 

“It wasn’t necessary , Redd! You really just let Tom go all his life thinking that you pulled the rug out from under him and left him destitute out of greed! And for what? Your pride? Admit it - you got embarrassed and instead of just doing the entrepreneur’s walk of shame, you broke his wallet and his heart. It was a completely self-centered dickhead move! I don’t see where I’m being harsh by honest and pointing out how stupid that was.” 

“I was supposed to become rich, Jonesy! Loaded ! We were gonna get enough for a nice place, and I was gonna give him all the finest things. He was going to have his dream fulfilled because of me ! I was gonna give him the world !” 

Jonesy exhales loudly, trying very hard not to lean over and slug him. She’s starting to sympathize with Mr. Nook’s immediate flying of fists.

“ Dude , Redd, didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe he didn’t want the world? That maybe he just wanted you ?” she asks. 

Redd stares at her in a way that reminds her of an open-mouthed Oarfish when she’s caught it on a hook, eyes bulging and all, and it’s clear he’s never thought of it that way before. She huffs loudly and rolls her eyes.

“ Men ,” she grumbles, rubbing her temples. She has a migraine, she’s sure of it. “I swear they’re the same thick headed pieces of work no matter where or how you find them.”

“He was the love of my life, kid,” Redd interjects, voice soft. Ketchup has read books to her before that described voices sounding heartbroken, and she’d always thought that was kind of funny, but without a doubt, Redd sounds heartbroken . Ketchup will laugh when she admits this. “He still is. And I know I’ll never get him back, but the things I’d do if I could …” 

His eyes are too bright. Jonesy holds up her hand immediately when she realizes what is about to happen, waving them frantically.

“No! No crying,” she babbles, panicked. “ No. If you start crying, I’m getting off the boat. I already had to stop one of you two’s waterworks this . I can’t do another one so soon. I’ve had my quota of tears. I don’t get paid for this...I’ve done my community service already...” 

This doesn’t seem to help. Redd sobs, catching a handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing. Which is nothing short of disgusting. She’s never understood the use of cloth tissues. Just traps all the snot in there and then you have to rub it against your nose again. 

“Did he cry… because of me ?” Redd asks, crocodile tears on his cheeks. Jonesy claps a hand over her mouth. She’s made a mistake. She shouldn’t tell Tom Nook’s business to anyone, much less Redd . The root of the problem. She groans and rolls her eyes. He really hadn’t selected a very reliable Resident Rep. Although, in her defense, there wasn’t any mention of secret keeper in the fine print. Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission, so she’s heard. It’s starting to become her personal policy.

“No, no. You’re not getting anything else out of me,” she replies, holding up a finger. “I’ve said too much already. I’m going.” 

She stomps to the flapping door, turning to make one more point.

“You can do your whole business thing here, that’s fine. So long as just you and I trade. But you’re on thin fucking ice, Redd! You hear me? Thin, fucking, ice ! Now I gotta go home and mull over all this bullshit you just dumped on me.” 

Redd seems to sit up straighter, but she stomps off of the trawler before she can hear his response, muttering under her breath. “Fucking dramatic . Much fucking ado about fucking nothing .” 

She tramps down across the beach, the scorching sun only adding to her heated aptitude. It’s official, at least on one end. Redd definitely harbors - no pun intended - feelings for Mr. Nook. He might be a bit of a crook when it came to money, but he wasn’t as big and bad as he’d cracked himself up to be, and as Mr. Nook sees him now. Which is all Redd’s fault, she knows. The lack of conversation astounds her. She can’t imagine not immediately trying to clear the air, after doing something like that to anyone , but especially someone she was in love with. 

“Jonesy!”

She turns. Redd is dashing after her, a wrapped canvas in hands. She puts her hands on her hips, trying not to let her mouth twitch in a smile. She had been right about one thing from the start. Redd has a little genuine in him somewhere. She’s just going to have to encourage it out. 

He’s panting when he reaches her, handing the painting in a doubled over stance. “I’ll… say…” he wheezes. “It’s hot… isn’t it?” 

“It’ll rain in a minute, just you wait,” Jonesy replies, but she takes the painting. She leans around it and gives him a look. “Can I open this now, or is this one of those Trojan Horse type gifts?” 

Redd colors, and his face droops. “Jonesy…” he starts, voice shaky. “I know I’m a bit of a scoundrel but this is really for you, I mean it. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t! It was a joke, I’m sorry,” Jonesy interrupts. “It was too soon, too. We all have our bad habits. Yours is money laundering. Mine is running my mouth.” 

It’s clear Redd is trying to process a myriad of emotions, she can see it in his eyes. She snorts and gives a helpful smile, nudging at him with her foot until he finally seems to understand and laughs in relief. 

“Snookums sure knows how to pick ‘em, huh?” he jokes back, and Jonesy rolls her eyes, but she’s unable to stop the laugh escaping her as well. It’s nice, solving issues one step at a time. Not that the Redd Alert has been really dealt with. 

“Open it, kid,” Redd says, shifting on his feet. He looks nervous, nudging the wrapped canvas. “I worked hard on it. I want to see your face.” 

She raises an eyebrow, but obliges him, tearing at the burlap until it falls against the sand. It’s a good thing today is not windy, or she’d be worried about ruining her beach. 

It’s gouache. She recognizes the texture instantly. Her mouth drops, despite herself. She glances up at Redd, and then back at the painting. She tries to speak, but she’s suddenly forgotten English, and she just points at it instead, looking back up at him. 

“You like it?”

“It’s me !” Jonesy finally manages. She sounds so stupid, but the art is stupid good, so she can hardly blame herself. “How did you do that so fast? It looks just like me!” 

“Not fast at all, kid,” Redd supplies, chuckling bashfully. “Why do you think I was gone so long? I had to perfect it, gouache is not my most comfortable medium, you know, and I’d had to draw you from memory…”

She doesn’t quite listen to everything he’s saying. She sets the painting down gingerly and jumps him, squeezing his waist. Redd stops whatever he’d been rambling on about, gasping in surprise. 

“I love it - it’s so good, thank you!” Jonesy exclaims, pulling back. Redd looks positively confused, and she isn’t sure why, until she realizes she’d been quite aversive to him up until this point. She picks up the painting again to look at it. “You made me a lot prettier than I really am though, now that I look at it.” 

“As if I could ever perfect that about you,” Redd implies, waggling his eyebrows. Jonesy laughs full heartedly. “I had to fix your eyes though. I’d made them blue on accident and scraping the stuff off was quite the conundrum.” 

Jonesy covers her mouth in mock surprise. She leers impishly at Redd. “Of course , an accident ,” she crows, as sarcastically as she can, and Redd flushes instantly. I don’t know where on Earth you got the notion to paint blue eyes, no one I can think of has those around here , especially not in our Resident Service building…”

“Alright, can it, kid,” Redd growls, but it isn’t threatening, and he’s grinning, despite clearly being embarrassed. He glances back towards his boat. Jonesy catches his eye, peering at him in curiosity. 

“You had art you wanted to sell me? I don’t have bells on me right now.” 

“No, I…” Redd hesitates. He looks down at the sand, and Jonesy is instantly reminded of just the other night, when she and Ketchup were drawing shapes with their toes. That is one of her many memories she locks in as what she’s called warm memories , the kinds that leave you fuzzy and tingly. She’s made lots of those on this island.

Redd sighs aloud. “I’m going to be leaving for a bit,” he admits. Jonesy’s face drops. 

“I was just starting to like you!” 

Redd chuckles softly and scratches the back of his neck. “I know,” he murmurs. “But… you were right, back on the boat. Harsh as it was. I hurt my Snookums and that shouldn’t have ever happened. I should have just been honest, and faced the consequences. I’ll be back, I promise. I just… I need time to reflect on myself. If I hang around now I know I’ll only make things worse.” 

She doesn’t know him all that well, but she can’t help a welling feeling of pride for him. Somehow, she knows that even admitting this to her took a great deal of courage on his part. Everything he’d shared with her today has probably been a gutting experience for him. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, just to show her support. 

“Well,” she offers gently. “I’ll be waiting. Blathers would love any genuine pieces you get your hands on. And I’d sure like to see you again.” 

Redd grins. “Blathers still up to his old tricks, hmm?” he asks, and then winks. “And you missing me is to be expected. I’m quite the catch.” 

Jonesy mock gags, which makes him shake out of his self-deprecating reverie completely and laugh, the joy reaching his eyes. She can catch the light in them, the way she caught it in Mr. Nook’s eyes when he gave her the fancy coffee, or in Ketchup’s when she told her about her ideas of true love. That full body joy. 

Redd gives her a small wave as he trudges back to his trawler. She watches him become smaller and smaller, until he disappears into the boat entirely, and then the smoke begins to plummet into the sky, and the boat slowly rocks away. She stands and watches, until she cannot see the boat either, and all that’s left is the twinkling sun, high and bright, and the waves below, tempting her to dive in. She shakes herself out of her thoughts, telling herself it’s about time to go hunting for new sea creatures anyways. 

The painting is in her hand. She looks down at it again. It’s incredibly detailed, for him having seen her only once before. He has an eye, that’s for sure. It’s a shame he’s wasted it on trying to sell faux copies of genuine articles, especially when he could be creating his own originals. That would make bank, she’s sure of it. Maybe next time he comes around, she’ll mention it. She wonders if he ever showed Mr. Nook any of those sketches he’d made of him . She has a feeling he hadn’t. She’s not the type to get embarrassed, but if she’d drawn anyone that much, she would feel a bit strange about showing it to them. 

She sets the painting underneath her drink bar, where it should be safe enough from the sun. For now, she wants to dive, and quick. It is hot and she’s sure the creatures beneath the water are relaxing and unaware of her coming. She saddles herself with a small rough sack and wades into the water, welcoming it’s cooling touch. Up ahead, she can see clouds, just as she’d predicted earlier. The island has been pretty temperamental lately. It seems to match up just fine with everything that’s been going on, in her humble opinion.

She ducks into the water. 

She keeps pulling up the same finds she has before, a mollusk here, a scallop there. She donates her scallops in exchange for some new DIYs, but other than this, nothing catches her attention in the water. Nothing that she can give to Blathers, anyways. The vegetation that has been cultivating beneath the surface is enormous, though. The amount of sea grapes that are weighing down her bag is questionable, but she’s been reading about some caviar recipes she can make with them, so she collects them anyways. 

When she cannot keep a hold on her heavy sack - and she can’t fit much else, anyways - she makes her way back to the shore, paddling languidly. The wind is beginning to pick up, but there hasn’t been any rainfall quite yet, and she can see a myriad of colors reflecting through the clouds. The sun is setting; she can tell by the pinks and oranges strewn across the sky. 

Up on the rocks at the shore, she can see Tom Nook, seated with his legs hanging over the edge and leaning back on his hands. His eyes are watching the horizon, and whatever he’s on about has his entire attention, because he doesn’t seem to even notice as she splashes her way back onto land. 

“Boss?” she calls, waving up at him as she nears the rock he’s perched on. 

“Jonesy!” he cries, jumping almost immediately from where he’d been resting, clearly startled. He looks as if he’s been caught red handed - again, no pun intended. She’s starting to think she should be a comedian. “Ah… it’s not what it looks like, see…”

“What’s it supposed to look like?” Jonesy asks curiously, head cocked, eyebrows raised. She hoists herself onto the rock and sits next to him, crossing her legs and leaning back, squinting in the setting sun. She turns her head a bit and gives him a knowing expression. “Because to me it looks like you’re waiting for a certain someone who docks his boat and sells possibly dollar-store brand versions of artifacts off the rocks to my private island area.”

Now that she knows, it’s obvious. Why else would Mr. Nook be here? He surely wasn’t waiting on her, as he’s never done that before. It’s clear that he knew that he would possibly find Redd here. There’s the possibility that he’d been planning to really knock him out this time, but the way he blushes at her insinuation, she knows this was not his intent. 

They really are two idiots in love. Just the type of romantic escapade Ketchup had thought it was. She is definitely going to hold that over her head. 

“I…” Tom Nook’s eyes start watering. Oops. This wasn’t the direction she wanted this to go at all. 

“ Fuck ,” Jonesy curses. “I didn’t mean to open all that up like that, I’m sorry, don’t cry, I’m not good at this….”

It’s too late. Whatever she’s just said, she’s broken an entire dam. Mr. Nook buries his face in his knees, and she’s pretty sure someone is going to hear. Her damn mouth just couldn’t keep the jokes to itself, and instead, it’s gotten her in trouble. Again. 

“I know it’s foolish ,” Tom Nook is sobbing, and she glances back to see Ketchup and Cheri coming with bottles, along with Freya. She waves them back aggressively, but not before seeing their eyes widen as they scurry off. They’re definitely going to be coming up with wild hypotheses until they get anything from her. She opens her mouth, groaning silently.  

“Fool me once, fool me twice kind of thing.”

“Right, right,” Jonesy murmurs. She feels like she should pat his back or something, but this is beyond her area of expertise. Isabelle was always the more motherly one when it came to things like this. 

That’s it. She texts Ketchup with her epiphany. Please get Isabelle. We’ll talk later, I promise. Drinks in an hour. 

“It’s been years , Jonesy, and I still have this bizarre hope, you know? I don’t like to be at odds with anyone, and Redd and I… well, we were especially close before, once,” he admits, and she knows what the word close means, and she knows that Tom Nook does not know she knows. She just keeps it to herself, though, because she’s fairly certain her mouth has gotten her in enough trouble today, and she really isn’t in the mood to deal with another sudden catastrophe. Somehow, she gets the impression that Redd would not want her to tell Tom Nook what he’d told her. “I really did like him, once. We got along pretty well.” 

She wonders briefly if he really thinks she believes what he’s saying. Tom Nook is a kind and gentle individual, she knows this, but crying over a lost friendship like this ? He has to understand that she’d be slightly suspicious that it was something more. But he doesn’t say much else, swiping at his face in a futile attempt to dry his eyes. It doesn’t make a difference, as he continues weeping. 

“Mr. Nook…” she tries, frantically clambering down the rock towards her bag, which she’s had lying on one of the beach chairs. She digs through it, trying to find something to distract him, to calm him down. Whatever he’s been holding in, it’s been in storage for quite a while, and she’s seen someone hyperventilate before. Eunice had, when she’d first moved in. She had been so anxious about the move and being so far from home, and having none of her usual pleasantries that she was used to, and she had cried so hard she couldn’t breathe. Jonesy had had to help her control her breathing just so she wouldn’t faint.

Not that she thinks Mr. Nook will faint. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.

She comes across a cosmic brownie packet that she’d thought of eating as a snack, but she isn’t very hungry now, and she swipes it and pulls herself back up on the rock again, elbowing Tom Nook and holding it out towards him when he looks up at her. 

“It’s a little… ah, smushed ,” she admits, cringing. It has also been in the sun for a long time, and probably will not taste as good as it should. But Tom seems to take to it, busying himself with opening the wrapping. 

“I am so sorry,” he manages between bites, seemingly calmed down. He pulls out a pack of tissues to blow his nose, and now that Jonesy agrees with. Throw the whole thing away, when you’ve soiled it. “This is no way to behave around an employee…”

“Knock it off, Mr. Nook, you know I don’t give a shit about being professional,” Jonesy argues, before he can throw himself into another spiral. “If only you knew how many times I showed up at your workbench hungover.” 

Tom Nook’s eyes widen and stares at her, as if he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. She pushes against him.

“Kidding. Maybe ,” she teases. “Consider us ‘even’ in the unprofessional department. I won’t report anything to H.R. if you won’t.”

He gives a small snort in response, and they sit there silently for a moment. The sun has almost completely disappeared now, she can start to see the stars. She wonders if she’ll see Celeste tonight. She always has the most pleasant and interesting conversations, without being quite as exhausting to listen to as Blathers. Tom Nook finishes the brownie, stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. 

“Were there sunflowers where you lived, Boss? Like back in your hometown?” she asks, suddenly. He cocks his head at her in question, the most interesting light in his eyes. She knows he’s heard this question before, from someone else, once. 

“What made you think of that?” he replies, curiously. She shrugs. She doesn’t tell him about the sketches. Redd can’t say she ever really told Mr. Nook anything, if he happens to pick this apart on his own.

“No reason,” she settles on, patting his shoulder. “I just think they’re kind of pretty, that’s all. I’d love to see if we could grow them here.” 

Chapter Text

Isabelle is up to her ears in application requests for visitation, and she is just starting to feel her eyes cross and her information misconstrue when her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she groans, unsure of if she’s relieved or more stressed. She shuffles in her skirt pocket, digging out her phone.

It’s from a resident. That isn’t all too surprising, as the islanders call and text her quite often, for requests or suggestions to improve the island, or to make arrangements for departure. She winces, hoping it isn’t the latter. They’ve already lost a couple of residents and had replacements come in. It’s starting to not reflect well on them. K.K. has still been making his weekly rounds, however, and there are still piles of requests for visitation and possible residency, so she knows she shouldn’t be too worried. 

It’s from Ketchup. She clicks at her phone to open the message. As she reads, she sighs, partly in relief, and partly in a different anxiety entirely. 

When Mr. Nook had first relayed to her everything, she hadn’t been all too surprised. She’d been working with him for several years now, assisting him in many business prospects, and she’d known about the bad blood between him and Redd for a while. But he’d never really told her everything that had occurred, and when she’d seen his reaction to Jonesy’s familiarity with him, it had startled her. Tom Nook adored Jonesy - she knew this, he’d explained to her several times how she felt like family to him - so it came as a shock when he’d lost his patience with her in the way he had. Him finally revealing the entire truth of their history made the pieces fall into place. 

She jumps up from her chair, barely remembering to shut the door behind her as she scurries down to the Northbound beach for the first time since the incident. Ketchup’s text hadn’t explained much, but she knew that Mr. Nook had left the office, uncharacteristically, and the text detailed that Jonesy needed assistance. She could put two and two together. Hopefully it wasn’t anything dire; she knew that Jonesy and Mr. Nook had buried their tiny hatchet and the issue between them had been resolved rather quickly. 

It is still all in all, dramatic, as she sees Mr. Nook doubled over, and Jonesy with a hand on his back, looking as if she’s awkwardly patting it. She coughs, and when Jonesy turns, her eyes are wide as the moon that’s just starting to show its face. She immediately trots towards her, and Mr. Nook reaches for her and catches her eye. Isabelle can see what looks to be a brownie packet in his hand. 

“Isabelle!” Jonesy calls, although not loudly. Isabelle will give her credit where it is due; as often as she is vivacious and the life of the island, she seems to be aware of when it is necessary for her to have a more soothing effect. Even the way she makes her way over is softer, bare feet padding against the grass in an almost completely silent mode. Mr. Nook is not moving, contrary to Jonesy - he is sedentary, turning back towards the ocean. 

Jonesy does not have to explain anything. She already knows. 

“He wasn’t here, hm?” Isabelle asks, and Jonesy’s mouth drops in surprise, but then it turns into a relieved smile, and she rubs her cheeks. 

“Oh, thank god , you already know, I am so bad at keeping secrets, but he had an entire meltdown and I didn’t know what to do!” she gasps. She nudges at Isabelle, silently requesting her assistance. “You’re better at the whole comforting thing - I don’t know what to do or say to make the boss feel any better.”

Isabelle smiles, but she feels a wistful pang. She pats Jonesy on the shoulder. 

“You can’t really make him feel better,” she explains. “But you can sit with him and just let him ride it out, so he’s not alone in it, and I think you did just fine in that. But I’ll take over from here. You go on home and get some rest. I know you’ve been overworking yourself for the past few days.” 

Jonesy cocks her head, a genuine grin finally creeping out across her face. “You’re the best, Izzy,” she replies, fully embracing her. When she pulls back, Isabelle realizes that for the first time, she sees exhaustion in Jonesy’s face, and wonders how much the girl has actually slept these last three days. It seemed as if she hadn’t even gotten a wink; which would explain her burnout energy just now. She supposes at least now they know just how long Jonesy’s battery lasts. About three days. She jokingly thinks to herself she’ll bring it up at a more appropriate time. Jonesy will appreciate it. 

“Seriously, I owe you a drink.” 

Isabelle snorts. “I’ve heard you make mouth-watering margaritas, so I’m holding you to that,” she mock-threatens, and Jonesy stifles a laugh before hugging her once more, before starting to retreat to her house. She pauses midway, running back to the rocks and giving Mr. Nook a huge squeeze, and then zooming by Isabelle, waving a goodbye . 

“Don’t be a wet blanket all night, Mr. Nook!” she calls out, almost as if her energy was replenished suddenly. Isabelle hopes for her sake that she does go home and sleep.

When Jonesy’s figure disappears, Isabelle makes her way to the rocks next to where Mr. Nook is still sitting, clearly calmer but showing sniffling signs of an earlier episode. She groans softly as she adjusts to sit on the flat top boulder.

“A skirt really isn’t the best to sit down in,” she jokes, just to lighten the mood. Mr. Nook gives her a small grin, and she pats his back comfortingly. “So you didn’t see him, did you?”

The barely noticeable shake of his head gives her the answer she’s looking for. “Well,” she sighs out, after a beat. She adjusts her skirt again, smoothing it down with her hands. She wants to continue, but she knows that there isn’t quite much to say on the matter. If Redd is not around, he is not around, and there is nothing they can do about it. She also is unsure of how Mr. Nook feels about the situation all around. It seems as if he had wanted to see him again, so perhaps it is a good sign. 

According to Mr. Nook’s story, though, perhaps not. If Redd is anything now as he had been before, it would be better if they didn’t interact altogether. Jonesy better take a good long nap. She’ll be needing to gather intel from her later. The last thing she needs is to have to do damage control again. 

“What do you need me to do?” she asks.

“There isn’t much you can do,” Mr. Nook responds, softly. He sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Just… stay with me for a moment?” 

Of course she does. It isn’t a demanding request. 

She had found Mr. Nook and Redd’s most recent encounter to be rather tame, compared to the last time they’d run into each other. She’d managed to have the both of them agree that they could run business professionally, and simply not interact personally. At first, they’d complied, but it hadn’t taken long before she found Redd sidling up to their office and badgering Tom Nook. They’d have a row every single time, and Mr. Nook would end up chasing him out with some sort of physical object. It hadn’t helped that the twins seemed to take to Redd quickly and easily, and found him one of their favorite topics to discuss at home. She remembers specifically when Mr. Nook would come in and complain to her about it.

Well, complain is not the right word. Mr. Nook was downright heartbroken about it. Redd played with the twins whenever he saw them, and Mr. Nook was always so busy that he did not have as much time to do everything he wanted to. For eight year olds, the choice seemed simple: Uncle Redd was more fun than Uncle Tom. This particularly stung Mr. Nook, as not only did he not want the twins near Redd in the first place, they called after him as if he were family, and he had to hear it. Now that she truly understands what Mr. Nook’s feelings were for Redd, she realizes just how much it hurts. She knows that when Mr. Nook finally chased Redd away from them for good, the twins had harbored a grudge against him for it, and there had been a rift. They don’t visit him as often as they used to, and were more than eager to run the shop on their own. Things have seemed to patch up, but she hadn’t really worked up the courage to ask Mr. Nook about it.

“You should probably head home,” is what she says instead, the twins in mind. “Timmy and Tommy will be wondering where you are if you’re not home when they close up shop.” 

She wants to ask what his intention was, with him sitting on the rock. But she knows he may not tell her. There is no productive end if she pursues this. Besides, she’s pretty sure she has a healthy idea of what it was. 

Tom takes to this, patting her hand gratefully. “Thank you,” he murmurs. His eyes are still damp, but he wipes at them and manages a small smile. She digs out a tissue pack from her pocket, and without thinking, presses it against his cheeks, blotting away the tear streaks. She doesn’t think much of it until he clears his throat, flushing and wringing his hands. 

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me,” he grumbles, and although he’s not unpleasant about it, it’s clear he’s embarrassed. “That isn’t your job.” 

“Why not?” she replies, in a bit of a reprimand, but gently. “You take care of everyone else. Someone has to look out for you, too, you know.”

Mr. Nook chuckles at this, and she can tell he’s fighting back tears again. “You are too good to me, Isabelle, really,” he tells her, and she grins, giving a mock bow. He sniffles, drying his own eyes. “I really need to rein it in soon, though. I don’t want the twins to be worried.” 

Isabelle nods. Mr. Nook stands and begins dusting himself off. She can see small wharf roaches scurrying around on the rocks below them, startled by the sudden movement and noise. She slowly lifts herself from her seated position, stretching and yawning. A good cup of tea sounds nice right about now. Perhaps some ginseng and lemon, with just a bit of honey. She can’t wait to take her shoes off and just sit in her recliner for a moment. Over the ocean ahead of them, thunder rumbles, which makes her all the more excited to relax at home with her drink and a good book. 

“Get some rest, Mr. Nook,” she directs. It isn’t a suggestion. She gives him a playful point, but her voice is stern. Mr. Nook laughs softly, shaking his head. 

“I’ll try,” is what he replies.

“Don’t try- do it,” Isabelle returns. “And don’t think I won’t know tomorrow either.”

He waves her off, slowly turning and making his way towards the shop. When Isabelle looks at her phone, it is just turning ten. She trots behind him, keeping an eye on him from afar until she has to turn her own way. The sky begins to break, gentle raindrops beginning to splash her head and shoulders. She shivers, anticipating her home already, and picks up the pace, glancing towards Mr. Nook’s way once more to watch him disappear into the Cranny before making a beeline to her home. By the time she shuts the door behind her, the sky has completely broken, heavy rainfall and thunder shattering her ears suddenly. She can only hope that Mr. Nook and the boys got home in time as she did - or even better, earlier. 

She fills her kettle and places it on the stove, letting the flames hum softly as she waits for her tea. She means to settle into her couch and get work done, but as soon as the ginseng touches her lips, she’s drowsy and content, and the rain dozes her off to sleep. 

She startles herself awake when the sun is peeking through her window, signaling a new day. Panicking, she pulls out her phone, which has a low battery, and checks the time. The sun is up; she takes this as a sign that she is either late for work, or pretty close to it. There are several missed messages on her phone. 

She glances at the time, only to heave a sigh of relief. She’s later than she would be to wake normally, but she has time, if she skips a couple of morning routines. She pushes herself out of the chair, yawning and stretching out sore muscles from the seated position she had been in for the past nine hours. She hadn’t realized she’d needed sleep that badly. 

She puts some slices in a toaster, warming up her brew from the night before, and plugs her phone in. She’ll have to keep it charged in the office too. She’d completely forgotten to plug it in last night. The screen brightens gratefully when it connects to power, lighting up her missed messages again. Curious, she leans over her cup and glances at it. If she isn’t tardy for work, who is needing her?

From Jonesy , it reads. Isabelle!! I’m making those margaritas today! They’re extra sweet, like you!!

There are more of them, detailing Jonesy’s gratitude for Isabelle ushering her off to bed for some much needed rest, and her excitement to meet up very soon for drinks. Isabelle shakes her head, laughing to herself. If it had been her, she would have just sent one long message. Jonesy has sent about three or four bubbles, each and every one almost as animated as if she’d said them in person. It is very telling of their personalities. Isabelle butters her toast, spreads some jam on it, and swallows it as quickly as she can before running out the door, nearly forgetting to lock it behind her. 

Not that it matters much. The island is too small for any burglar to get anywhere remotely far with it. She makes a dash towards the plaza, checking her watch on the way.

“Jonesy, please . I’m trying to work, if you haven’t noticed,” she hears, just as she opens the Resident Service building door. Everything feels as if nothing climatic had occurred at all, with Jonesy leaning over the counter as always, badgering Mr. Nook with what looks to be a half constructed axe at the workbench. Mr. Nook catches her eye as she walks in, and gives her an exhausted nod. He seems more high spirited than when she’d last seen him though, so she’s hoping that he had gotten rest as she’d suggested. Then again, it could merely be Jonesy’s presence. The girl is known to have that effect on those around her. Even now, she’s tugging at Mr. Nook’s arm, energetically singing (a bit off key) a tune she’s not sure she’s heard before. 

Jonesy stops to imitate the sound of a piano with her mouth, a foot propped against the bench, fingers wriggling as if she were clunking its keys. “Oh, baby , do you want to make it better! ” she’s howling, the back of her hand slapping against Mr. Nook’s shoulder playfully. “Sing with me, Mr. Nook, I know you know this- do you want to stay together! ” 

“I don’t, and even if I did, I don’t sing,” Mr. Nook replies evenly, trying to seem gruff. Isabelle catches that telltale dimple in the corner of his mouth though, the one that comes when he’s trying to bite down a smile and remain professional . “And I have a stack of papers here to fill in, so unless you want to share my deskwork…”

He doesn’t get to finish. Jonesy flips up the countertop and barges her way in, making herself at home on Mr. Nook’s desk. Isabelle laughs and settles across from them, taking out her spray to water her plants. 

“Alright, all you had to do was ask, Boss,” Jonesy says. “You know I’m at your service!”

“Good morning,” Isabelle calls, finally. Her petunia is coming in quite nicely. 

Jonesy cranes her head around. “Omigosh, I didn’t even see you, Isabelle!” she exclaims, coloring. “I was so busy bothering - I mean, assisting - Old Tom here that I hadn’t even noticed!” 

She’s livelier than usual. Isabelle knows that on the surface, it could easily be taken as the fact that she’d finally gotten some good rest. She knows, however, that it’s Jonesy subtle way of checking in on Tom Nook after last night, without rendering him embarrassed or uncomfortable. Mr. Nook would probably rather forget his episode, and Jonesy is doing her best to pretend as if it hadn’t happened for his sake. It is a bit of a relief; she had hoped she wasn’t going to walk into a tense and awkward situation. For the Human Resources representative, she doesn’t do very well with confrontation in the slightest. It always left her so queasy, especially when she had to mediate between two angry parties. Even more so when she cared so dearly for both of them. 

“Mr. Nook, it is a crying shame you don’t know Anderson Paak; I’ll have to lend you my Spotify information sometime,” Jonesy is lamenting, and Mr. Nook is rolling his eyes, muttering to himself. 

The two of them continue chattering and playfully bickering like this, and Isabelle lets it fall into background noise. The reviews of the island and other applications for visitation suddenly don’t feel so overwhelming. She hadn’t meant to let Mr. Nook’s stress infiltrate her own peace of mind, but it was so hard to not look after him. He had such a heart for everyone around him, and often overlooked his own well being, and it worries her. The addition of Jonesy as the Resident Representative was the best thing that could have happened for both of them, in her opinion. Especially in this particular situation, she feels as if Jonesy is handling it expertly, despite the girl’s doubt in her own ability to do so. 

Isabelle knows that her own problem is that she tends to worry too much. She over thinks every situation and is afraid of offending, and as a result, sometimes does nothing at all. Sometimes she envies Jonesy, who dives headfirst into the problem and almost causes the answers to come to her, rather than trying to coax it out timidly. It seems to work rather well, and she is relieved that Mr. Nook has somewhat of two guardian angels looking out for him. She just wonders and hopes that she is able to be as helpful as possible. Starting with the applications and reviews, as mundane as it feels. If she can at least relieve Mr. Nook from some of his professional duties, perhaps he will have more strength to deal with his personal ones. 

With this in mind, she determines herself to complete most of the stack, if not all. They’re all labeled and in neat files thanks to her hard work from previous days, so it doesn’t take all too long to sort through them and settle into work. To add to the positivity, the reviews are glowing and the applications for visitation are blooming. The island, in what seems like such a short amount of time, has grown to be quite the tourist attraction. More than likely, it was kickstarted by K.K. Slider’s recurring shows, but it is still encouraging to see. There are a couple of suggestions for island decor and ambience, and she carefully slides them into a folder marked Resident Representative . 

She glances up, and it’s at just the right time, because she and Jonesy lock eyes and communicate silently for a second before Isabelle redirects her attention to her own work, and Jonesy announces she’s off to explore the ocean again for Blather’s sake. 

“I’ll text you, Isabelle!” she exclaims, and Mr. Nook gives her an inquisitive glance, which she coyly chooses to ignore. She flags Jonesy down, holding out the folder in two hands. 

“Some of the islanders were suggesting some more lights on the walkways, especially for night time,” she says, as Jonesy flips through the pages, humming to herself. 

“Let me guess,” she replies, looking up with an eyebrow raised. “Eunice?” 

“Actually, no,” Isabelle flips through her submission forms. They’re supposed to be anonymous, but anytime Jonesy has asked for the source, it’s only ever been to ensure she gets some more detailed direction so she can try to improve the island in the best way per request. She catches the original form about the lighting, and her eyes widen. 

“It’s Kody.”

“Kody?” Jonesy looks incredulous at first, but then a conniving sort of smirk tugs at her mouth. “Oh, I think I know what that’s about. Cheesy little fucker. He should have just come and talked to me.” 

She taps into her phone, the folder tucked under her arm. “I’m on it!” 

Isabelle wants to ask what she knows, but Jonesy is already out the door, pestering Mr. Nook once more. Whatever it is she knows, it’s motivated her to make Kody’s specific request her priority project for the day. 

The building is always eerily quiet when Jonesy leaves. Isabelle is certain it’s because she had just become accustomed to the high level of activity. Mr. Nook is seemingly occupied, his head bent and nose buried in the bookkeeping, but she can hear him humming the same tune Jonesy has been belting earlier. She peers over her plant, seeing an opportunity to take a personal inventory on his well being. He seems a bit more well rested, but his eyes are still sad, as to be expected. She knows that he’s never quite seemed to shake those feelings for a long time now, but for the most part, had been able to keep them under control. Until Redd had returned. She’d always known he’d harbored feelings for Redd, but she’d thought that perhaps he’d been able to mend a bit better after all of this time. 

She sighs, and she hates pinning yet something else on their Resident Representative, but she’s been able to find a solution to every obstacle their small community has had so far. If they work together, maybe they could find an answer to this one as well. Or at least, have a couple of good drinks over it. 

This stays in mind during her lunch break, with Jonesy almost on the dot ringing her on her phone. This is very out of character, as Jonesy is usually late or forgets an errand almost entirely for a day or two. She wonders if she’d remembered to get Kody’s lighting request finished, or at least part of the way begun. It’s no matter, really. She’ll ask when she sees her. 

“Mr. Nook, I’m taking my lunch break with our Resident Rep. today,” she announces, despite the pang of guilt she gets when she sees a genuine loneliness cross his face. On any other day, she would invite him, and she’s sure Jonesy would as well. She swallows, her eyes landing on the island evaluations. “She wanted to discuss some of the evaluations.” 

“Oh, yes, of course!” Mr. Nook replies, brightening. She isn’t sure if he is sincerely excited about this, or if he is merely finding something to distract him from everything else that is plaguing his mind. “While you’re with her, would you remind her to come by to collect a form for Blathers? He has some paperwork he needs to discuss with her for the…”

He clears his throat. Isabelle pretends she does not notice the slight tinge on his cheeks. 

“... the art wing, yes,” Mr. Nook continues, as if nothing is wrong. 

“Of course,” Isabelle offers, trying to shorten the conversation for both of their sakes. She reaches a hand out. “Why don’t you just give it to me now, and I’ll pass it along?” 

He’s reaching into the drawer before she can blink, clearly grateful for the opportunity to bury everything in his file cabinet. Eventually, she’s going to have to coax it out of him, again. But that is a later matter, as she’s reminded by the buzzing of her phone that she has a current appointment. She can ease Mr. Nook out of his contemplative melancholy in the near future. 

For now, she makes her way to Jonesy’s house, which is packed with the rest of the neighborhood. She’s always liked that about Jonesy; she loves being within the community and around them. In her own words it ‘makes it easier to build a community when you’re physically the community’. It shows in just about every aspect of her words and actions. Absent-minded and impulsive as she may be at times, she has a heart for the people she works for, and it makes up for it. 

Even better, she didn’t forget the drinks. Isabelle is more than grateful for that. 

“Hey! The party is here!” Jonesy calls, when she opens the door. Her house is about as discombobulated as Isabelle would have expected, and she can only imagine what the HHA leaves in her mailbox come Sundays. Looking at her crowded shelves and piled tables, she has a feeling that she probably hasn’t even read them. The kitchen is nice and cleared though, with only the mixers, liquor, and glasses decorating it. Jonesy pours her a salt rimmed glass, sliding an orange wedge onto the edge. 

“Thank you so much for this,” Isabelle sighs out, sinking into one of the high top chairs. “I’ve been needing a little break like this.” 

“You’re telling me ,” Jonesy snorts, pouring herself a drink. She takes a full swig, contrary to Isabelle’s small sips. “I can only imagine your stress level though. At least I get the fun stuff.” 

“Did you get some rest? It seems that you did.”

Jonesy takes another drink, nodding vigorously. “Honestly, I’m glad you told me to go on to bed last night. I tend to forget, ah, basic needs ,” she jokes, but Isabelle is well aware that this is something she actually tends to do. “But last night was kind of the breaking point for me, and I did just kind of need someone to order me to sleep. I was so lost and I felt like I couldn’t do anything.”

Isabelle hums in agreement, taking another sip.“I think you did pretty well,” she encourages, reaching over to pat her hand. Jonesy looks unspeakably grateful, her eyes widening and a relieved grin pulling at the corner of her lip. 

“You’re very kind, Isabelle, but seriously, I am not good at that kind of thing. I don’t know how I managed to even get him to stop all that crying before you came.” 

“You offered him one of your brownies. As long as I’ve known Mr. Nook, he can’t get enough of sweets. It was a good distraction.” 

Jonesy sighs. “Lucky me then, huh, for happening to have that on hand.” She rubs her eyes with her hand, exhaling dramatically, then pouring herself another round. She gestures to Isabelle’s glass, which is close to empty. “Another one for you as well?”

“I’ve got work again in about thirty minutes, but I suppose just one more won’t hurt.” 

Jonesy grins and winks, raising the Isabelle’s glass before refilling it. “ Aye , that’s the spirit!” she cheers, sliding the glass across the table. She makes herself comfortable on her table, swirling her drink a bit before taking a long drink, pausing in reflection for just a moment. It’s the quietest Isabelle has seen her. Then, she seems to awaken again, slurping at her drink, and turns to her with that recognizable look in her eye. The wild idea that just might work look. 

“So, what are we going to do about this Redd Alert, huh? I’m sure you’ve got some intel I need.”

Isabelle’s jaw drops, a bit sluggishly from the margarita. She’s feeling relaxed and giggly, and Joney’s question throws her for a loop. She covers her mouth. She hadn’t planned on saying anything, and it seems that Jonesy doesn’t expect her to, because she continues.

“I know I have intel you need.” 

Her eyebrows waggle as she says it, and it’s clear the drinks have taken some effect on her as well. Isabelle watches as she hops down again from her seat, muttering something incomprehensible as she disappears down the hallway. Isabelle sits quietly at her seat, waiting on her to return. The drink is the perfect blend of sweet and bite, and she wonders if Jonesy always mixes her drinks this way, or if she uniquely did it this way just for her. She’s not one for a strong drink, and she knows that Jonesy is a bit more on the wild side when it came to things like this - add this to her compromising and hospitable personality and she doesn’t doubt the latter. 

Jonesy returns, holding a portrait in her hand. “Check this out,” she says, holding it up, and Isabelle sees the very image of Jonesy’s face, painted in a thick medium she does not recognize. It’s clear where she got it from though, due to the context of their budding conversation and the light in Jonesy’s eyes.

“Want to hear a secret?” 

Well, when she puts it that way, and she’s already here and excitable from her drink, it is too tempting to say no. She nods her head eagerly, leaning forward across the kitchen table. Jonesy settles the painting next to her, clearing her throat and beginning her story. Isabelle listens intently - at first, with a childlike curiosity, and then, as Jonesy continues, with a genuine interest. She had never gotten to know Redd all too well herself; she hadn’t wanted to interfere due to being so sensitive to Mr. Nook’s animosity towards him. Jonesy, on the other hand, had no knowledge of the history, and so had gotten a foot in the door beforehand, and suddenly, the wheels seem to turn. 

Is she tentative and a bit suspicious still? Yes. But she’s willing to devise and scheme with Jonesy to try and make things right. 

“You know,” she interrupts gently, with this in mind. She’d barely spoken, but Jonesy immediately silences, eyes wide and waiting. She almost halts, but she can’t stop now, and if they’re going to try and pull this off together, it is probably important that Jonesy knows. She sips at her drink again, gazing at it for quite a while before casting aside any last inhibitions. “I think Mr. Nook never fell out of love with him. Redd, I mean. Actually, I know for a fact that he’s loved him the entire time.” 

Jonesy claps her hands together once, more relieved than thrilled or excited, and Isabelle respects this. Something about her reaction eases her fears that this is simply a thrill seeking project for her - instead, more of a genuine sense of duty to help two people she cares about. Not that she should have ever doubted Jonesy’s motives. But gossip and drama are prone to thrive in small communities, and no one is really ever entirely adverse to it. But the widened look on Jonesy’s face and the way she exhales tells Isabelle that this has been something that Jonesy’s has been carrying for quite a while, just as unsure as she is about what the right thing to do entails.

“So it really is all just dramatic,” Jonesy sighs out, and rubs her temples. “Still a bit of a pain in my ass, but much less than I’d thought. Two old fools who miscommunicated are a much less complicated dilemma than two rivals who truly hate each other. Depending on our conversation, I was also gearing up to break the bad news to dear old Blathers. I’d had half a mind to chase Redd off the island.” 

Isabelle hums in thought. “So, what do you need me to do, Resident Rep?” she teases, grinning. “I’m here to assist.”

Jonesy folds her hands on top of the table, and it’s the most graceful move Isabelle has ever seen her do. She purses her lips in thought before continuing. “We’ll have to give them a space where they’re ready to meet halfway - no matter the conclusion. Either they still feel the same after all of these years, and want to try again, or they’ll part as cordial friends sometimes thinking about what could have been. Either way, the goal is that they part amicably.”

She winks audaciously. “You know I’m all about building bridges around here.”

“And tearing them down too, within a week or so,” Isabelle replies quickly, and watches Jonesy throw her head back in laughter. “How long has this last one lasted? Has it been a month yet?”

“Three weeks, so almost! Don’t give up hope on me yet,” Jonesy returns, trying her best to give off a snooty air and failing. She can’t stop giggling. Isabelle would pin it on the alcohol, but Jonesy is always extremely good natured and on the verge of a laugh. 

“So,” Isabelle murmurs, her mind now on the task at hand. “How about I’ll be good cop with Tom, since he needs a gentle nudge, and you can go bad cop with Redd since he needs a literal push .”

“Oh - cute, sweet, and smart? You’re a triple threat, Isabelle!”

Isabelle blushes at this, shaking her head. “You really are too much , Jonesy,” she mutters to herself,  grinning madly. She’s never felt quite so accomplished, especially not in comparison to their Resident Representative. Something about being needed has always felt good for her; being around such hard working individuals has always left her feeling quite lacking, despite that not ever being their intention. The compliment, in jest or not, leaves her warm inside, in the same way her tea had just last night. She can feel it spreading from her core to every inch of her.

“Oh, by the way,” she adds, as the thought crosses her mind. She checks her watch, just to make sure she has the time. “Why did Kody want those lights?”

The look on Jonesy’s face gives her a sense of kinship she’s not sure she’s ever felt.

Chapter Text

Redd hasn’t shown up in weeks. He’d know if he had, because Jonesy would have said something. They’d come to an agreement that as long as Redd only dealt with her on the beach, and did not come onto the island, they could continue business as usual. He tells himself it is only for Blathers’ sake, but the heavy disappointment he feels when Jonesy easily shakes hands with him and doesn’t argue for Redd’s admittance onto the island cannot be ignored. 

He fiddles with his wallet, his eyes lingering on the tiny 2.5 by 3.5 sketches. He had been so young then; his eyes in the smudged charcoal still look much wider and brighter than they are now. He remembers being up at five in the morning, just for the fun of it. He’d make a cup of coffee, sit outside his apartment on the old worn steps, and watch the sun rise slowly behind the buildings of the city. It wasn’t the most glamorous view, and he’d often find himself missing the flowering fields and mountains of his hometown, but there was something romantic about the aggressive honking and the shouting from neighboring apartments. Even the loads of garbage that were always waiting around and were never quite picked up. 

“You’re the most bizarre person I’ve ever met, Nookie,” Redd would say, shaking his head. Redd would usually be up much later, stumbling out onto the steps with a cigarette in hand, and sleep still in his eyes. He’d always sit next to him though, waving the smoke around, and they’d sit together in silence. Bizarre as it may sound, those are some of the moments with Redd he misses the most. Nothing but their souls and the sounds of the city, mingling until it felt like they were all one. 

Now they’re two, and even though Tom is still unforgivably angry at Redd for what he had caused between them, he sometimes yearns for those days again, sitting on cracked steps and watching dumpsters behind the apartments. 

“Are you having trouble sleeping again, Mr. Nook?” he hears Isabelle call, and meets worried eyes across their divider. She’s already passing him a cup of tea, urging him to take it. “It has low caffeine, but it’s better than nothing, right?” 

He grunts softly and reaches for it, but her eyes linger on him, wringing her hands nervously. She wants to say something, he can tell, and he knows what it’s going to be about. He slips the tiny sketch back into his wallet, pocketing it away and rubbing his eyes. Might as well face the inevitable. If he deals with it now, perhaps it won’t bother him so much later. He’s tried ignoring it long enough, and that particular plan of action clearly was not boding well for him or anyone else. 

“Alright, Isabelle, what is it?” he asks, and she’s about to respond, when the doors slam open. He’s sure it’s Jonesy from the energy that enters the room, but is surprised to see that it is one of their residents. He knows him, he does . He just isn’t good with names and faces much.

Isabelle’s face looks downtrodden for a moment, before fixing it into her familiar welcoming smile. She slides her little tulip to the side - the one she’s been working on for quite a while, he can see that it has a second bud blooming now - and leans over the counter. It’s still a bit dainty, but he can see how there’s a bit of Jonesy in her lately; it’s mixed in with her usual mannerisms just a bit. Two months ago Isabelle would not lean over the counter, except maybe with her hands folded. Not that he’s complaining. She seems more high spirited than ever, and less exhausted and frazzled. Whatever it is that Jonesy has injected her with, he’s happy for it. 

Perhaps he’ll ask Jonesy for a shot himself. 

“Kody!” Isabelle exclaims, practically wiggling in delight, and ah , that’s his name. Tom knew this. He’d just forgotten. He sits up, waving politely. 

“Yes, yes - Kody. How can we assist you?”

Kody, who had come in like a sure and strong storm, suddenly freezes in his tracks. “Ah -ha, Jonesy made this sound way easier, man,” he groans, flushing. Even though he’d forgotten his name, Tom remembers his ease and confidence with everything he did. He was a bit braggadocious, but he always meant well, and had a heart of gold - or at least, it seemed he did. But what’s strange to him is the way Kody seems a bit deflated of that normal assurance now, messing with his pockets and not quite meeting them in the eyes. He slowly makes his way to the counter, and Tom does not want to appear nosy, so he makes himself busy with his paperwork again. It might be his presence that’s intimidating Kody so much. 

“Take your time, Kody,” Isabelle offers helpfully. “We’re in no rush here. Did you need our help for something?” 

Something about her tone informs Tom that she already knows what Kody’s about to say. Kody continues to fiddle with his pockets for a moment before swallowing heavily and raising his head, just a bit. Tom notices he continues to look at the plant. 

“Well,” he starts, nervously. He huffs. “This is so lame , bro. I can pump iron all day but I can’t just talk to you about this.”

“We have different strengths, Kody,” Isabelle says, gently. “I can’t pump iron , as you’d describe it. But I might have a strength I can help you with.” 

Kody laughs, and Tom thinks that this is specifically true about Isabelle. She certainly has quiet strengths that add to the diversity and flourish on the island. It would not be the same without her. There’s a particularly motherly touch that she has, that neither he nor Jonesy can bring. 

“Okay, that makes sense,” Kody is responding, and even though he still appears to be sweating profusely, his shoulders are more relaxed. “ Okay . It’s about Cheri. I want to do something really special for her, since I guess we’re sorta together and all, and I kinda need your permission to use the plaza.” 

He scuffs his toe against the ground, and Tom remembers being in love, and he hopes that Kody always gets to feel this way - this fluttering excitement and nervousness. He hopes he gets to settle into it and it never goes sour for him. 

“And some help with decorating and distracting her, if that’s not too much to ask. Jonesy said she can handle Cheri if you two help me with the rest,” Kody continues, and it’s the first time he makes eye contact since he’s spoken. “So… can you help me, Ms. Isabelle? Mr. Nook?” 

Tom feels as if he’s said his name more as an afterthought, out of sympathy, but he nods anyways. He could use a break from the office, and if he puts his focus on someone else, he’ll feel much better. He’ll be distracted from his own thoughts, anyways, and that’s always a good thing. And he’ll get to be outside for once. He does miss the sun. 

“Of course!” Isabelle shouts, clapping. She’s already at Kody’s side by the time that Tom stands up out of his chair, and he longs for that energy again. Kody is still flustered, but he has an undeniable grin now, scrubbing at his hair with a small brush. He’s nervous, Tom can tell, and even as Isabelle encourages him and seems confident everything will work out just fine, Kody doesn’t speak all too much, just nodding along to what she says and following her instructions. 

Streamers and flowers and candles later, Kody is bent over, focused on arranging some lilies right where she should walk in , and Isabelle is snorting under her breath, trying not to embarrass him. Tom finds himself in a bit of a sweat from dragging one of the water fountains to a new position for what feels like the millionth time, and wonders if Kody will ever feel anything is quite perfect enough. He knows he never would, if he was attempting to put together something special for someone so dear to him. He tends to fret about those sorts of things, and then freeze up and really not do anything at all. Perhaps it makes sense he’s alone in these later years. At this time in his life, his old heart probably could not survive the insurmountable stress of it all. 

Isabelle makes her way over to him, helping him lift the fountain so that it doesn’t scrape against the terracotta. “I saw you looking at those pictures again, Mr. Nook,” she drops casually, as if merely listing off the day’s agenda. 

Tom coughs, suddenly interested in the fine detail of the carvings along the fountains frame. He’s never noticed the small leaf and flower patterns, and wonders if Jonesy had it commissioned this way, or if she’d just taken the time to learn it herself and do it. Either option would not surprise him. He can feel his heartbeat just behind his eyes, and he’s perspiring just beneath his collar. 

“I… must we talk about this now , Isabelle?” he nearly wheezes out, throwing a panicked glance towards Kody. 

Isabelle follows his eyes, then turns back, unbothered. Somehow, Jonesy is behind this, and he feels it. Normally, Isabelle would shy away from the subject, timidly asking again at another time, or only pushing at the most dire need. They’re not in any emergency, and yet here she is, the most brazen she’s ever been, waiting on a response. That’s Jonesy’s look all over her face, and he feels trapped in a corner. 

But then she pats his hand, and her sweet demeanor is still there, that gentle smile on her face. “It’s better to get it all out, you know,” she continues, when he stays stuck, feeling like there’s the largest almond stuck in his throat. He never eats anything with nuts- not since he’d nearly choked on some desserts that had those horrid things stuffed inside them. “And besides, look at the guy. Does it really look like he’s paying much attention to anything else?”

She’s right. He’s fully immersed in selecting tracks of music on the old stereo now, picking through and humming to himself - and sometimes, thinking aloud. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten they exist so close to him. He sighs, shoulders drooping. He’d known this was coming since the morning.

“Alright - I’ll admit,” he relays, very reluctantly at that. “I have been looking after those sketches more often than usual, as of late. It’s just… difficult to not look, you know? And I know I ought to throw them away and just forget any of it ever existed, but… they’re quite good. And I can’t let go, either. Even if I threw the sketches away, the memories would stay, good and bad, and I…” 

“I hope you’re not under the impression I’m suggesting you throw them away, sketches or memories,” Isabelle interjects, arranging a few cosmos and tulips together in a vase. “It’s for the table, Kody wants a little candlelight on a low picnic table - and I’d never suggest you do such a thing. It’s alright to still have feelings about things, or people, you know.”

“I know,” Tom mumbles, quietly. Something about having his twenty or so junior chastising him on the paths of love leave him a bit mortified. He should be the one mentoring, not the other way around. 

“Especially when you were once so close. And besides, you really haven’t talked to him since you’re little, uhm…” Isabelle pauses, and he tries not to visibly cringe at her delicate caution to not label his and Redd’s connection as anything romantic. Redd may have always spoken to him as if he loved him, but Redd spoke to everyone as if he had the most earnest feelings for them, and he’d made it perfectly clear that what he’d loved the most was money . It didn’t seem as if that had changed at all, either. 

“What would I tell him, Isabelle?” he cuts, saving her from her floundering in a sea of no words. “I thought I’d made it obvious enough of my…” he lowers his voice when Kody glances their way. They both wave. 

“...my feelings for him,” he continues, when the coast seems clear again. Isabelle points to the other fountain behind them, and he stands, his knees groaning as they unbend. It comes with age, he’s heard. He slowly lumbers behind her, the both of them straining to lift the second fountain to move to the other corner. It’s opposite of where Kody sits, so now he feels less inclined to look over his shoulder, quite literally. “I gave him many opportunities to return them, and he clearly rejected them.”

“ You ,” Isabelle states, trying and failing miserably to hide her smile. “I’m sorry, may I ask, just what exactly is your idea of giving an opportunity like that?”

He pauses. 

“Did you… Mr. Nook, please tell me you mean that you told him outright. As in, verbatim, Redd, I am falling in love -”

“No, no, I suppose I get your point,” Tom interrupts hurriedly, as Isabelle had gotten a bit too loud for his liking. Kody calls something out to them about needing to run to his house, and they wave him off, Isabelle giving a casual salutation before turning back to him, eyes wide and incredulous, and on the verge of laughter.

“Jonesy would have a field day if she were me right now.” 

“Then it’s a good thing that’s not within her paycheck, hmm?” Tom replies, a bit too quick and a bit too nervous. Isabelle doesn’t respond to this, humming to herself and adjusting the fountain so that it sits just right. He can imagine it though. Jonesy would never let him live such a thing down. Her aptitude is so contrary to his. He cannot see her ever choking up on a love confession. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s sure the person of her affection would know quite quickly, if she ever met them. He’s even more sure the world would know if she had any such fancy.

“Speaking of Jonesy,” he continues, a bit too eager to change the subject. Isabelle gives a huff, but it seems her incessant need to prod and poke at his tender sensibilities has subsided for now. “It’s about five, isn’t it? I have a surprise for her arriving at the airport.” 

Now she’s completely immersed, eyes darting towards the airport and then back, a quizzical look overcoming her features. “What? And I had no knowledge of this?” 

Tom grins cheekily, shrugging. He pulls out his phone, ignoring Isabelle’s barrage of questioning, shoving her off playfully. He dials Jonesy’s number, hearing an entire chaos on the other end of the line, before her voice comes through, vibrant as ever. 

“Hey Bossman! What’re you calling me for- it must be an emergency,” she chimes, and he’s vowing to change that. He doesn’t let it bother him so much this time though. 

“Jonesy - I have a potential resident trying to move in. He said he’s requesting your services in about fifteen or so minutes,” Tom explains casually, trying not to explode in excitement. It’s not often lately that he’s been graced with the feeling of doing something right. He’s sure of it now though, and Isabelle’s eagerness to know what is happening only spikes his anxious glee. “I know you’ve got Cheri right now, but do you think you can make it down there without her coming around the pavilion? Isabelle and I are about done here, but Kody’s gone to grab a couple of things from home, so he may need a bit more time.” 

“Oh, so you’re a part of the Kori Project. That’s good!” Jonesy replies, and he has no earthly clue what she means by that, but he assumes it’s a code for what he’s doing right now. She’s clearly come up with some kind of cover to keep Cheri in the dark. “Yeah, we can arrange that really quick.” 

“What have you done, Mr. Nook?” Isabelle is pestering him as soon as he hangs up. He just shrugs her off. 

“You’ll see,” he replies smoothly, dusting his shorts. “I just figured since she’s done so much, it’s about time I showed her some gratitude. I invited an old friend of hers that I know she’ll be ecstatic to see again. Now, come on. We’ve got work to do, and I’m pretty sure Kody doesn’t want us around when he’s surprising his girl.” 

Isabelle just stares after him, but trots along behind him silently, the wheels in her head clearly turning. It’s almost disheartening, having to return to the silent, artificially lit building when they’d just been out of doors for the longest they’d ever been in awhile, but for once, the paperwork isn’t as overwhelming to him, and whenever he starts to catch himself feeling a bit down about the entire Redd business, he just distracts himself with the thought of Kody and Cheri, and with imagining Jonesy’s face when she sees her surprise. It’s harder to not smile now, despite his intermingling and strange sadness, and he finds himself a bit less lonely these days. He finds the usual quiet sounds of the building suddenly welcoming and kind, from the ticking of the clock to the small fan on Isabelle’s desk that whirs and turns back and forth steadily. 

He still pulls out the sketches though, and something about what Isabelle had said earlier had lodged itself deep inside him, and he found he couldn’t quite shake it. He’s heard that it’s alright to feel emotions and let them pass through, but he’s finding more often than not that those feelings don’t simply pass through , but rather, make themselves at home in his heart. He doesn’t know how to just let them pass, or even how to evict them completely, as they’ve long overdue their stay. Like the first time Redd had held his hand - and he knows it was never meant to be in that way, he knows Redd is simply a physically more affectionate person with anyone and everyone around him. But it had meant something to him, even if it had meant nothing to Redd. He still feels how he’d felt then, warm and with his pulse beating wildly at his throat, trying to find words to say and coming across none. 

“Your eyes, they’re like sapphires , Snookums,” Redd had told him, when they were out on those cursed and beloved front steps. It had been evening that time, because Redd had insisted that watching the sun set and the streetlamps come on was an entirely different type of magic than in the morning. “I can never get enough of them.” 

Tom had tried to squeeze a thank you out of himself, as his mother had raised him to be polite, but he found he could only give out a parched sounding hmm , and had turned back towards the sun, trying very hard to focus on anything other than his temperature rising and the way he suddenly felt jittery and tingled all over.

He huffs at himself now, still shaking over it, when it was obvious why Redd had said it. Of course he’d used sapphires. Redd loved riches, and material things. He knows that every shady business that crook had gotten himself entangled in, he’d done it through vapid flattery and shallow-sweet words. He’d just been another counterpart stupid enough to fall for it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Redd truly had been coming onto him, just to take advantage of his emotions and catch him off guard. Redd had never needed him, let alone wanted him.

He wonders how many other business partners still pine after him though, or if he’s the only one who was truly that stupid. Who still is that stupid. Parts of him want to believe it was all a huge mistake. Wouldn’t that be nice - and so convenient for everyone, him included? 

“Mr. Nook- what have you done?” Jonesy’s voice cuts, clear and sharp, and just in time. He’d just started to feel his eyes water up to the brim, and he hastily wipes at them before looking up, in shock for only a moment. He’d nearly forgotten his surprise. 

“Me?” he asks, feigning innocence. Jonesy is already rushing towards his counter, with their new resident at the door, rolling his eyes and laughing under his breath, chewing a pick between his teeth. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean, Jonesy.” 

Jonesy’s eyes are the widest he’s seen them in awhile, with the most thrilled expression dancing on her face. She chucks the countertop up and flings her arms around his neck, and he only hesitates for a moment before awkwardly hugging her back. She jumps back and grabs his hands, swinging them back and forth. Her eyebrows are wriggling in disbelief. Isabelle, just at her counter now, is wide eyed and glancing back and forth rapidly, trying to intake all of the information. 

“I don’t believe for one second you weren’t involved in this, Senor Tom Nook ,” she sing-songs, nudging at him with a gentle fist. “I can’t seem to figure out how you managed it though. You sly fuck.”

Tom chokes on his words, trying very hard to keep a stern face. In this particular case, he finds it really can’t matter much. The only other individuals in the building are Isabelle and the new resident, and both of them have clearly been acquainted enough with Jonesy to know she has the mouth of a weathered sailor. And the drinking habit of one. If she wasn’t so helpful and participative, Tom would have had half a mind to fire her. 

On second thought, he’s not sure he could. It takes a lot to make him let go of someone, and even then, he never really does. He just buries his face in his hands, finally letting his grin escape.

“Alright, you caught me,” he admits, and Jonesy fist pumps as if she’s won some sort of prize. “When I came across Marshall’s paperwork and caught your name, I figured the two of you might have wanted to rendezvous, so to say.” 

He scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Think of it as a thanks, from me. For everything you’ve done in general, and ah, these past few weeks particularly.” 

“And here I thought all my hard work would get me bells deducted from my loans,” Jonesy teases, crossing her arms as if she’s disappointed. 

“So you’re saying my presence isn’t as valuable to you as bells? Heartless,” Marshall speaks up finally, from the doorway. Jonesy turns and giggles, and Marshall grins, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. “I knew there was something I liked about you.” 

“Sorry, Marshmallow, you know you’re the only one who has my heart. Hand it back and I promise I’ll be kinder,” Jonesy replies, winking. Marshall rolls his eyes, huffing. 

“Embarrassing me in front of the Island Admin already? I just got here, Jones. Can’t you let me have my roguish credentials for at least two minutes?” 

Jonesy bows in mock apology. “ Ah . I’ve wounded your fragile masculinity. My humblest apologies. Let me make it up to you with a special personalized tour of the place,” she offers, holding out her hand. She then turns back to Tom and Isabelle, saluting playfully. 

“Mr. Nook, I don’t care what they say about you. You’re the best boss on this island.” 

“I’m also the only boss in this island,” Tom returns, but he feels warm all the same, still a bit breathless that his plans had turned out every bit as good as he’d hoped it would. Jonesy lets the countertop fall down gently behind her - the most aware she’s ever been about how she abuses that thing - and rushes off, giving a hurried wave to the both of them and dragging Marshall behind her, already babbling away to him as if he’d always been on the island. Tom supposes that makes sense, as they’d been friends long before. 

The silence falls again in the building, but he can hear the echoes of their voices just outside. When they finally fade away, Isabelle sighs aloud, catching his attention. 

“You seem proud of yourself,” she comments in between stamping envelopes and sliding letters into them. She’s grinning, waiting for an explanation. Tom, for the first time, rolls his chair closer to their dividing counter, tapping his fingers on the wood. 

“I am,” he decides. He looks out toward the window, where he can still see their silhouettes just behind a grove of trees. “She deserves it, that one. I couldn’t help myself when I saw her name on his application. I don’t think he even knew she was here. He just stated that she was one of his closest friends, and it was her fault he’d even wanted to venture out and try a new residence in the first place.”

He turns, feeling himself glaze over just a bit with a temporary sadness. “And, you know, after that whole Henry bit… I know she was down about it. Even though she didn’t mention it, I could see it.” 

Isabelle cocks her head at him. “And you doubt your abilities as a leader. I wouldn’t have even made the connection,” she says, pursing her lips. 

“I don’t believe that at all,” Tom replies, but he’s feeling it again. The warmth. 

When the clock strikes for closing, he’s hardly noticed the familiar chime. He’s never asked what it was, although he knows Jonesy chose it. She changes that constantly as well though, so by the time he asks, she will probably give him a different name. It’s not matter. 

“That’s us, Mr. Nook.”

“It surely is.”

He waits as Isabelle packs her things together neatly in a little shoulder bag. Her file folders slide in just right in the side pocket, and she snaps it shut and drapes it over her shoulder before nodding to him. He makes his way to the door, holding it open for her, and out they go, earlier than usual. He can catch the last rays of the sun. They wave at Kody and Cheri, who are mid conversation, chattering away eagerly and nowhere near aware of their passing by. It is safe to assume it has all gone well. That’s two things he’s done right today. It’s a good feeling. 

They come to their crossroads, Isabelle adjusting her shoulder bag, Tom fiddling with his wallet again. Isabelle reaches for his shoulder, squeezing him tenderly. 

“You know you can… talk to me. That is my job,” she says, and the way she says it comes off in a jest, but her eyes say otherwise. She’s concerned, and he doesn’t think she should be. She has enough already to worry about. “I’m here to help, you know.” 

Tom looks toward the shop. The twins are outside, playing soccer with Jonesy and Ketchup. He can hear their chorus of laughter, ringing together perfectly. When he peers, he can see Marshall on the side, and he can hear his nasal, condescending voice. The sun goes down a bit more. 

“I know,” he replies, feeling himself choking up again. If he went just now and asked to join, would his boys even want him there? It may all be a bit too late for that. He coughs, clearing away the ghosts, and gives Isabelle a half-hearted smile. Hopefully it is dusk enough out that she can’t tell. “And I appreciate it. There just isn’t much you can do. Good night, Isabelle.”

He starts to walk off when she calls after him. 

“At least think about what I’d said!” 

He scrunches his nose at her. A lot has happened today. She’s said a lot. He isn’t sure what she means, and his memory fails to remind him of anything she’d said that he should be thinking about. 

Isabelle, bites her lip, then huffs. He swears she stomps her foot, but he isn’t sure. 

“About Redd .” 

Oh. Well, he doesn’t want to think much about Redd. Not after such a good day. Isabelle is staring after him though, and he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t appreciate her advice, so he nods, waving her off. It seems to be enough for her, for now. 

He isn’t sure how she’d got it in her head that him speaking with Redd was a good idea. She, more than anyone else, knows exactly what that scoundrel meant to him. What he’d done , and what it had meant. She had always been so heartfelt in her support of him distancing himself before. There’s been a change in the wind, and he isn’t sure he’s comfortable with it. Perhaps it’s the sadness. He had made the mistake of telling her he’d been at his happiest when he’d been with Redd. 

It is true though, whether he likes it or not. There isn’t any kind of joy he can try to fabricate that was quite like that one he had when they were together. 

“Oy, here comes the big man! Come be goalie, your nephews are kicking my butt!”

“Uncle Tom, you play soccer? You can’t be on Jonesy’s team - that’s not fair!”

“...not fair!” 

Well, he can come close to it. 

“Alright,” he groans, although he’s anything but exasperated. “But only for a minute, then it’s off to the house for dinner and bed.” 

Chapter Text

“I think I’m about settled here, thanks to your help,” Marshal grunts, shoving a cardboard box under his desk with his foot. The place is still littered with boxes here and there, but all in all, it’s pretty much put together. Marshall is about as much of a hoarder as Jonesy is, so she understands his way of organizing. As long as everything is in some sort of neat pile and separated off by categories of some type, it’s clean enough. She does this now, settling some mail in a cardboard box and setting it up sideways as a makeshift shelf, so he’ll see the various envelopes stacked up neatly next to each other. “Looks like I’m not the only lady in your life, huh?” she jokes, grasping her shirt as if wounded. She dramatically poses by the table, batting her eyes and pressing her hands to her chest. “I’d always hoped maybe I was your one and only.” 

“Knock it off,” Marshal mock-groans, shoving against her. He leans over to break down yet another empty box, smashing it flat between his palms. “Although it’s nice to see you haven’t changed a bit.” 

Jonesy grins, stacking a flattened box of her own on top of his. She pulls off a band and wraps her hair up, sweat dripping down the back of her neck. “We have got to get you some air in here, man,” she pants, pulling at her shirt to fan herself. “The island gets pretty muggy after it rains.” 

She tugs at the window, pushing it up and open. There’s a bit of a breeze coming from the ocean, so there is a moment of temporary relief, but heat continues to billow in as well. The waves are deliciously tempting. If she didn’t have a full itinerary of work today, she would go for a swim right now. Marshal is lucky that his house is so near to the beach. It had just so happened that Lucha had moved out, leaving the lot empty, so Marshal easily moved right in.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at Marshall. “Let’s go get drinks at my house. We need a break.” 

Marshal grunts, picking up the stack of flattened boxes. Jonesy holds his front door open for him, bowing dramatically.

“After you, milady.” 

“Fuck off.” 

They make their way towards Jonesy’s house, stopping by the recycling just outside the shop. The twins are out and about, eagerly assisting them with the boxes, chattering about many various ideas of what they could do with them. Jonesy highly doubts either one of the twins will actually get down to it - they’re both the more active type and not so much the crafty type - but she smiles and nods along, and elbows Marshal whenever he begins to formulate a sarcastic reply. 

“We haven’t had this many boxes since Henry moved out,” Tommy starts. Timmy crashes right behind him, an echoing “...Henry moved out…” They stare at each other awkwardly before busying themselves with stacking the flattened cardboard, hurriedly changing the subject. Jonesy, despite the way she suddenly feels like she can’t breathe, takes the offer, chatting them up on creating a makeshift obstacle course, among other things. 

“We could use it as an attraction here,” she suggests, and watches the relief settle on their preteen faces. “It’s recycling. People love stuff like that.” 

Marshal gives her a look, but he doesn’t say anything, grunting and dropping the rest of his stack and clapping his hands together to shake off excess dust. “Well,” he coughs out, more than awkwardly, “I’m still thirsty, and hot. Let’s go get that water before I turn into a raisin.” 

Jonesy leans over and squeezes the boys in her arms, with hasty promises to play again when they close up shop, and chases after Marshal, who’s already out the door, the shop bell ringing as it shuts behind them. The walk to the house is fairly silent, with Marshal commenting on the heat every passing couple of minutes or so, and then dramatically sighing in exhaustion and joy when Jonesy opens the door of her home, the cool air blasting their faces. He throws himself into her chair, as if he’s been here for years now. He might as well have. 

“I’m sleeping over until that air is fixed,” he says, while Jonesy pours him a glass. “And who’s Henry?” 

Jonesy grimaces, and Marshal raises a brow, sipping at the cool water and smacking his lips in satisfaction. “All that talk about how I was the only one who had your heart, and you’ve been flirting behind my back with some other escort. How very Jezebelian of you.” 

“He was amazing, Marshall. You would have liked him,” Jonesy replies wistfully, and she’s trying not to get all teared up over it again. As often as she and Henry share correspondences, it still isn’t quite the same as being able to drop by his house for a good cup of tea and a vent session. Besides, she isn’t entirely sure she could write everything she’s been experiencing in a letter. She’s pretty sure she shouldn’t. 

“Jonesy, your list and my list of people we like is very different. Mainly because my list is much shorter than yours.”

As little as she feels like it, Jonesy laughs. “I’m on the list though, right?”

“I’ll think about it.” 

Jonesy elbows him to pull herself out of her funk, causing him to splash some of his water on himself. He growls. “C’mon,” she urges, pulling at his arm. “The others are dying to see the new resident.” 

At this, Marshal rolls his eyes, sliding off the chair, glass still in hand. Even with the air, the glass is perspiring, droplets of condensation clinging to its frame and sliding their way down. Marshal swipes at it with his free hand, then pushes Jonesy’s chair back under the table, muttering to himself. “Just what I wanted, to be toted around like the latest fad. I always knew I was star quality.” He still comes along though, looping his arm through Jonesy’s, as if they’re an elderly retired couple in an old folks community, and doesn’t make too much of a fuss each time they stop to say hello to a resident. Jonesy has to give him credit where it’s due, particularly with her dearest friends. As much as she loves Ketchup and Cheri, she’s well aware they can be a bit overwhelming in their energy for some. Marshal being one of them; he’s always had crotchety old man patience, and she’s told him this before, to which he’d laughed and flipped her off, but they both know it’s true. 

It takes a good hour before she can tear him away from Ketchup and Cheri, who beg for him to come around for get-togethers. Marshal makes some kind of half-hearted promise, but she can tell he’s a bit intrigued about it. He can pretend all he wants. There’s no point in lying about it to her. She doesn’t press him about it though, merely guiding him towards her secret beach, with promises of a good drink and a cool inlet to swim in. This is how they stay for a good while, drinking and lazing in the sun, splashing in the small waves that lap on the shore when they get just a bit too hot. Jonesy is aware in the back of her mind that she has responsibilities to attend to, but she thinks that Mr. Nook will most likely forgive her for slacking off today. Probably. He won’t understand it though; getting that man to relax is an entire task all on its own. Getting him to do a lot of things is a task on its own. 

Which makes her wonder just how, exactly, Redd is going to get any sort of communication from him. And just how, exactly, she’s supposed to help in any way. Is she even supposed to help, at all? Meddling has never been her thing, unless someone asks for her help. She likes to mind the business that pays her. Although, Mr. Nook does pay her, so he is sort of her business, even with that logic. She laughs aloud, and Marshal looks at her with a crooked eyebrow. She knows she has to look insane right about now, but Marshal is an old friend. He should know by now how her mind works. 

Nevertheless, he elbows her in jest. “I told you being on a deserted island would make you go koo-koo,” he says, twirling a finger by his head. He gives her a once over, sipping at his drink in scrutiny. “I didn’t realize how much worse you could get though.” 

Jonesy leans over to punch him in the arm when she catches it. The smoke. 

“Speak of the devil,” she mutters in awe, a hand in midair just above Marshal, who for the second time in ten minutes gives her a bewildered stare, and then mutters to himself. She doesn’t catch what he says though, her attention now on the long-gone trawler that she hasn’t seen in quite a while. The last time she and Redd had spoken, he had seemed pretty determined to have a hearty self-reflection. She’d also nearly beat his ass to a Nook Mile ticketed island and back, but that’s another story. She wonders just what he’s mulled over while he was gone, or if he really had thought about anything whatsoever. For all she knows, he’s gone and dealt more risky ventures, and learned nothing at all. 

A part of her wants to be persuaded by the benefit of the doubt. It’s no matter though, either way - there’s only one way to find out. 

“Another lover, eh, Jonesy? You really are wounding me,” she catches Marshal call out when she jumps out of her chair. She turns and winks at him salaciously, and he kicks sand up at her in futility. She nods her chin towards his drink, still backing up into the small inlet.

“Down it, you’ll forget all about me and feel better,” she teases back, and he leans into his chair and laughs. 

She’s only ankles deep in the water as the boat slowly rolls in, hands on her hips, waiting. Trying not to be anxious. She and Isabelle had created a very intricate and delicate procedure, and it feels pretty foolproof, but fools can prove anything, when they feel like it, facts or no. Which is why they’re fools in the first place, she supposes. And people are fools in love. So she’s heard. When she catches Redd’s face, wide eyed and grinning as if their last conversation had never occurred, she starts to think it might be true. He does appear pretty foolish, galivanting down the haphazardly thrown docking board. He looks like a kid on Christmas. Which, despite the hot weather, they’re close to it. Jonesy still gets whiplash from living in the Southern Hemisphere. 

“Been a bit,” she says, squinting up at him as he approaches her. 

“Long enough, I’d agree, kid,” he returns. She’s surprised by how tightly and suddenly he embraces her, and he’s shaking her by her arms before she can return the affection.
“Not to be a sentimental old man, but I sure have missed you.” 

“Not to be a sentimental girl, but I missed you too, I guess,” Jonesy replies, but even if she wanted to, she can’t stop herself from grinning. She socks him in his arm gently when he lets her go, nudging him over to the beach. “Come meet my main man, before he gets all too jealous.” 

Redd snorts, and wiggles his brows as if he wants to say something, but settles with a smirk, trotting next to her silently. She takes a sip of her drink before jerking her head towards Marshal. “This is Marshal. He just moved here, but we have a history about as old as Creation.” 

“Speaking of old, this guy’s a bit out of your range, isn’t he?” Marshal interrupts, all fake innocence and smiles. He presses a hand to his cheek in mock concern. “Does he have money or something?” 

“Ah, we’re too late, I’m afraid. He’s jealous already,” Jonesy retorts. 

“I like him,” Redd says. 

“But do I like you, that’s the question,” Marshal replies, smoothly. Jonesy cuffs him, trying very hard not to laugh. As much as she appreciates the guy’s sense of humor, she isn’t sure it’s the way he should approach anyone he’s just met. It’s always been his way, however, and she has yet to curb him of it. Marshal scowls at her, then purses his lips, taking a long drink, swallowing slowly. He gives Redd a scrupulous look over, then sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“You pass. For now,” he states, as if he’s suddenly decided, and has really been calculating all along. Jonesy doesn’t doubt he has, knowing him. It’s the prickly exterior towards new faces. “But only because Jonesy approves.” 

“An honor, Jonesy, really, to have your seal of approval,” Redd teases, with a superfluous bow, but she can see it in his eyes. That same sparkle when she’d first met him. The one that made her think that there’s sincerity in him. It makes it easier to believe he’s trying, at least. 

It doesn’t mean she’s forgotten, though. She’s aware enough that he could still be pulling her leg, trying to get a foot in the door and into manipulating his way around her to benefit himself. At the cost of Mr. Nook, too, if he needs it. She isn’t about to be the reason Mr. Nook has to go through it all over again. It’s her job, for one, to keep the island running smoothly, and Tom Nook out of sorts just won’t do. For two, she likes to think that Mr. Nook is her boss and her friend, and friends don’t let friends get hurt. She’s pretty sure he feels the same way. 

“Alright then, now that we’re all familiar,” she starts, with this set on her mind. She throws herself back into her chair, patting the one next to her. “Let’s talk, Redd. I believe we have some amending to do.” 

“Should I leave…?” Marshal mutters, but Redd holds a hand up and shakes his head, taking the seat with grace. He folds his hands and leans forward, his usual smirk wiped away by determined brows resting over his eyes. Jonesy takes out a cup and pours him a drink, swirling the orange juice she’d just pressed earlier with a copious amount of Vodka. From the looks of things, she’s going to have to go orange picking again. Marshal likes a sweet drink, until he can’t taste the alcohol, and she can tell he’s guilty of drinking most of the juice from the way he coughs awkwardly, staring down into his own cup. She’ll embarrass him about it later. 

Redd fumbles with his satchel, one that Jonesy’s only just noticed now - her observation skills really aren’t that great unless she’s on high alert - and he pulls out what looks to be a tea set, with packets of salt. Maybe Redd really just is insane, and she’s been playing a psychopath’s game this whole time. She glances back at Marshal, and they share a look before she turns back to Redd, who’s smiling eagerly. 

“Hear me out: Coffee, with a dash of salt,” Redd explains. As if it actually explains anything at all, and doesn’t make things all the more convoluted. Jonesy covers her mouth to try to hide her very obvious reaction, but she can’t help herself.

“Ah, Redd?” she starts, squirming in her seat from sheer confusion. “No offense, but, what the actual fuck are you on? Because I’m going to need to buy it from you when my days are extra stressful. And trust me, there’s been more than enough of those days lately.” 

Marshal spits his drink and coughs, hard, which makes it really hard for her not to laugh, but she thinks she does a pretty good job of it, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she’s sure it’s going to be a very annoying sore later when she’s trying to enjoy any food. Redd sighs, shaking his head what seems to be fondly, so at least she hasn’t completely offended him. Or she’s just an idiot, and he’s laughing at her, which she finds equally as probable. She’s never admitted to being the brightest. Just cleverer than some. 

“I said hear me out,” Redd repeats, and now he’s pulling out a bundle of paper, tied together with ribbons and other various things. Whatever his little project is, he’s clearly put a lot of effort into it. She supposes she can at least listen. He’s taken the time to think, and hopefully has nothing but the sincerest feelings behind everything he’s going to present to her. Redd coughs, separating the papers (which she can now see are letters) into separate piles, laying a cup with a salt packet inside each of them. 

“While I was away, I took into account everything you said, Jonesy,” he starts, and Marshal mutters something about how that’s a poor idea, and Jonesy elbows behind at him. If Redd heard it, he doesn’t show or mention it, all wrapped up in his idea. “I thought about Tom and I, and everything we’ve been through, and what it all meant. What it should have all meant. Now, I know I can’t just waltz right into the Resident Service building and tell him all this right away - you saw how our last rendezvous went - but what I can do is try to bare my heart and soul to the man I love, one letter at a time.” 

“Which is where these come in,” he continues, gesturing to the cups and salt packets and letters. “For each day I was gone, and even today as I was near the island, I wrote small notes. Each one has a different thing I’ve always wanted to say, should have said, or want to say now. But, because Nookie is the way he is, I don’t want it to be too obvious right away, so they start off as small, positive affirmations. Nothing too specific, otherwise he’ll know it’s me and will tear each one up every time he gets them before he even reads them. And I worked hard on these.” 

“That you did,” Jonesy agrees, looking over them. If nothing else, it’s impressive how thoughtful he’s been so far. She waves at him to continue. “Carry on.” 

“Now, the salt and coffee part, which I’m sure is what had you wondering if I fell overboard and let my mind become waterlogged,” Redd proceeds, and Jonesy was pretty sure Marshal had passed out to nap out of boredom, but now he sits up, equally intrigued. “I’m sure you know as well as I do that Tom likes coffee. Loves the stuff. Personally, I don’t get the puffery around it, but well, this isn’t about me anyways. However, not only am I adding the obvious metaphor that I’m out on the ocean - which is salty - but I’ve always liked to put salt around the rim of my drink, and Tom knows this. But, I picked salt packets instead of a shaker because I feel it would be much too obvious right away. So packets they are. And here’s where I need your help...” 

“I knew there was a catch,” Jonesy interrupts again, snapping her fingers in an oh drat kind of way. Redd scoffs and rolls his eyes before continuing. He places a cup in her hands, then places one salt packet and one letter on top of it. Jonesy can’t help but to have fun groaning and grimacing as if she is being asked the worst. “You want me to be your messenger girl ?” 

“I was going to say my Eros, but now you’ve made it sound cheap,” Redd pouts. “It was all very romantic, in my mind. Anyways, your cynicism aside, I need you to deliver it for obvious reasons. One, if Tom sees me, he’ll instantly know and we’ll have to start over. Two, I love the idea of him thinking it’s just coffee from his Resident Representative, doing her job, when suddenly he realizes there’s a note from a secret admirer.” 

“Very romantic.” She’s not trying to be rude, but she can’t help but to continue to cut in on the conversation. “But how do we know Mr. Nook won’t just think all this is from me? I’m assuming you’re going to want me to hold on to all these letters. He’s gonna find out, one way or another, that I’m just taking them from my house.” 

“Hold the phone- this is about Tom Nook ?” Now Marshal is breaking in. He whistles. “Now this is rich. You didn’t tell me you were involved in such a titillating state of affairs, Jonesy. Carry on, Argonaut.” 

“Oh, I really like you,” Redd replies to the reference, winking. Marshal pretends to blush, fanning himself.

“Get a room,” Jonesy gags. 

“I’m trying to, but with Tom, if you haven't noticed,” Redd says, to which Jonesy pretends to choke herself. “And he’ll know, trust me. These letters get very personal. He’ll eventually come to realize they’re from me.” 

“And hopefully,” he continues, suddenly overcome with wistfulness, and Jonesy sobers herself up just enough to reach for his hand. Marshal, for once, has the decency to be quiet, and she’s grateful for it. “Hopefully by then, my previous letters will at least have softened him up enough to want to give me just one more chance. Just once more.” 

Chapter Text

Tom wakes up with a headache, which isn’t new, but every time it comes around, it’s always just as aggravating. He groans and rubs his temples, checking his bedside clock with a desperate hope that there’s time to hit snooze for at least a good fifteen minutes. There isn’t, and he knew there wouldn’t be, but something about seeing it as a reality makes it all worse. He can hear the twins downstairs, fussing over the breakfast. If he doesn’t get them settled soon, it could be a disaster. He’ll have to take coffee again, despite Isabelle’s gentle encouragement to slow down. 

He stumbles out of his room and makes his way down the stairs, holding onto the railing as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. Which it very well may be, as tired as he feels. He yawns, stretching and feeling the blood rush its way into his head. It’s a thrilling and overwhelming feeling. 

“Alright boys, settle down,” he mutters between another jaw-splitting yawn. They’re still in their pajamas, scrambling to their seats almost immediately after he speaks. They’re staring at him, waiting for him to announce breakfast, and knowing them, he’ll need to make a substantial amount of it. The boys are growing, and they’re constantly hungry. “Let me make my coffee, and then I’ll get started on breakfast. How does blueberry pancakes sound?” 

“Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!” they chant, growing louder when he begins to grind his coffee beans. He starts his morning routine of tuning them out - something he has gotten better at. It’s best to not let it irritate him too much. Eggs it is then, he supposes, although he’ll make blueberry pancakes, even if just for himself. He knows that once they smell it, they’ll eat it. They have to have fruit intake somehow, and if he has to hide it in sugary dough, so be it. It’s his own fault anyways. He’s passed on his bad eating habits onto them. 

He’s set out their food and is midway through breakfast when he notices the boys leaning in and whispering to each other through their forkfuls of eggs. They look positively guilty. It shouldn’t bother him, but for some reason, it does , enough so that he puts his fork down and halts his breakfast to stare at them until they stop. 

“Something you’d like to tell me?” he asks, while they squirm. Tommy punches Timmy in the arm, and Timmy punches him back, both of them scowling. 

“No,” they mumble, in chorus, for once. Something about the lack of echo only puts him more on edge, but he’s too afraid to push it. Besides, he doesn’t have the time nor does he have the desire to interrogate them, not while he’s already running behind on time. He lets the anxiety settle in his stomach, swallowing his breakfast over it. The silence that falls over the table is deafening; there isn’t a sound except for the three of them finishing their breakfast. Tom finds himself yearning to be behind his desk, as surely nothing could be more uncomfortable than this. 

“Don’t forget to lock the door before you leave,” he says, standing with his empty plate to drop into the sink. He wishes he knew how to talk to them, sometimes. There are moments where he feels they are genuinely afraid of him, or simply don’t think he’ll approve or be interested in what they have to say. He can be a bit strict, he knows this, but he likes to think that he’s made his love for them abundantly clear. They don’t answer him, still into their food and whatever conversation tween boys could possibly be invested in. 

Sighing, he closes the door behind him, and heads down to the Resident Services building. His head is still pounding slightly, and he’s hoping he still has a stash of aspirin in the drawer at work. Otherwise, he might not make it through today. 

The building is fairly quiet when he walks in, which is a relief. He’s made it before Isabelle, but her fan is still on from the day before, quietly buzzing from side to side to keep off the heat. It has to be the heat that’s caused the headache. He’d tossed and turned quite often that night, but nothing outside of the usual, so he is certain it isn’t his poor sleeping habits. Almost certain, anyways. There’s a small chance that it’s merely the result of a pileup of sleepless nights. 

He digs through his drawers, shoving various personal items aside. If nothing else, he’ll just have a good cup of coffee. Even if it won’t completely rid him of the pounding in his head, at least he’ll have the splash of serotonin that comes with drinking something he loves. He opens another drawer, and it’s just his luck that he’s found one, still packaged, marooned on its own beneath string and paper clips and other things he isn’t even entirely sure as to how they got there to begin with. He opens it with shaking hands, and takes it dry. He regrets it immediately, throat dry and now feeling irritated, and turns to his coffee pot ready to get it up and going so he can have some form of liquid to alleviate it. 

That’s when he sees it.

It’s a little teacup, on a plate. Both are intricate; made of china and painted with tiny flowers. He can smell what it is, and his curiosity instantly piques. The pot is empty, which means no one brewed it here, and yet it’s freshly made. Pungent with a rich flavor. It isn’t the pre-ground kind either; this is the real deal. He can tell. He’s enjoyed the stuff long enough to know. Whoever made it is a connoisseur themselves. He sniffs again, stepping closer. 

It can’t be Isabelle. Surely not. It isn’t that she’s against coffee - but he’s seen her more with various teas. For a moment, his mind settles on Jonesy. Perhaps she came in with a cup and then left it behind in pursuit of a sudden wild excursion or project of sorts. It wouldn’t be too highly unlike her. He should leave it be. 

Jonesy is more of a margarita in the morning kind of gal, though. And surely, if she did make this cup and forgot it, she wouldn’t mind if he had it. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. 

He shakes his head. What is he thinking? He just needs to make a pot and let it be. He has beans at home she’s given him that he could have brought and used if he wanted it to be a special brew that badly. His tastes will get him in trouble one of these days, if he doesn’t keep a close eye on himself. It will indeed . 

Scoffing, he almost leaves it, thinking to put it aside in their small fridge compartment until the owner comes to claim it. Just to try and keep it fresh, of course. And perhaps if no one claims it he can have it. He just can’t let a beautiful cup go to waste. He couldn’t stand it. But the little packets along the rim have something nestled between them, a folded note of sorts, and it catches his attention. It has his name; he sees it scrawled in nearly illegible writing: Tom Nook . Well. 

Surely it is for him then. Now who made it, he isn’t sure. He gingerly picks up the note, glancing around, almost as if guilty of touching something that isn’t his. His name is on the note though. It would be rude to not read it. Inside is the same horrible penmanship, which means he has to grapple in his drawer again for his reading glasses to even attempt to decipher it. He wipes the lenses and holds it up. 

You could say I admire you. It can’t be helped. Your determination is unshakeable. Just as my feelings for you have been.

A secret admirer? He feels the flush start at the tip of his nose, like a sneeze. His face tingles with warmth. His heart beats. Perhaps he shouldn’t use the sugar packets. He’s already feeling as if he’s run a marathon. His mind races to try and piece together who it could be. There are not so many islanders; surely he should be able to pick apart who it is. The handwriting is not recognizable - not that he pays much attention to that. But the style of the writing is akin to Eunice. She does love poetry and is a bit of a romantic, that one. But she is so withdrawn and to herself, he hardly ever sees her. Perhaps this is her way of coming forward? 

Surely not Isabelle. She’s half his age. As long as they’ve worked together he’s seen her as a daughter of sorts. Besides, he would have picked up a hint here and there if she had begun to develop anything outside of the platonic realm. Surely. 

Well, no matter. He can enjoy the gift. It is a sweet gesture. It is someone who knows him. It could still be anyone though. It’s no secret how he adores coffee. He feels a hum growing inside him as he brings the cup and plate with its contents to his desk. He’ll only use two packets instead of his usual four. That will be the compromise. Whoever left this wanted to sweeten him up for sure - they left a good handful all around the rim of the plate. Or maybe they just wanted to do so for the aesthetics. 

He rips a packet open and sprinkles it out. Isabelle arrives, the chime of the door announcing her. She doesn’t seem to react when she sees him with the cup, so it cannot be her. Unless she’s very good at hiding her emotions. She is fairly reserved, so he cannot rule it out. This could cause a complication if it is her though. He is very much her senior in age and in position. He’ll have to squash it if it is. 

“Good morning, Mr. Nook. On the pot already?” she asks, almost disapprovingly. Ah. She had been asking him to consume less of his favorite vice. It can’t be her. She would have gifted him something else. 

“I know - but it was a gift! A very kind gift, although I’m not sure how to respond.” 

She unpacks her satchel before turning to him with an inquisitive glance. “How so?” she asks. “You need me to help you write a thank you note?” 

“No, I do appreciate the offer though. It’s just…” he hesitates, feeling himself heat up again. He’s much too old for this sort of thing to fluster him. But there’s a childlike excitement blooming up inside, like the first time there’s a note in the locker at school with hearts drawn all over it. It is flattering to know someone has feelings, no matter his age. “Well… I think the sender might be a bit fond of me, you know, in a romantic sort of way.”

“Oh! A secret admirer?” Isabelle gasps, clasping her hands just below her chin. She doesn’t even bother to wrestle with the smile growing into her cheeks, and he feels himself being pulled along, despite his reservations. Her hands begin to flutter as she paces back and forth near her desk. She hums to herself in thought before whirling to face him again. Her face is unreadable. “Who do you think it could be?” 

Who, indeed. He shrugs. “I’m not all too sure, I’ve been thinking about it myself,” he replies, re-reading the note. It’s written in an almost sentimental voice. In the days of wine and roses, almost. He stretches his arm across his desk to her, note in hand, and she snatches it up eagerly, her eyes scanning the words. She cups her mouth and sighs. 

“It’s so romantic ,” she swoons. “For something so short, I mean.” 

“Yes, I thought so myself,” he concurs, and takes a sip. He immediately spits it out. Isabelle looks horrified. 

Tom coughs, and pounds his chest. He sniffs at the coffee, and then at the packets. Salt. An easy mistake. They must have meant to grab sugar and accidentally gotten salt. Perhaps in their excitement? Or their flighty mindset -

Oh my. His brow wrinkles in worry. He does hope not. It couldn’t be so. Although lately he and the Resident Representative had had some more intimate moments in terms of their friendship, he’s fairly confident it isn’t so. He’s seen how she is when she does have feelings for someone - even if she does not realize them. No. She wouldn’t hide it in this way. Surely not.

The door chimes again. Speak of the devil, and she appears with all the vigor and volume she always does, babbling about some wild invention. Apparently, she’s creating a mountain just behind the plaza, and plans to have Blather’s museum placed at the top. He listens to her prattle on about the variety of trees and fountains she plans to line the entrance, and he is already ringing up the bill. Bell. He snorts at himself. 

“Why don’t you ever laugh at my actual jokes, Mr. Nook. Starting to think you have a bad sense of humor.” Jonesy pauses her excitable rant to whip towards him with that all too familiar gleam in her eye. “Actually, I’m starting to think you don’t have a sense of humor - like at all .” 

“Ha, ha - you’ve pegged me, Jonesy,” he returns in sarcasm, to which she wrinkles her face and mutters an I’d rather not, thanks . He doesn’t get the implication, but clearly Isabelle does, because she turns an interesting shade of red and busies herself with her desk work suddenly. He turns the mug by its handle, and Jonesy’s eyes land on it. Her face is as clear as day. She can’t hide anything in her face. She’s never been able to - she’s much too up front and transparent for that. It’s one of her redeeming qualities. 

Never mind all that. He needs to ask and get this over with. 

“Jonesy,” he starts, a more serious tone taking on, and she raises her brows at him. He glances at the mug and she follows suit, and when they lock eyes again, she seems pale, as if caught. It can’t be. It just can’t . He hates to do this with Isabelle here, but he simply won’t have the courage to ask if it were them, alone. He taps the rim of the cup. “I don’t know how to approach this, but… you don’t happen to be the sender of this drink and note, do you?” 

Ah. As he’d thought. Relief washes over her face. The earlier look of guilt must have been her assuming she’d caused trouble somehow with her excavating adventures. “A note? With that cup? I don’t own anything like it. I thought you’d saved it from your grandmother or something,” she says, leaning in to take a look at it. “It definitely looks old enough to be an antique.” She gives him a look over before smirking. “Kind of like someone I know. You might know him too, actually! About your height, my boss, a little cranky without his coffee…” 

“Alright, alright , be serious for a minute, will you?” 

He gives her a few minutes to laugh at her own genius and catch her breath before coughing in impatience and annoyance. She holds up her hands and pretends to wave a flag. “Sorry. Let’s see this note then,” she sobers into, letting one more snicker escape. Isabelle holds it out to her, and she holds it gently in both hands, looking over it. Her eyes scan over it a couple of times, presumably attempting to read it. The same way he had when he’d first unfolded it. Whoever wrote it needed some penmanship work. 

“Mr. Nook?”

He hums, mid thought. Who could have written so poorly? The language suggests Eunice, but the writing suggests someone like Kody. He’s at least involved in the island affairs enough to know it isn’t him though. It’s been fairly obvious that he and Cheri have been getting on quite well. 

“I’m insulted.”

He snaps out of his methodical deductions to look at Jonesy, who’s waving the paper around in his face. “You know I don’t have this shitty of handwriting, don’t you?” she asks, feigning offense. “I’ve only written a million ledgers and drafts for you before!”

“Well, your handwriting could use a little work, I just thought -” 

Jonesy makes a face. “Tom Nook, being funny ?” she gasps, clasping herself. Isabelle giggles over her paperwork. “That’s emotionally damaging. Dock my debt so I can afford therapy - I don’t know that I’ll ever recover.” 

He rolls his eyes, although fondly. “So that’s a no, then.” he asserts.

“Mr. Nook, if I had a crush on you, you’d know it,” Jonesy says, in a matter of fact kind of way, which he’d assumed anyways, but it didn’t hurt to ask. She leans back on the counter near Isabelle, throwing her head back and tossing her hair, very much like a heroine from a romantic drama. He supposes that’s exactly what she’s getting at, as over-the-top as she often is. All she needs is the cliche roses. “You’re not someone I’d be embarrassed to harbor passionate feelings for. In fact, if I ever found out that someone was in love with a handsome bachelor like you and was ashamed of it, I’d sock them in the face myself.” 

Isabelle giggles have grown into laughter, and something about the way they look at each other gives Tom the idea that Jonesy already has done exactly that. Which makes him dizzily curious and almost a bit nauseous to know just who the letters are from. He won’t know how to reject anyone on the island, and the last thing he needs is a showdown between himself and one of his own residents. It just wouldn’t be good for business. 

“Do you happen to know who it is?” he asks meekly, just in case. She shrugs. Well, so much for that. He would have loved to get wind of who it was sooner so he could nip this in the bud now. As exciting as it is, his heart almost aches at the thought of being in love again, even just the dream of it. Besides - and he hates how he can see the images in his wallet, hates how he could never stand to throw them away - he never fell out of love, not really. All this for him to just yearn more for what was lost. He feels a swell of hurt and irritation bubble up inside him. 

It just isn’t fair.

Jonesy seems to catch him in his misery, because she leans over his desk and peers at him. “Are… are you wanting it to be from anyone in particular?” she asks, genuine concern on her face. He feels Isabelle’s eyes on him, and he shakes his head quickly. Best to avoid any suspicion. 

“No, I… I would just like to know. I don’t believe in fraternizing with any of the islanders, and if I could have an idea who it is, I could let them down gently,” he admits, as it’s partially true. As much as he does wish, he knows the reality, and he’d like to deal with it sooner rather than later. Jonesy nods, humming thoughtfully. 

“I can dig around, see what dirt I dig up. You know I hang out with the Bermuda Triangle of a rumor mill, right?” she teases. 

“If it were a Bermuda Triangle , wouldn’t it mean the gossip would stay within that trio of yours?” 

She laughs, mouth open and loud. She can’t tell him he’s wrong though. As much as he loves her easy way of building friendships with others, he has also become very aware of her trifecta with Cheri and Ketchup. Jonesy, as spontaneous as she can be, seems to be pretty well put together with secrets, but that Cheri… he cradles his face in stress. If Cheri gets wind of anything, it could pose as a double edged sword. He would get the information, but she’d pass along the rejection before he could. He’d rather that not happen. 

It couldn’t be Marshal… could it? He shakes his head. He wants to forget the whole thing. 

He hopes it is just a one time sort of event, but when he arrives the next day, soaked from yet another rainstorm (the umbrella did little to nothing), the cup is there again. Coffee warm with another note nestled in the packets. He tries to read them, but there is no writing on them, which he finds curious. He unfolds the note, hands trembling in anticipation and nausea. Perhaps this one will be a bit more specific. 

You’re no Casanova, but the way you speak makes my heart yearn to be wooed by you. I’m a fool for you, Tom Nook. A downright fool.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, willing everything in him to stop the blush that comes anyways. His heart is in his throat, pounding away in his ears. It’s maddening, how ink on paper has this effect on him. His limbs feel weak. He opens the infuriating little white packets, sniffing them. Salt again . They’ve made the mistake twice. He drinks the cup black, ruling out possibilities. Not Kody, not Cheri. He’s already established this. He does not remember her name, but the taller one with piercings and a frightening attitude that Jonesy sometimes arm wrestles when drunk with. She wears an awful lot of black. Jonesy seems to like her well enough, but she keeps to herself. She strikes him as the type with bad handwriting. The romantic overtures in writing though? He isn’t sure it would be her style. He scratches her off. 

Thunder outside catches him off guard. It doesn’t usually frighten him, but he’s never liked loud noises or chaos. The first time he’d left his hometown, the noises of cars and yelling and sirens kept him up all night. He had been in a constant state of duress. His little apartment had been right above a couple who fought nearly every night, and he’d hated it. It had always frightened him, just a bit, especially when he could overhear glass shattering. He’d always debated calling for the law. He never had. 

The apartment he and Redd had shared had commotion around them as well, but for some reason, it had never bothered him as much. He presses his palms into his eyes, and blames the weather and the love notes leaving him so weak and vulnerable as of late. He wonders, despite himself, if Redd is safe, or if he is out on the ocean right now in this weather. He doesn’t completely hate the man - as much as he’s said it, he does not actually want him dead. 

He reads the note again and sniffles. He can hear it in Redd’s voice, and it makes it so much worse. His heart feels like an open wound, and there’s an irritating pressure in his throat that he knows is the subtle threat of oncoming sobs. He swallows and drinks the coffee, and lets the bitterness shock him out of it. 

“Another cup, then?” Isabelle’s voice comes in at the entrance, and he’s grateful she’s struggling to close her umbrella and shut the door. It gives him time to wipe his eyes. He folds the note with half a mind to toss it in the garbage, but for some reason, he pockets it instead. He knows it will just end up in his drawer, where the other one from the day before is. His hands itch to reopen and read them again. He turns his attention to his bookkeeping, which has new inventory to be filed and new transactions to be looked over. The twins have gotten better in their mathematics lately, but it was still good to give it another glance. Worse still, with all the theatrics in the past few weeks, he’s fallen quite a bit behind. Precisely why he never leaves his desk. 

“Yes, well,” he sighs, waving it off. It doesn’t chase the feelings inside away. “It’s a perfectly good cup of coffee. I won’t see it go to waste. I’ll enjoy it for the time being, until I find them and deal with the inevitable heartbreak.” 

Isabelle scoffs playfully and waves her hands at him as if to shoo him out. “Don’t sound so calloused about it - I know you’re worried about hurting whoever they are,” she says, and she’s right, he knows this. He just shakes his head and returns to his paperwork. There’s silence, for a small time, while the rain patters outside and every once in a while, the thunder rolls gently. 

“Mr. Nook,” Isabelle starts, meekly. He gives a small grunt to let her know he’s listening. The twins have gotten better at their math. He’s only had to amend a few things here and there, and they’ve lost less profit this month so far. He’s only halfway in though.

“I didn’t want to bring it up, with Jonesy being around and all, but… how do you feel about all this love note business? You know, with our unresolved conversation the other day on the plaza?” 

It was obvious that this conversation was coming. He rubs at his eyes. “There isn’t much to say about it, Isabelle. He hurt me. I don’t feel ready for love again. And even if that wasn’t my previous experience, I would still have to approach the sender and reject them. I just don’t think it’s healthy to have a romance with my co-workers or clients.” 

She stays silent on this. He wants to ask what she’s thinking, but decides against it. He doesn’t have the strength to really pursue the conversation anyways. He rattles the numbers off in his head, checking off what is accurate and crossing through what was incorrect. They’ll need to order more street lamps, especially if Jonesy does choose to pursue the museum project. As pricey as it will be, Blathers will appreciate it, and he can take the hit. He can only imagine how much it will mean to his colleague to have his most prized project be so respected. It had been of a dream of his for as long as he’d know his knowledgeable friend, to have a museum of his own. He wonders if they could open up the museum for touring. It could gain revenue. He’ll have to ask Jonesy what all she’s set up for entertainment and visiting purposes. If they have a few landmarks and activities for guests of all kinds, that could bring more visitors, and eventually more islanders.

Oh - it couldn’t be Lucha , could it? He certainly could have the messy handwriting. He didn’t seem the romantic type, but Tom had heard him out playfully singing in the plaza with Ketchup and Jonesy before. He could have some writing skill in him. He’d have to revisit that. 

He can’t help but wish, though. He can dismiss it to Isabelle all he likes, but he wishes all the same. Looking at the endless paperwork in front of him and feeling the crick in his neck, he can’t help but wish and wish and wish . He is plagued by memories of the apartment, of Redd’s soft hands pressing into his stiff and tender muscles. He misses hearing the way he’d sing to him, pausing only to explain certain legal jargon in various drafts of contracts and offers and counter-offers. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have yelled at him. Perhaps they should have started over. He shakes his head, and the numbers in front of him muddle. Whoever is giving him this coffee, he’ll need to let it go on a little while longer. He does enjoy the caffeine. He gulps down the rest, standing and stretching for a moment. No, pot coffee it’s going to have to be. He needs to put this love business behind him, Redd included. He will not fall in his old emotions again. He cannot afford it, in more ways than one. 

The next morning though, he looks forward to the cup, and even more to the note. The handwriting is awful as ever, and the words just as painful and poignant: Your eyes are the sea, and I am not a swimmer. If I drown, will I meet you at the bottom? Or will you pull me to the shore, and will our love ebb like the waves?

Chapter Text

“Pass me that again? I didn’t quite memorize the end the way I thought I would.” 

Ketchup groans and throws her head back, passing the sheet music begrudgingly towards Jonesy. While the constant rains seem to have finally dwindled, now the island is swept about with a muggy heat that sticks clothes to skin, and sitting on the beach has only improved the situation a little. Cheri fans herself, still humming the lyrics under her breath. 

Jonesy unties and reties her hair up, much to Ketchup’s further disdain. She’d worked so hard on the styling, and while Jonesy feels bad, the heat has only made it disintegrate so that hair has fallen and stuck to the back of her neck, and she just can’t ignore it. It’s irritating and seems to make her sweat more. She looks over the drumline before handing it back, tapping her knees and then glancing at Ketchup for approval, thumbs up in question. 

“You’re signing to me like I can actually hear any of that,” Ketchup says, irritated but fond. She cannot hide her smile, dimples on her cheeks. Cheri laughs, taking a swig of water from her jug. The condensation on it is a striking visual to the weather. She lays it back in the sand and wiggles her toes in next to it, leaning back in her chair. 

“Okay, how about this then,” Jonesy suggests, looking at the two of them. Shielding her eyes, she points to the ocean. “Let’s take a quick dip, we’ll make sure Cheri has the words down, and then you and I will try to make sure our end is tightened up. For every mistake we get back in.”

Ketchup scrunches her nose at her, which Jonesy finds adorable, but knows better than to patronize her when she’s on a mission. “And how is this going to help us be more productive?” she asks, a hand on her hip. “That’s just rewarding the mistakes!” 

“Alright, I’ll take a shot for every mistake I make.”

“ Joanna Sydney .” 

Jonesy winks at Cheri, who howls in amusement, clutching her sides. “You hear that? My legal - first and last. I’m in trouble with the missus,” she jokes. Ketchup crosses her arms and tries to scowl, but she’s failing miserably. Jonesy sprawls out in the sand as if she were making a snow angel. “The band is breaking up!” 

“Come on ,” Ketchup insists, leaning over to pull Jonesy up by her arms. “We want this to be perfect this Friday, don’t we? The whole island will be here!”

This is true. Jonesy sits up, more focused. They’d been discussing their debut for weeks now, and with everything else, it was nice to have something to look forward to that involved just her and her girls. Plus, it gave the island some extra activities. K.K. had mentioned needing a bit of a break from his touring, and she hadn’t hesitated to say they could do a few sets. They just needed to perfect a few songs. She didn’t think they all needed to be original either - currently they were practicing an old sea shanty she picked up from Henry. Well. She was still memorizing the tempo for the drums. Cheri pretty much knew the entire song frontwards and backwards, and Ketchup definitely has her acoustics down. 

“Okay, I promise,” she says, holding up her pinky. “ One dip. And I’m not allowed a single drop of alcohol until I get my entire percussion down from start to finish. Deal?” 

Ketchup observes her for a minute, as if contemplating if she should trust her or not. Slowly, she interlocks her own pinky into the fold. “Alright,” she concedes, after deliberating over it. She picks up her guitar and puts the strap over her shoulder. “Let’s get to it then!” 

Jonesy counts them off, and they begin. It flows well for the first half, but Cheri mixes up the words, and they start over. Jonesy is surprised that she learned the percussion as well as she has; she assumed she hadn’t had it all together yet. It’s a fairly simple beat, and repetitive, but it is a charming little tune, and she thinks the other islanders will find it catchy. Henry would sing it all the time when he was on the island, and it’s her homage to him. She wishes he would be here. 

She’d written him a letter, finally, after things had settled a bit and she had her head together. She did invite him as well, but with the amount of time it took to send the letter he may not get it in time. She knows she should just call him; but it opens up room for other questions - ones she doesn’t know how to answer. Henry had been her closest confidant for a while, but some things, she isn’t sure what to say. Or even what she should say. She mostly commiserates with the girls - or at times with Marshal - but Henry had always had the best advice. 

Besides, Henry was an old romantic. He loved letters.

“Not too shabby, actually, girl,” Ketchup compliments her, and she grins. Never mind all the bad thoughts. They have a good band going, and a setlist for Friday, and there’s good things on the horizon. She has no reason to dwell on things she can’t control. Things that, really, shouldn’t even be in her control. It’s just too bad Redd doesn’t actually employ her for his shit. The true scam behind all this. 

“Alright, let’s swim, I’m hot ,” Cheri whines. “And I only messed up once . It’s not my fault the words are so similar. All these older songs get me mixed up.” She stands and stretches, quickly making her way into the water. She sinks in and sighs, waving the others over. “Come on! ” 

Ketchup slings her guitar off, careful to lay it down gently in her seat before rushing after Cheri, and Jonesy isn’t too far behind, toting her flask with her. She hisses in relief as she steps into the water, wading in until she gets to her hips. The water isn’t cold by any means, but it’s still much better than the humid air. She backs up to sit on the bank so she can relax, and watches Cheri and Ketchup splash each other. Cheri is already pulling out gossip stories about what she’s heard on the island; Jonesy can tell from the way Ketchup’s face lights up and her eyes widen, brows climbing her forehead. She throws her head back and laughs to herself. 

It could be time to go diving again. It takes much longer for the cooler seasons to settle in, but it’s nearing mid October. She doesn’t want to miss out on any new catches. Plus, Mr. Nook had asked her about some tourism attractions and ideas, and she wants to double check on the diving spots around the island and make sure they’re safe. It would be good to start thinking a bit family friendly. That will be a bit more difficult for her; she’ll have to keep her mouth clean around those kinds. Her eyes catch the ocean ahead, reminding her she’s waiting. 

Redd is supposed to be back in time to deliver the rest of his notes. She wonders just how intimate and in depth this next round will be. As much as she’d tried not to be nosy, she’d started unfolding some of them beforehand, just to see check. For Mr. Nook’s sake, of course. Not for her own curiosity. Most of them were fairly generic, though very sweet. But they could seemingly come from anyone . Not to mention that Mr. Nook had already been asking her to find out who it was, and having to pretend she doesn’t know is starting to wear her down. She’s never been a good liar. 

“Jonesy! Get over here - Cheri is being gross !” Ketchup calls, and she’s back to the present. 

“ The early sun is rising and this bag weighs down my shoulder ,” Cheri is singing, as she doggy paddles around in the ocean, pretending she hadn’t said whatever it was that made Ketchup scream. Jonesy floats along next to them, turning Ketchup around. She pulls at the loose strands from Ketchup bonnet and tucks them under again. She knows the girl hates getting her head wet. Ketchup grins at her in gratitude, the sun pinking her face. They’re probably all fucking sunburnt. She didn’t think to bring any sunscreen. “Am I red?” she asks Ketchup, touching her own face. She can feel the heat, answering her own question.  Ketchup nods, repeating her moves, hands on her cheeks. “ I can’t get back to bed, even though I want to hold ya, ” she sings along, not really answering Jonesy’s question, but it was unnecessary anyways. 

Jonesy laughs, clapping under the water as if playing along. “Why didn’t we think of practicing in the water?” she asks. It was a brilliant idea. Ketchup shrugs, and Cheri slings her arm around them, wailing dramatically. 

“ Those bills they scream for payin’ so the storm we got to soldier! ” 

“Come on, Jonesy, sing with us,” Ketchup laughs, joining hands. Her dimples are deep in her smile, and it’s hard not to smile along with her. It’s one of the many things Jonesy admires about her. It’s almost easy to forget everything she’s mulling over, when she’s here under the warm sun, in the ocean, facing a literal bundle of joy. She rolls her eyes; she’s not much of a singer, but neither were those damn drunken sailors who came up with this thing, she supposes. She throws her head back and they howl into the sky, laughing in between the lines: 

“As you layy - I slip away - I whisper my regre-ets!” 

She’d left the flask on the shore. It would be the perfect thing to have had to accompany this. She contemplates going back to go get it. 

“ It breaks my heart to see you sad !” Ketchup screams, shaking their shoulders, “ Time will not look back, until then - ” 

“Mary Anne, won’t you wake, tell me you love me and I know I’ll be okay-yy !” 

“Sounds, uh… great, ladies, really great,” a voice says, and Jonesy whips her head around to see Kody taking a seat in one of their chairs. He’s sipping on some sort of drink, the kind with the little umbrella in it. A bar, and a smoothie option for kids. That should be something she looks into. She’s gotten a diner built near the plaza, but people like places to sit. Maybe a playground nearby so parents can relax while the kids let out some energy. She’ll have to talk to Mr. Nook about some benches. 

“Baby!” Cheri squeals, splashing out of the water. Jonesy sputters as some of the water sprays into her mouth. Cheri doesn’t seem to notice, as she’s more preoccupied with slinging herself into Kody’s arms. He barely catches her, but manages to not drop her and swing her around.

“What’s the matter, man, you don’t like a little dissonance in your music?” Jonesy calls out, wading her way to shore slowly. Ketchup is just behind her, still humming her chords to herself. She steps onto the sand and shakes her hair out. It’s going to be stiff later. Cheri babbles to Kody about her excitement for the show, and while his suggestions are unrealistic (fireworks after every song, they land in a rocket), or just fucking stupid (how does he think they’d have lasers coming out of their bras, really), it’s sweet that he seems just as enthusiastic about it as she is. She reaches her flask and picks it up, taking a sip. Ketchup plops herself next to her, and they sit in silence, letting Cheri fill up the air with her prattling. The breeze picks up just a bit, and the humidity is forgotten. 

“You know,” Ketchup murmurs, quietly. “These are my favorite kinds of moments.” 

Jonesy turns to look at her, but Ketchup doesn’t elaborate much on that. She just interlocks their pinkies, and Jonesy thinks she gets it. The small moments. She’d only just had that thought with Marshal the other day, and with Ketchup a few weeks before. When everything seems to stand still, and you feel like you have the rest of time to figure things out. She curls her pinky around Ketchup’s in the best kind of squeeze a pinky can have - she doesn’t think there’s a lot of muscle there, if she’s honest - and Ketchup grins. They don’t say much else, just watching the sun set for a little while. 

Out of their entire set, that song sticks with Jonesy the most afterwards. It reminds her of Henry as well, and of many other of those little moments that make her feel good inside. She finds herself humming it again in the office, while waiting on Mr. Nook to go over her request to build the playground. She notices that he still continues to drink the coffee, and that the notes are always gone. His lips are pursed, deep in thought, as he calculates the numbers in his head. She can tell by the way his eyes flit back and forth wildly. How this is fun to him, she has no idea. She’d die of boredom if her job was to sit at a desk and stare at numbers all day. 

She taps her fingers on the counter, counting the beats in her head. “ I count the days to shore, as every minute brings me closer, ” she whisper sings. Now, does she want to keep the drums simple throughout the song, or add a little more as they get more into it? She isn’t sure. Shanties are usually group songs; it could be nice to get the crowd involved, maybe clapping or stomping. Maybe she should start intense, and then they do the last chorus acapella with the audience. She’ll bring it up to the girls later. 

“Jonesy,” Mr. Nook mumbles, with that bit of warning in his voice. The kind he gets when she’s accidentally irritating him, and he’s trying to be polite. “That’s distracting. I’ve had to restart twice now.” 

“Whoops -” she grimaces, sheepish. She grins and pulls her hands to herself. “Sorry. It’s been in my head. We’re practicing for Friday.”

He offers a weak smile at this. Those notes are getting to him, she can tell. Ever the instigator though, she plucks the paper off of the desk before he can argue and scans the note. She’d read it today already prior to delivering it, but she wanted to read this one again. She’d even told it to Ketchup, because she knew it would drive her wild. 

My hands ache to softly let you rest in them. I think of your face, and want your cheek in my palm - as a baby bird in its nest. Would I hear you chirp then? Would you sing you love me?

She’d been right, too. Ketchup had blushed and covered her mouth, kicking her feet on the bed. How romantic , she’d said. Mr. Nook is so lucky . 

“Woah - these are kind of getting a little hot and heavy, Boss,” she comments aloud, and he grimaces at her, redder than her sunburn. She has to remember to start wearing sunscreen. Even clouded days bring UV rays. Mr. Nook snatches the note away from her, fixing a very pointed glare in her direction. A weaker person would have withered under it. Jonesy is just buzzed enough to not be affected, and for that she thanks her lucky stars and Jack Daniels. 

“And you told me you’d do some digging to find out who these were from.” 

“Ok- ay, but I also needed to do some digging to install the fountain for the entrance to the museum - which will attract tourists, you old miser - so which would you prefer?” 

Mr. Nook replies with a sullen silence. He crosses his arms. Jonesy pops the gum in her mouth, letting the quiet drag, and keeps herself from laughing at the way he rolls his eyes in an exasperated surrender. 

“ Fine, I see your point,” Mr. Nook grits out. Jonesy doesn’t miss Isabelle’s eyes on her, and the way she coughs lightly. 

“I could assist with the tourism duties if you need, Jonesy. Perhaps that would give you some time to focus on these mysterious letters Mr. Nook keeps receiving?” 

Blessed Isabelle, to her rescue - and probably to Mr. Nook’s as well. Jonesy smiles at her and clasps her hands in a prayer. “ Yes , please and thank you! We can start with the lanterns - there’s a shipment of them at the Dodo airport, and Wilbur and Orville have been up my ass about picking them up.” 

She turns to Mr. Nook, putting a hand on his shoulder gently. An olive branch. She knows he has to be all sorts of tumultuous about all of this. “And then I can focus more on your mystery Romeo,” she promises. She notices he doesn’t correct her on the phrasing, but instead nods wearily with a wry smile. She waves Isabelle to the door, calling out a “Bye-bye!” to Mr. Nook, the damned song in her head again. 

“Mary Anne, say you’ll stay, keep the fire burning ‘till it guides me home again -“ 

She barely catches the flash in Mr. Nook’s eyes as she shuts the door behind them. But the sun blinds her and she instantly forgets it. She must have annoyed him, singing it so much. 

Redd better pick up his pace a bit. She’s not sure how much longer she can hold his secret. She has half a mind to tell him this when she sees him again. 

“He really is serious about getting Mr. Nook back, don’t you think?” Isabelle asks as they amble down to the airport just off the docks. Her face scrunches in worry for a moment. “You don’t suppose he’s just smooth talking all of us, do you? As much as he doesn’t show it, Mr. Nook still is in love with that man. I see it in his eyes when I get a small story here and there from him. He hates himself for it - but you know a heart can’t help what it wants.”

Jonesy kicks at the pebbles along the road. She’s wondered this. She’d like to think she isn’t some kind of dumbass, but her bag she carries now holds the last of the batch of love notes waiting to be delivered, and she does sometimes worry that she’s been suckered into being a pack mule for heartbreak. 

“I’d like to think not, Izzy,” she sighs. “But to be honest, some days I wonder. You think a liar would sob like he did on the trawler, pouring his heart out like that? Would he give up his ego for a scam?” 

Isabelle hums at this. Guess there is no way of knowing. Jonesy huffs and leads on to the airport doors, swinging them open for the brothers to turn and begin flapping their arms in excitement almost in tandem. It reminds her a bit of Timmy and Tommy when she comes to purchase anything from them. 

“Oh - thank the stars! We thought you’d forgotten them!” Wilbur calls, and she rolls her eyes lovingly. The two of them are ten percent love, ninety percent nervous systems - and she says that mercifully. The nervous part should honestly be much higher. She shrugs, waving her hands in what she hopes portrays a nonverbal apology. “Got hung up at the office, you know how the boss is,” she explains. Orville nods in all seriousness. “That we do,” he agrees, swinging open the separation to help her load the boxes. Her cart is a bit small, but the brothers have some zip ties and cord, and with some packing and help, they load the boxes up fine. Orville wipes his forehead; there is a fan, but clearly no air, and outside is humid. 

“I’d close the windows if I were you two,” Jonesy says, pulling at the collar of her shirt. “I’m already sticking to this like it’s a layer of skin!” 

“It has been muggy lately,” Wilbur hums, and Orville nods along. “But we love the sea breeze when it comes in, so we can’t help it!” 

“Speaking of sea breeze - when is your little concert again? Cheri came by and told us about it - she seemed over the moon to perform!” 

“I have no idea what a sea breeze has to do with it, but it’s this Friday,” Jonesy replies, then grimaces as it sinks in. “In two days .” 

They need to practice some more. At least a few good sets from start to finish, as if it were the real thing. They’ve had to take their rehearsals to the secret beach lately to keep some of it a surprise though; the island is not that large and the islanders will be as sick of the songs as they are if they practice everything near the plaza. She isn’t normally nervous about anything, but this isn’t just for her. She doesn’t want to mess things up for Cheri and Ketchup. Especially not Ketchup. The girl is sensitive, and she’ll be a wreck if things go horribly awry. 

On top of that, any day now Redd should be back with more notes. Her hands sweat thinking about the one for tomorrow. It’s a bit different from the rest; a bit more specific, especially with the others leading up to it. She’s worried what Mr. Nook’s reaction will be. There is no way he won’t know who it’s from. 

I searched for richness in the world, when I’d already had it in you. You are my greatest treasure and my greatest loss - a priceless, sapphire heart.

It is an apology and a confession all in one. One too obvious, in Jonesy’s mind. She almost wants to wait on Redd and tell him it’s the sort of thing he should say in person. Really. She finds it almost cowardly. And if Mr. Nook reacts poorly, Redd will not be the one dealing with his fallout, the island will. As she and Isabelle roll her cart out across the island, taking their time to slowly unpack and install the street lamps in their designated areas, she unfolds the paper and shows her. Isabelle’s eyes widen. She has to ask Isabelle’s advice. She can’t do something stupid. And neither should Redd. 

“You know I always trust your intuition, dear,” Isabelle says, grunting as she stands up on the ladder to tighten the bulb in one of the lamps. “I do also think it may be a good idea for that to be something said in person. I usually would say I’d do the same thing.” 

“I sense a but coming in here,” Jonesy squints up at her. In the distance, she can see dark clouds behind them. She really hopes that comes today and is over with before Friday. The island gets so much rain. She has flowers on the mountain that she’s afraid will get root rot. 

Isabelle checks over her handiwork before slowly crawling back down the ladder while Jonesy holds onto it for support. She sighs, patting her hands together to clean them off a bit. “There is,” she starts, taking the note and reading it over. “This is his handwriting all right. Mr. Nook will know. But Redd needs to make this mistake. I think we can only meddle so much in their affairs. I want to help as well - you and I both know I get migraines just trying to get Mr. Nook to open up.” 

“So I just,” Jonesy waves her hands around in exasperation. “ Deliver this knowing it’s going to probably set off a fucking love nuke around here? And do nothing ?” 

“You’ve done enough,” Isabelle murmurs, putting a hand on her shoulder gently. “ More than enough. These aren’t your mistakes you’re trying to amend. And they are both grown, more than you and I. And I’ve been worrying sick about if we’re making the right choices to begin with, and these aren’t even our choices to make!” 

Isabelle looks frantic and frazzled. Jonesy stands in silence next to her for a moment, watching the way she wrings her hands. She has a point. They’re doing old men’s dirty work, the two of them, and they have other things to do. The lanterns are just the start. She’s behind on a million other project of Mr. Nook’s design - and her own - and the concert is coming up, to boot. She rubs her hands against her face, feeling the exasperation settle in. She’s almost never tired but lately, she’s felt nothing but exhaustion. The consistently muggy weather doesn’t help. Something has to come to a head at some point, right? 

“Ha- head,” she laughs aloud. Isabelle whips her face towards her, questioning written on her face. Jonesy waves it away. It’s not an innuendo she cares to explain - especially to Isabelle. Freya would love it. 

“Exhaustion,” she says, giving a weary grin. “Come on, let’s finish this up. We can go to my place after for a few cool down drinks, what do you say? And I’ll only deliver this last note. Next time I see Redd, I’ll tell him he’ll have to take over the helm.”

She pauses in thought. The heat really is exhausting her. She cocks her head at Isabelle. “It is called a helm right? The steering wheel of the boat?” 

Isabelle stares, and Jonesy can see the way she’s trying to hide a laugh in her eyes. 

The stress of the situation does not ebb away anytime soon though. Jonesy finds the days to go quickly. Too quickly, in fact. She hesitates bringing the note, and does not place it that Friday morning the way she’d originally intended to, and can see that Mr. Nook has noticed, from the faraway shadow in his eyes. She wants to tease him about it, lighten the mood somehow, but she finds herself so tense on the entire subject that she doesn’t have the stomach to bring it up. She’s hardly keeping her breakfast down as is, thinking of it. Instead, she chatters away to him about the development of the airport and entrance to the island, and pretends she does not notice the way he half-listens, eyes wandering to his empty coffee cup. He clearly hadn’t poured himself one today, expecting the gift to be continued as it had for the past two weeks or so. 

Somehow, that only makes the growing nausea inside her worse. It sucks, seeing the boss like this, and it sucks even more that she feels there isn’t much she can do about it. The last note weighs in her satchel, and there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to make her forget that it’s there. 

As she turns to leave, he calls her name, but when she waits, he doesn’t finish his thought, waving her off instead. She doesn’t push, even though maybe she should. She and Isabelle share a glance before she flies out the door, heart beating as if she’s commit a crime. 

She makes her way down to her private beach - which at this point isn’t very private, as it’s been exploited every which way since the explosion between Mr. Nook and Redd all those nights ago - and Cheri and Ketchup are already there, waiting. Freya is there too, but more than likely she’s only there to see what sort of liquor Jonesy has stashed away there. Actually, when Jonesy squints at her, it seems she’s already made herself at home in her stash. She has a cup in hand and is swaying with the inebriation of at least six shots. 

“Jones, my girl!” Freya shouts, no guilt in her eyes. Jonesy has to snort at her audacity, but it’s one of her charms. Freya lives unapologetically. It’s freeing to watch. She opens an arm as Freya stumbles into her, allowing a drunken hug that lasts for a few minutes. Cheri and Ketchup are talking in hushed voices, no doubt planning out any final kinks in their performance they need to smooth up on. Freya plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek, still babbling drunkenly.

“The girls said I can stay and watch you all for a teensy-tiny bit,” Freya slurs in her ear. Jonesy can see where she’s holding up her index and thumb finger in a wavery pinching motion. “If that’s okay with you of course, my love.” 

“Yeah, of course!” she says, ignoring the headache occurring in the back of her head. Truthfully, she’d asked Cheri and Ketchup to meet her here because she was hoping to get an eye of Redd if he came anytime soon. She’s settled on giving him the last note, and make it his business to deliver. Isabelle is right. She wants things to work out, but Redd needs to make up for what he’d done in the past and prove himself to Mr. Nook on his own. Out on the horizon though, there is no smoke, no sails. She sighs and slowly adjusts Freya off of her and plops herself down next to Ketchup, who has already gotten her drum set put up for her. She smiles gratefully at the other girl. 

Freya nestles herself back into one of the beach chairs, pouring herself a healthy dose of what Jonesy recognizes as very much her cognac into the red solo cup in her hand. Jonesy shakes her head and scoffs, then starts her beat on the drums. Cheri clears her throat, humming for a minute, and Ketchup matches her pitch note for note on her bass before they start up again. It sounds more put together than before. Freya is passed out on the chair, mouth open and snoring softly. Cheri elbows Ketchup and they giggle. 

“Well,” Jonesy announces, and Freya starts awake for a second before falling back asleep. Jonesy turns to the other girls. One less stone in her stomach. “I think we sound pretty ready, don’t you guys?” 

Ketchup nods, eyes roaming over her thoughtfully. “Yeah… even you kept up,” she teases. Cheri busies herself with the small hut where Jonesy has her secret stash of liquor. She’s going to put a lock on that - or put up a sign for donations. She’ll be a dry bar soon. Ketchup puts a hand on her arm, sliding down until their fingers are interlocked. She sighs and puts her head on Jonesy’s shoulder, her gaze outward to the sea. Jonesy swallows, throat tight. 

“You okay?” Ketchup asks. Jonesy can tell by the tone of her voice that she already knows the answer, but she’s asking anyway, which is nice. It gives her a chance to lie. She could choose to. “Cheri and I were - well, not gossiping , Jonesy, I hope you know that we’d never do that to you - but we were noticing that you seem a bit more down lately.” 

Jonesy feels herself stiffen, and she doesn’t mean to, this is Ketchup . They’re friends . And they used to share everything. There wasn’t a secret between them. It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk to her - and she has shared some of the notes and more excitable details - but the stressful aspects of it she’s kept to herself. She knows she’s been drinking more than usual and not been as witty or upbeat. She just hadn’t expected anyone to really take note of it. It catches her off guard, and it catches her breath. Ketchup loosens her grip, as if she’s lost her nerve to pry any more into it. Her hand drops uselessly, and she holds onto her bass, as if needing something to do. 

“Sorry,” Jonesy says, finally, and it all comes out in a rush. “I just don’t want to stress you guys out, you know, and I don’t want it to be your burden - it shouldn’t even be my burden - and I really just wanted to focus on us and what we have going on tonight, but my head’s just all over the fucking place, and I want to do the right thing -” 

“ Hey ,” Ketchup interrupts, reaching for her again. Jonesy feels her eyes stinging. Cheri is eerily quiet, besides the slight clinking of glasses and pouring. This time, when Ketchup squeezes her hand, Jonesy squeezes back. Her throat feels like it’s pounding, and her chest is warm. “I’m right here. We both are. Talk to me about it.” 

Jonesy nods, swallowing again. She thinks to ask for a drink, but Ketchup is right - she’s been drowning herself in alcohol lately, and it’s probably good to hold off for a bit. She stares out at the ocean, blinking quickly. If she breathes just right, her chest settles enough that she can keep the tears from coming. She’s done it before. Ketchup slings her bass off and sets it down gently on the counter, guiding her to the seats. 

“So what’s got you down, girl?” Ketchup asks again. “I thought the love note thing was going well. Is it something else?” 

“No - it’s exactly that,” Jonesy sighs out. She drums her fingers anxiously against the countertop. Ketchup waits, and Cheri sets down some glasses in front of them. Water with ice. Jonesy takes a cup and sips at it gratefully, and Cheri rests her elbows on the counter. Jonesy supposes it’s going to come to light, one way or another. She might as well tell them now. “It’s just…I don’t want to fuck things up here - and I definitely don’t want to fuck things up for Mr. Nook. What if Redd is lying? What if he isn’t lying but Mr. Nook just doesn’t want to try anything again? What if I’m forcing something I shouldn’t, or playing into something I shouldn’t? I mean, is it really my business to be meddling? I know I’m the R.R. or whatever, but still…”

She’s waving her hands erratically. It’s the most animated she’s been in a while, and she feels winded, now that she’s let it all out. She’s surprised she hasn’t woken up Freya. Cheri and Ketchup are quiet for a moment. Their faces are solemn, and Jonesy can watch their eyes flicker as they process what she’s just said. 

“I mean, Mr. Nook is my boss, and our director, but he’s also my friend. Cranky as he is… I care about him. I don’t want him to get hurt, especially because of something I did or allowed to happen.” 

“Love is complicated,” Ketchup mutters, wringing her hands. “It’s the most beautiful thing in the world but it’s also the most fragile. I mean, why do you think there’s so many songs and stories about it? Nobody has a one ticket answer for every adventure love can take you on. I think you’re doing your best, but Mr. Nook is an adult too. He can handle this, and so can Redd.”

“I thought about telling Redd to deliver this himself,” Jonesy admits. She stands from the bar stool to grab her bag from where she’d tossed it in the sand earlier, digging in it to pull out the envelope. “I was supposed to leave it this morning, but I just couldn’t .” 

She lays it on the counter for Cheri and Ketchup to inspect. Ketchup opens it gingerly, fingers dainty and careful as she slides the note out. Cheri hums. 

“I think he should deliver it himself too,” Ketchup says, after a pause. Cheri nods her head. “Not only do I think it will be more romantic -” Here Cheri scoffs and Jonesy can’t help the grin that melts into her cheeks, and Ketchup rolls her eyes with a small smirk. She can’t help herself, Jonesy knows this. It’s one of her most charming qualities, her undying adoration for romance. “But I do also think it’s time for him to take accountability. When is he coming back?” 

Jonesy stares out into the horizon again. “Tonight,” she replies. “He wanted to come to our concert. I think he planned to tell Mr. Nook soon after this note.” 

“Okay, can you tell him to hold off on all that until after our concert, because…” Cheri grimaces. Ketchup elbows her, scowling and muttering something that sounds like don’t be selfish at her. Cheri shrugs and throws her hands up. “I’m just saying ,” she continues. “That’s going to fuck up the whole island’s vibe, and we worked hard on this. It’s not just us that will be affected. Plus, you said Mr. Nook is stressed enough on this secret admirer thing, right? Let him relax through the concert a bit and then they can fight and suck-n-fuck it out later.” 

“ Cheri ! God, you are so vulgar ,” Ketchup gripes, flushing. She whips her head to Jonesy, eyes wide. “Do you see what I’ve been dealing with on my own lately? All week she’s been like this! She embarrasses me… that’s Mr. Nook , I mean seriously, I do not want to think about that…” 

Jonesy can’t help it; she throws her head back and laughs. They have a concert tonight. She’s going to talk to Redd. She is going to let them handle it, and she is going to enjoy herself with her friends. And maybe everything will be alright. And if it isn’t? They’ll figure it out. She’s sure of it. She grasps Ketchup’s hand and squeezes it tight, and Ketchup’s grin soothes her nerves, even if it’s just a little bit. She smiles back, memorizing every little thing in this moment.

Chapter Text

There wasn’t a note this morning, and he shouldn’t be upset about it, but he is. Perhaps Jonesy has found the perpetrator and frightened them off, which would mean it was one of the islanders. It is a good thing she ended it then, he supposes, and who else had he expected it to be, really? 

He jerks himself back to his work. He would prefer not to think about who he’d expected - no, worse - wanted it to be. That ship has sailed, metaphorically and quite literally so, and he ought to let it go. He shouldn’t have entertained this nonsense to begin with. Not after everything he’d learned the first go around. No, he has his nephews to think of, and the life he’s built here on his own. The villagers have a wonderful place to call home - one that will soon be a very developing town - and he has everything he could ever need, or want, for that matter. At any rate, he needs to focus on his bookkeeping, so he can attend the concert on time. Jonesy has done nothing but prattle on about it when she’s in the office, and while she doesn’t outright say it, he knows she’s proud of it. Besides, the rest of the island is excited for it as well, inviting friends or family to come visit, and it will be good for the industry. Things are taking a turn for the better. He huffs and flips through the books, settling on this. He isn’t a lovestruck youngster anymore. This has all been ridiculous. 

Oh, but still . He’s yearning, and he knows it, and he can think to let it go all he wants, it doesn’t change the heavy emptiness that settles in his gut. He chides himself for being so weak. 

I count the days to shore as every minute brings me closer

Saying goodbye, that’s a lie, our aching hearts forget

It’s the damned song . He cannot get it out of his head. He doesn’t think Jonesy noticed, she’s been so engrossed and faraway lately, but it stopped him in his thoughts the first time he heard her singing it. He knows it well - all too well. He knows every word, has it committed to memory despite everything it reminds him of. He pinches his brow, willing with everything in himself to cease the painful remembrances it comes with. 

Redd laces their fingers together in their apartment, spinning him around despite their better judgment. They have contracts to file through and inventory to take, but he follows Redd’s steps anyways, stumbling against him when he messes up. They’ve had too much wine; their cheeks are flushed, and he cannot stop laughing . The song changes, again and again, and Redd knows the words to every one of them. 

There is a moment when Redd leans in, and he stills, and he waits. “You know, Etta James didn’t actually write Sunday Kind of Love ,” Redd murmurs against his ear, and he forces his heart to calm itself. “But she sings it so beautifully, doesn’t she? You can tell how relieved she is that she’s finally found what she’s been missing for so long.” 

“Mr. Nook? Are you alright?” Isabelle is calling his name, and his cheeks are damp. 

“I - I apologize, Isabelle, I feel…” he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to deny what has just happened. The tiny sketches burn in his wallet. He feels ill. “I don’t know what to feel. This is very unprofessional of me, I don’t have my head together at the moment. Please don’t mind me.” 

“As Jonesy says, I won’t tell H.R. if you won’t.” Isabelle chirps brightly, but her eyes are worried. He swipes hastily at his eyes to no avail, as he keeps crying against his will. This just won’t do. 

“I must get over him, Isabelle. This ends today,” he says, although he isn’t sure why he’s talking about this, truly. Perhaps simply to get it out of the way. He will talk about it this one time, and then let it go for good. Isabelle waits, her hands just hovering over her desk, attentive. He blinks, and inhales deeply, and pushes himself until the tears subside. He’s grateful everyone is distracted by the concert; no one bursts through the doors or wanders near the building to come in and ask questions. He supposes they are all near the pavilion already, helping with set up. It works well in his favor. He is mortified by his own weakness and fear of exposure; just the fact that he has to subject Isabelle to it is dreadful. 

“Some people call that the need for closure , Mr. Nook,” Isabelle comments.

“That’s not -” he begins to argue, but finds himself falling silently and contemplating her words thoughtfully. He doesn’t necessarily look forward to seeing Redd, ever again - in fact, he’d prefer to not to. However, it may be the thing that needs to happen for him to finally close this chapter. A part of him lurches at the thought, but it is for the best, he supposes. He sighs. 

“You may be right, as much as the thought pains me,” he sniffs, swallowing the last of his tears. Resolve has settled in. Isabelle, from the corner of his eye, appears visibly concerned, wringing her hands the way she does when she’s anxious. He gives her a hopefully reassuring smile. “I won’t run this time, and I won’t shout. I will behave with decorum and… well, I’ll tell him goodbye. For good. I’ll let him know the bottom line.” 

A shadow crosses her face, but she doesn’t speak what’s on her mind, only nodding in resolve. “I do believe you should do whatever you need - whatever is best for you,” she says, simply. “We do miss your old self around here. Especially Jonesy - although I know she wants to be as understanding as possible. She’s internalizing your pain. We just want the best for you, Mr. Nook.” 

“That won’t do,” he decides aloud to her, and when she only cocks her head in question, he waves it away. Bookkeeping needs to be complete, so he can enjoy tonight. The entire town is coming together for festivities. “Let’s try to close up early today, hmm? 

That gets Isabelle’s attention, and she nods eagerly, humming in excitement. Decision made, he turns back to his work, focused and determined. He will deal with the lingering sadness in his gut later. Tomorrow, perhaps. Just not today. There are other things to be done today. 

The hours fly by, and Isabelle’s awkward but very impatient cough brings him back to the present time. He glances at the clock. He can hear idle conversation outside the window, and to his relief, when he glances out, there is only sun. There had been rain nearly the whole week, and while the beaches are more than likely still wet, at least no one will be rained out. Kody seems to be setting up carnival games; Tom sees him having Lucho assist him in carrying a high-striker contraption to a good location. He watches their grins as they prattle on about whatever is in their interest. 

“Right,” he says, and Isabelle straightens in anticipation. No need to hold either of them much longer. He can tell Isabelle is eager to go mingle with the islanders. “Let’s call it then, what do you say?” 

“Agreed,” Isabelle exhales. There isn’t a second wasted as she shuffles through her things to get herself together, and he notices for the first time that she’s dressed up quite a bit for tonight’s event. She must have been very excited for it, to go out of her way like this, and he feels a small pang of guilt for not noticing or thinking to simply let her off for the day. 

“Come on, Mr. Nook,” she calls, and he doesn’t have the time to wallow in guilt. No more time to waste. He manages a small grin and steps out of the office behind her, watching as she immediately jumps into conversation with the other islanders. Peering around, he doesn’t notice Jonesy anywhere nearby, but he assumes that she is practicing with her friends for later. It is much warmer than it had been in the morning - and in an air-conditioned office; he feels himself beginning to sweat. He rolls his sleeves up, fiddling with the cuffs to keep them in place. Eunice has some kind of juice bar she’s operating - this must have been one of the shops Jonesy mentioned opening up - and he gives Isabelle a wave before making a beeline to it. He ought to grab the twins afterwards and tell them to close up early as well, and let them play for the rest of the day. It appears that everyone else is busy in the pavilion anyways, exploring or participating in the menagerie of booths. 

“Oh - Mr. Nook, it is so wonderful to see you out and about,” Eunice greets, giving a small wave. She adjusts the cups along the countertop and gestures to the menu behind her. “Did you come here for a drink? I don’t think you came just to say hi to silly old me.” 

Tom winces. “You know I love talking to you, Eunice - I’ve just been - preoccupied, as of late,” he manages, trying to wave it away. “I suppose you’ve been keeping up with your things lately, hmm?” 

Eunice colors, tittering quietly behind her hand. “Oh - you’re horrid!” she protests, but Tom can see her light up at the teasing. “But yes, I have - for the most part. And with a bit more of a routine in place with this shop, I think I can have my head on straight. When Jonesy asked if I’d be interested in being a shop owner I never thought I’d be able to do it, but - here I am!” 

She stretches her arms out, clearly proud of her achievement, and Tom smiles gently. “Did you decorate it?” he asks, and she nods shyly. “It looks amazing, Eunice, really. You’ve done a marvelous job. I’m glad you took to it so well.”  

“I am as well,” Eunice murmurs in thought, then continues. “And I’ve really been able to get to know so many of the other islanders. I didn’t realize Lucha was so sensitive in art - did you know that? I’d pinned him as another athletic junkie like that Kody fellow. We had the most wonderful conversation about Walt Whitman and Emily Dickenson just yesterday, and now we exchange poems we’ve held onto every time we see each other. It’s so lovely.” 

She stops, suddenly horrified. “Not that I don’t appreciate Kody. He’s very kind. I just don’t have as much in common with him - although he did get me to participate in a hula-hoop competition the other day. Very riveting. Anyways - didn’t you want a drink? I’m rambling, I’m so sorry…”

“You’re fine, Eunice, really,” Tom interjects, holding up his hands. “I’m really glad you’re settling in. I worry about everyone finding a place to belong, and it seems like you really have here. I’m happy to hear it, really. But I am craving something sweet and refreshing. How’s that mango mix?” 

“Oh wonderful! You should try it,” Eunice exclaims. “I’ll get right to it, Mr. Nook. I’ll call you when it’s ready. They’re all freshly pressed and juiced, so it will be just a minute.” 

“Thank you, Eunice.” 

Tom watches as she turns to work for a moment, then makes his way to the shop. Some of the islanders are already participating in the various games that Kody has set up, and it appears he and Lucha are doing an excellent job keeping up with the tickets and prizes. He recognizes some faces; but it appears that there are friends and family visiting as well. Orville and Wilbur are there as well, seemingly becoming very competitive in a balloon popping game. He shakes his head and chuckles under his breath at their antics, making his way to the glass doors. He can see his twin nephews babbling away to one of the islanders inside. 

“Uncle Tom! - Uncle Tom,” they shout, one just behind the other at the counter. The islander turns, a young wide-eyed fellow that Tom does not recognize. They have had some newcomers move in, so no doubt Jonesy has settled him in already, but he does want to start being more involved with the villagers themselves. He can’t be a recluse forever. 

“Hey, boys,” he greets, walking behind the counter to scoop them into a hug. They barely fit in an arm like they used to; they’ve grown so much. They prattle on about their day at the shop that he can hardly get a word in for a moment, until they have to pause for a breath. 

“I’m glad your day went well, but I was thinking after you ring this gentleman up, you close up and go have some fun for the rest of the day, what do you think?” he asks. He already knows the answer, but it is nice to hear them squeal and jump in joy. Timmy prattles on about playing more field soccer with Kody and Lucha, and Tommy is excited about what kinds of prizes are at the games. Tom turns to the islander, who seems unbothered, a bit of a goofy smile on his face. 

“I apologize, I can ring you up while they settle down - they’re my nephews and we’re having a bit of an event today,” he explains to the villager, who nods. 

“Not a problem, sir - I actually have been meaning to come by the office and say hi. I met your resident representative the other day and she told me to swing by to introduce myself to you and H.R. when I had the chance. Hopkins,” he says, holding a hand out. “I’m fairly new; I got here last week with a girl, Caty, I think? Or Cally? I can’t quite remember.” 

“Yes, I recall a Cally in our admissions,” Tom says, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. “I think I remember yours as well. How have you been taking everything so far?” 

“Oh - still settling in, but so far, so good,” Hopkins pauses, as if he wants to say something else, but isn’t sure what to say. He fiddles with the items in hand; he has a bit of sweets. Tom wonders if his discomfort is a result of being embarrassed. He himself struggles with his addiction to sugar. He notices the way he tries to hide the bag just a bit - although that won’t matter much, as he’s going to ring them all up anyways. He carries on with idle conversation in hopes that Hopkins just assumes he doesn’t notice it too much. The twins are tumbling all about the shop, cleaning and preparing to close up. Their incessant babbling seems to clear the air a bit, and Tom doesn’t mention Hopkin’s purchase once. 

He doesn’t regret leaving work to mingle with the townsfolk. Usually, crowds make him weary and anxious, but he finds that the distraction from his current thoughts are welcome, and the conversations are stimulating. He learns more about the islanders than he had before, and with some of them, he wonders why he’d taken so long to attempt to get to know them. Timmy and Tommy run wildly through the pavilion with some other children that Tom does not recognize, but it seems some of the islanders really had invited family to come for the weekend. There are a few teary reunions amongst loved ones; Jonesy and Henry’s being one of them. Tom shakes his head at how Marshal stands to the side pretending to be disgruntled. 

“You’d think he was your main squeeze and not me,” he catches Marshal griping playfully, and Jonesy throws her head back and laughs. She catches Tom’s eye, and gives a little wave. He sees her old energy back to its usual flamboyant level, which he is happy for. While he’s been lost in his own turmoil, it isn’t that he hasn’t noticed that she’s seemed fairly distant as well, and while he doesn’t think he’s done anything, he can’t help but feel relieved she has no qualms against him. The one spiff they’d had was enough. 

Jonesy gives Henry a squeeze, then trots over to him, throwing an arm around him. Normally, he’d let her know that it was highly unprofessional to do so, but she’s already babbling, and he forgets about it. Besides, she’d been there to dry up some unsightly tears of his on the beach. If he complained, he’s sure she’d tell him they were past worrying about protocol. And he’d have to admit she was right. 

“It came together, huh Mr. Nook?” she crows, clearly proud of her endeavors. She waves her free hand about the pavilion, and he can tell from her eyes she is a bit under the influence. No matter. It seems most of the adults are enjoying a drink or two. And after all her hard work and success, who is he to stop her? He’s contemplating a drink himself. Perhaps a daiquiri, despite it having a healthy amount of rum in it. He could ask Jonesy to pour a light hand. Jonesy is jostling his shoulder. 

“Are you listening? Ruining your own surprise,” Jonesy says, turning his head to the pavilion where there are a few shops. New, he supposes, and of her doing, but he doesn’t quite catch why it’s so important for him to be noticing them right at this moment, when the door to one of them swings open, the little bell tinkling out a familiar sound. The shopkeeper steps out, sweeping the area just in front of the door from dust. Tom feels his mouth go dry, and his heart throb in his throat. He grasps at Jonesy’s hand, surely squeezing the life out of it. The whooping and commotion of the rest of the festivities fade. 

“You know, I just thought since you brought me an old friend back, I could too,” Jonesy continues, gently nudging him. “Well, go on - and let go of my hand, you’re breaking my bones. You’ve got a boa’s grip, dude, Jesus …” 

Tom gulps as Jonesy whips her hand out of his hold, shaking it and muttering to herself. He makes his way to the shop, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t know where to begin. The little sunflowers painted above the shop door seem to smile down on him. His hands are shaking, and he feels as if he’s suddenly entered a coma. Perhaps a sugar-induced one. 

“Tom? Tom - is that you? I cannot believe - why, you’ve changed so much, honey…”

“Sable,” he manages, and she’s swept her arms around him before he can reach for her, for which he’s very grateful. He isn’t sure he’d have the strength to do it himself. A creeping guilt settles in his gut. He hadn’t written to her in years . So much of his memories of her were wrapped up in the more painful moments of his past - although she’d never been the cause of them - and it had been so hard to reconnect with her without remembering them. But seeing her and feeling her here now, hearing her voice chitter away at how much she’s missed him, he realizes just how much he’s missed her too, and her gentle nature. 

“How… Sable, how did you -” he stutters, whipping his head between her and Jonesy, who’s got the cheekiest grin he’s seen in weeks. She pops a sucker into her mouth and shrugs, hands on her hips. “I’ll let you two catch up and connect all the dots, boss,” Jonesy says, mock-saluting him. “I’ve got a concert to get ready for, and at least two shots to drown my fucking nerves before I get on stage.” 

Tom barely manages a thank you before Jonesy disappears into the crowd, likely to find her crew, and he turns back to Sable, who now has his hands in hers. “It’s been so long, Tom,” she sighs, her eyes misting, and soft smile lines deepening as she looks over him again. “You really are all grown up. Our country bumpkin gone businessman.” 

Tom wipes at his eyes hastily. “Sable… I mean, look at you , with your own shop? Here? I never though…” he pauses, pulling out a handkerchief to blow into. He grabs her shoulders and looks at her again, overwhelmed. “I never dreamed - this is so wonderful, I’m truly at a loss for words…” 

Sable laughs good naturedly, and ushers him into the shop, and Tom feels as if he’s come home after a long journey. In a way, he has, as Sable comes from home. He listens to her prattle on about how she and Jonesy had come across each other in passing when the resident representative had been on the hunt for marketing opportunities to bring to the island. She’d just been speaking with Mable about how she’d wanted to open up a shop, but hadn’t been sure how to conduct a business, and Jonesy had happened to be coming by with flyers and business cards, introducing herself, and it really had come together from there. Neither had known the other knew Tom until much later into their plans to install the shop’s location on the island, but it had seemed too serendipitous to not take advantage of. Sable is as talented as Tom remembers, thumbing her work as she shares stories from their small, sleepy town. There’s a heavy nostalgia that sifts inside him, and he shoves it aside. The concert will be soon. Sable says she will meet him there.

Sunset comes sooner than he’d expected, and Isabelle finds him to loop her arm in with his as the evening chill from the ocean breeze sweeps over them. “Good thing I’d brought a little cover up,” she comments, shivering slightly. The twins bounce to his left, clinging to his free arm. 

“Jonesy said the loudest singer gets free cotton-candy!” Timmy shouts.

“ Cotton-candy, ” Tommy murmurs. Tom swears he can see stars in his eyes, similar to the falling particles Jonesy catches with Celeste when she comes to visit. 

“Well, you better really scream, then, and hope she doesn’t take off points for singing the wrong words,” he teases. He regrets it immediately when this only sets the twins off to scream scales inharmoniously, joining hands and swinging back and forth. He gives an apologetic wave to the winces some of the islanders give, but most of them grin good naturedly when they see where it’s coming from. Isabelle giggles next to him. 

“It’s good to see you smiling,” she says, and he pats her hand where it rests on his arm. “I trust the little surprise went swimmingly well.” 

At this, Tom nods pleasantly, humming to himself. “I’d forgotten how much I really miss home,” he replies, and he leaves it at that. It won’t do to admit how much of the past he accepts reminiscing on, not after he’d just told her he planned to do differently a mere few hours past. 

They take a seat at one of the beach chairs. It’s filling up quite nicely. Freya has her family in tow, but it doesn’t seem to tame her drinking habits - quite the opposite, in fact. He can see where she’s picked it up from, as they’re challenging each other to shots at the small bar Jonesy had set up. Marshal is an exceptionally good bartender though; he seems to be keeping up well and using his wit to good use. The customers take to him warmly, joking and laughing along. Isabelle pats down her seat and leans it back just enough to put her feet up. Tom scans the aisles for when he can see Sable again. He’s saved a seat for her next to him. Timmy and Tommy are being wrangled by Kody and Lucha, who hush them good naturedly when they hear drumsticks tapping on stage. 

It’s a decent little construction, Tom has to admit. It appears as if Jonesy’s built it to be taken down when finished, but nothing so flimsy as to fall apart while in use. Although he shouldn’t be too surprised. She’s been involved in practically every endeavor on the island; it logically follows that she would pick up a trade skill or two. Still - he’s colored impressed. The curtains draw smoothly, and there is a gradual hush falling over the crowd. Freya shushes her family off to the left, where they’re still tittering at the bar, presumably ending whatever energetic conversation they’d been holding. Marshal whips a towel over his shoulder, leaning over the countertop to get a better look. 

The girls on stage take their time in hushed whispers on stage, then Ketchup turns to the crowd. She grips her hand on the mic. Tom can see how nervous she looks, and she glances back at Cheri and Jonesy, who give her grins and a thumbs up. She clears her throat, tapping the mic twice, a small and shaky smile on her face as eyes turn on her. 

“Welcome, everyone - thanks for coming to our concert tonight. I- we - are really excited to share some songs you know, and some songs you don’t, with us tonight. Please feel free to sing along with us when you can - I might throw up otherwise.”

There’s a scattered and encouraging chuckle amongst the crowd, Freya drunkenly shouting, “You look sexy-Ketchie!” to which Ketchup flushes, but Tom can see her smile grow more genuinely now, and her shaking seems to have calmed. “Well, unless my bandmates have something to say, let’s get this started!”

The crowd cheers, and Jonesy starts them off. Tom feels a tapping on his shoulder, and turns to see Sable. He clears the seat, patting at it for her to sit next to him. The band starts up, a popular K.K. tune that everyone knows, and Tom taps his foot and hums along. He knows that the singer is in the crowd somewhere - probably happy he gets to participate as an observer instead of a performer. He had mentioned wanting to have a visit just for pleasure sometime - and the girls are doing a wonderful job of paying respect to his musical genius. Sable takes his hand, and although she does not seem to know any of the music, she is clearly enjoying herself, a small smile on her face the whole time. 

“I know I said it before - bit this is amazing, Tom. I’m so proud of you,” she mumbles between one of the songs, and Tom flushes, feeling his heart race. Proud isn’t something he’d felt in quite a while. Painfully enough, Mary Anne is played again, but he promptly swallows it down. It isn’t as if the girls would know. No one really would, except for the man that made it hurt to begin with. He finds himself humming to it as well, and is also proud of how this time it doesn’t bring him quite to tears. He cheers them on, and Jonesy catches him in the crowd, winking and pointing a drumstick at him. Freya catcalls her, and she blows the drunk girl a kiss, and the crowd goes wild at the antics, thoroughly enjoying themselves. He’s just grateful the other didn’t shout something all too lewd, especially with his nephews wandering about somewhere . 

He offers to help clean up, after the show is over and the crowd begins to dwindle. Ketchup and Cheri are polite, waving him off and assuring him they don’t need help, but Jonesy characteristically pulls out a flask from behind her drum set and takes a large swig, calling, “Abso-freaking- lutely , Mr. Nook! I’m the boss now, you’re my peon.” She points at him and shakes her fist in a clear playful mockery of him. “Give me my ten million bells!”

Ridiculous, really. He doesn’t sound a thing like that. He shakes his head fondly anyways and lets her drunkenly guide him through the process, marveling at how careful she is even inebriated. She somehow manages to lead them and calm a very post-adrenaline rushed Ketchup, an easy hand on her cheek and comforting words. 

“For real , Ketchup, you did so good on bass and harmony. You and Cheri have the best voices I’ve heard - but don’t tell Cheri I like yours the best,” she encourages with a mischievous grin. Ketchup flushes and groans, shaking her head in her hands. Jonesy doesn’t appear to notice, continuing to sing her praises. “I mean it. You did amazing up there - oh, Mr. Nook, you can keep that stand near the cabana, it folds and fits in one of the drawers inside - I was right behind you.”

Tom should really mind his business, but he can’t help overhearing their conversation. He folds the stand up carefully, opening each one of the cabinets inside until he finds one that seems to be where the stand ought to be stored. “You really think so?” Ketchup is asking, nerves evident in her voice still. “I always feel like I sound like a little kid when I sing.”

“Nah,” he can hear Jonesy reassuring her. Her voice drawls, probably from the alcohol kicking in. “You’re up there with Toni Braxton, babe. I just wish you could hear it for yourself.”

She sounds so much like Redd when she’s drunk. He freezes at the thought. Not quite the same accent, of course, but she’s quick to lay compliments on others - although he’s known her long enough to know hers are genuine. Still. He hears himself and Redd in the girls’ very indiscreet conversation, as they were once long ago. That awful aching in his heart lurches again. He does so miss the way Redd would so easily know what to say and how to say it, similar to how Jonesy seems to understand what Ketchup needs to hear to feel at peace with herself. When he exits the cabana, they’re seated in the sand with Cheri talking and laughing lightly as if Ketchup hadn’t been having a crisis in her self-confidence. Ketchup is leaning her head on Jonesy’s shoulder, and in the night lights, he can see she’s truly happy. 

He feels a touch on his elbow, and he turns to Sable, who is quietly looking up at him, eyes sparkling. “I’m so happy this worked out for us,” she says, squeezing his arm. Her eyes are drawn to the stars, and he looks up at them with her for a time. There are clouds forming in the distance, meaning more rain coming so soon again. Might as well enjoy the clear sky while they can. They don’t say much else; but Sable had never been one to chatter much, as long as Tom had known her. She leaves him there, standing still in the night with much on his mind, and it is a loud contrast - the silence now versus the lively sound a mere few moments ago. Only the distant discussion from the girls can be heard faintly. He is alright with it. His heart still throbs away at him sadly, but he knows that some day, that will pass as well. He thumbs at his wallet in his pocket anyways.  

Although, he should have known it wouldn’t last too long. There is a distant tell-tale rumble of a storm on the way, and he feels it before he hears it. 

“Oh - no. I’m too drunk for this,” he hears Jonesy moan aloud, and while he doesn’t want to turn around, he does, inhaling deeply and willing himself to take things in stride when he sees the familiar trawler make its way to the shore. He knows more than likely that Redd is not here to see him. He and Jonesy had made a pact to give Blathers the art wing he so dearly wants - and deserves, truly - for his museum. He will hold to it. In fact, he ought to quietly dismiss himself the way Ketchup and Cheri are. They give him a fleeting glance as they pass by. He’s sure they remember the last time Redd came to visit. He vows for it to not end the same way it had before. He should go. He should . 

And he was , except he hears Redd calling to Jonesy as soon as he lowers his plank on the beach. Jonesy is cursing, he thinks he hears, and he’s unsure why she’s upset to see him, which only strengthens his conviction to stay. He walks steadily back, telling himself that it is for Jonesy’s sake. He is here to defend his resident representative and friend. 

“Jonesy, my girl,” Redd starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft and contemplative. He gives a gentle wave as he makes his way to her, same swagger - only less energetic. He seems almost hesitant. He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Jonesy replies, hands on her hips. Tom can’t see her face, but he can imagine it from the tone of her voice and her stance. “So have I - but you first.” 

“Oh - you look so serious, cousin,” Redd observes, startled. He freezes at the end of the plank, arms coming up around himself. His eyes are wide as if he’s been caught. Tom feels his blood go cold. For a brief moment, he wonders if Redd has already attempted to pull a fast one on her, and she has caught him in the act, ready to call him out. Perhaps that’s why she’s seemed so stressed as of late. He knows she wants to do her best to serve the island, but it must be humiliating, if she’d put her trust in him only for him to abuse it. He would know firsthand how that feels. He curls a fist instinctively, ready to reveal himself despite his inner mantra earlier to remain calm, but then Jonesy speaks again. He doesn’t catch some of her conversation until the very last portion.

“You need to give this to Mr. Nook yourself, Redd,” is what he hears. Tom watches her dig through her pocket to pull out a crumpled piece of paper. Redd’s face contorts through a myriad of emotions, landing on a melancholic smile. It’s a face Tom has never seen on him before, but his attention is caught on the slip of paper. So she has caught him in a scheme - but his heart is beating so erratically, he feels he can scarcely focus. It is not the scheme he’d expected, but the one he’d hoped for, and he does not know how to react.

Redd is sighing. Having reached Jonesy, he takes the note from her hand, reading over it. “I know,” he mutters. His face is flushed. “That is what I’ve been thinking on. I can’t run away from what I’ve done any longer.”

At this, Jonesy nods her head. It is the most contemplative Tom has seen her before. He expects more, but all he hears is a simple “I’ll leave you to it, then,” and stares, dumbfounded, as she takes his hand. Tom cannot believe what he is seeing. Amicable and professional, yes, they’d agreed on. But if he didn’t know better, he’d say she was actively encouraging them to speak to each other again. He supposes it is the best plan of action, to find closure and squash everything once and for all, but still, his mind races. What is he to do when he faces Redd? How is he to muddle through his old feelings and decipher Redd’s smoke and mirrors? 

Jonesy picks up her flask and takes a swig, saluting Redd. Redd gives her a grimace in return. Tom is grateful she is taking the route towards her home; this way she does not see him and know he’s been here all along. When she disappears into the night, Redd lets out an audible groan, hands swiping down his face in agitation. He paces on the beach, rambling to himself and running over ways to confess his love - his love ? 

Tom shakes himself. Now or never. He steps back towards the beach, mulling over what he’s going to say. Similar to the way Redd seems to be, lost in thought on where to begin. Redd kicks at a shell, muttering. “Tom, I- where do I begin? I should start with an apology, but I feel as if an apology isn’t enough,” he contemplates, and lets out another discouraged groan. “Who am I fooling - I ought to leave the man alone, like he asked…no, no , I must take responsibility for my actions. I can’t run this time. Or try . Jonesy will skin me alive and lay me on her kitchen table for decor if I don’t…”

He looks up, and they lock eyes. Redd pales. “ Tom ,” he sputters, and Tom notices the way there is no teasing, no nicknames. He’s caught the slippery liar off guard. Still, his heart pounds away viciously; he can feel the rush between his ears. He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have stayed. Still. Still . 

“Redd,” he says, anyway, and stays. Redd opens his mouth as if to speak, but he holds a hand up, waving him silent. He can feel the other’s eyes on him, waiting. He is rendered speechless, which is a new territory for Tom to experience. “I don’t even want to know how this got here. I don’t want to know how you got the idea to do this - or what you’re playing at. What - humiliating me and shouting at me wasn’t enough, so you decided to try and seduce me? After letting me trust you, only to leave me destitute?”

“No, no, you’ve got this all wrong, Tom,” Redd starts. He holds his hands out, eyes pleading. “I wasn’t trying to seduce you - I mean, I am trying to woo you, but not for the reasons you think I am…” 

“Oh, really?” Tom interjects, voice rougher than he planned. He feels his stance going rigid, and he actively ignores Redd’s casual admission of attempting to woo him. He scoffs at the way Redd has tried to romanticize his manipulation. “You finally realized shouting at me was never the way to get me to listen, so you tried to rekindle your old ways again -why? To get my partnership back? Do you even realize what it did to me, having to see you again? Just meandering onto everything I worked so hard to rebuild what you ruined?”

“How do you think I felt, Tom?” Redd shouts, and Tom freezes. Redd’s eyes are blown wide, and his body shakes out of control. They can’t fight again. It cannot end like this. But Redd is worked up now; he can see it, and it won’t do for him to argue. Redd is shouting at him, and he tries not to really listen, but he does , and he hangs onto each word despite himself.

“Seeing you for the first time in a long time, and I wanted to be slick with you. I wanted to slip out the old insults again and run, because I was afraid - but god , you were yelling at me and I just fell in love with you all over again! Don’t you understand?” 

Tom pales, and he swears he can feel his heart in his throat. He might choke to death, from how fast it’s pounding. Redd is approaching him slowly, as if he’s a wounded animal, and the irony of it is, Redd is the one that wounded him in the first place . He doesn’t move, even though nearly everything inside of him is begging him to. He should leave, before Redd just plays all of his old games, and he falls for it again. He’s heard his piece; now he has to end things, before it gets worse. He has to stop this as amicably as possible.

“You don’t mean that,” he shudders out and keeps his voice as even as possible, despite all his urging to run. When Redd reaches for him, he moves it away, barely stopping himself from slapping at it. “I’m not falling for this. You played this angle before, Redd. There were times you looked at me and I thought you were making a move - that you were developing feelings for me. But it was all a lie , and it’s a poor choice, really, trying the same trick twice with the same customer. Even I know that.” 

“Goddamnit, I’m not playing an angle with that, Tom! I never was!” Redd argues, voice hoarse. “Is that what you thought?”

Tom cannot believe what he is hearing. He huffs, crossing his arms. He can feel his eyes welling, against his better judgment.

“You might as well give it up, Tom! I’m not leaving you alone.”

Tom looks at him with red rimmed eyes. “You already did,” he mutters. Redd’s mouth falls open, because of course, when caught in his tricks, he has nothing to say for himself. Tom knows he shouldn’t have expected otherwise, and he’s disappointed in himself for having somewhat hoped for something different to happen this time. He waits for Redd to say something, anything , but nothing comes.