A/N: Ah...my very first serious attempt at original fiction. I'm a rather infamous fanfic author and after using that medium as practice for so long, I finally feel confident enough to break into original work.

If you're familiar with my fanfic (under the same pen name over on ff dot net), then you know what to expect...if not, then you're in for quite the surprise.

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Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Oh, how Kennedy Joseph hated that clock.

Detested it.

Loathed it with every fiber of her being.

Why couldn’t she have had one of those clock radios? Or one of those that would awaken her with the gentle babbling of a brook?

Anything would be better than that almost militant buzz. Buzz. BUZZ.

If her head hadn’t been throbbing so badly, she might have summoned enough energy to get all wrathful and revenge-y and decide to take it out on the unassuming piece of technology; but as it was, she was still riding out the last of her hangover and burrowing deeper under her quilt was all the movement she could manage and even that seemed rather ambitious.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Damn but it was a persistent little noise maker.

The electronic device’s demanding squealing forcefully reminded Kennedy of the digital pet she’d had in the sixth grade. She could clearly recall that she’d begged and begged and begged and begged to be allowed one of the expensive gadgets and when she finally had been granted her wish (it didn’t escape her notice that her new treasure arrived just as the things were going out of style and were therefore on clearance), the thing had driven her insane.

She ‘fed’ it, she ‘walked’ it, she ‘played’ with it; she did all the things the manual prescribed and yet it still would. Not. Shut. Up.

It chirped. It squeaked. It made electronic little beeping noises that would have driven a saint to acts of violence.

‘Fluffy’ had finally met his maker when Kennedy let him get acquainted with the business end of a ball peen hammer.

It had been blissfully silent ever after.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

That alarm clock was on the fast track to Fluffy’s eternal resting place if it didn’t shut up PDQ.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

God…did no one respect the dead anymore?

(Dead drunk, a little voice in her head chided).

Kennedy gathered every ounce of her fortitude and grabbed a nearby pillow, covering her head with it.

But the muffled buzzing was even worse than the regular buzzing.

She huffed. She was not getting up. It was Saturday. She didn’t have to work. She didn’t have school. She didn’t have anything to do except sleep in and-

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

A muffled groan came from the bunk below her, interrupting the clock’s electronic sing-songing.

Oh. Great. Now Ramone was up.

Kennedy waved a silent, mournful goodbye to the notion of sleeping in.

Once he was up, she had to be up.

Because if he didn’t get his coffee first thing in the morning, he’d be hell on wheels for the rest of the day.

And God forbid the he ever learned how the coffee maker worked. The idea of drip brew and coffee filters was simply beyond his grasp.

Ask him how to theoretically build a particle cannon? Fine, great, he’d draw you up the plans (actually, the blueprints were hanging on the opposite side of the room looking very imposing next to a poster of a mushroom cloud). Ask him to make coffee? Get a muddled look like a lost puppy.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

There was another grumbling noise and a curse that would have made a sailor blush.

"Kennedy?"

It sounded like he was talking into his pillow.

But damn it, he remembered her name, meaning he was fully awake.

She sighed but still didn't move, "What."

"You awake?"

"No, I always hold conversations in my sleep."

"No sarcasm before caffeine; house rules," he reminded.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"Are you going to shut off the clock?" He asked, still sounding muffled.

"Are you?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of smashing it, actually."

"Sounds like a plan."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"Yeah...it'd be great to put said plan into action, 'cept-"

"You don't want to move?"

"Bingo."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"How long do you think that thing can keep going before it wears itself out?"

"I dunno...a couple of days, probably."

"Have to test that sometime."

"Yeah...I'll put it on my to-do list, right next to doing my taxes."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"You don't pay taxes."

"Now you're getting it."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"One of us is going to have to move," Kennedy stated with resignation.

"I nominate you," came the reply, "Bob the beanbag chair seconds it; motion carries. Majority wins."

"Traitorous chair," she said in mock anger, "Benedict Beanbag! You're dead to me, Bob!"

"I'm sure he's crushed."

"You think he'll need therapy to get over it?" Kennedy asked hopefully.

"Prolly."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"That is getting really annoying," Ramone snapped irritably.

"You'd think it would take the hint we're not in the mood to get up and just give up already."

"That's the problem with inanimate objects," he said, "No sense of shame."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

CRASH!

"No sense of self preservation, either."

Kennedy rolled over so that she could hang off the top bunk and stare at her room mate, "Tell me you didn't just smash the only clock in the apartment."

He looked at her, bleary eyed but straight faced and with his voice level, "I didn't smash the only clock in the apartment."

Kennedy tried not to smirk at him, but couldn't stop herself, "You know, the lie might be more convincing if you weren't surrounded by evidence of clock carnage."

"Wasn't trying to convince you," he shook himself and the pieces of shattered plastic scattered across the ugly brown carpeting.

"Mark my words, Ramone-"

"Consider them marked."

"Wasn't finished yet."

"Don't care. Your words are marked anyways and I want coffee."

Kennedy angled herself so that she could climb down the ladder and carefully avoided stabbing herself in the feet with the stray shards of plastic that were everywhere, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't make you get off your ass and make you own coffee?"

"You love me and don't want to watch me go through the painful effects of caffeine withdrawals."

"I said give me a good reason..."

"I pay half the rent."

She glared at him but relented, "Fair enough." and started for the kitchen. "I'll put the coffee on...you want breakfast?"

"Not until I brush my teeth," he replied, walking out of the bedroom and crossing to the bathroom, "My mouth tastes like I ate something fuzzy."

"You might have. I didn't watch you too closely last night."

"The joys of Tequila," he said as the bathroom tap was turned on.

"Aye," was all the answer he got as Kennedy filled the coffee pot with water and set it to percolate.

He poked his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth and foam on his chin, "Seriously, it tastes just like I ate a hamster."

Kennedy turned and looked at him oddly, "And you would know what a hamster tastes like how?"

"Cub scout camping trip gone awry." And then he was back in the bathroom.

"Naturally." She shook her head and watched the dripping coffee, "What do you want for breakfast?"

Kennedy heard him gargle and turn off the water, "Eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, sausage..."

"Ah haha, you're funny this early in the morning."

"So then it's going to be 'You'll get cold cereal and burnt toast and like it, Mister', like usual?"

"No toast. I don't trust you with the toaster anymore."

"Oh come on...it was one toaster. ONE TOASTER!"

"One dancing, flaming toaster," she reminded him.

He looked wistful, "Yeah...but it was a thing of beauty. Like the fourth of July in our very own kitchen...except more destruction-y."

"You would appreciate something like that," she answered as the coffee finished brewing. With the coffee pot full, Kennedy snapped up two mismatched mugs from the dish rack (the only clean dishes in the entire kitchen) and carried cups and coffee the two steps across the room to the ugly aqua folding thing that served as their 'dining room table'.

There was a sudden THUMP against one of the front windows, but it didn't stir her in the least. She just plopped down and poured her coffee as well as that of her room mate. Two creams in hers and just three spoonfuls of sugar in his.

Focused solely on the clouds of cream that were floating in her coffee (and wondering idly if she should have checked the expiration date on the aforementioned cream...because that tiny lump of white didn't look like it was supposed to be there), she barely noticed when the morning's paper was slapped down on the table and Ramone sat down across from her.

She smiled when she saw that two aspirin had accompanied his arrival, which she snapped up and swallowed down immediately.

The silence was comfortable, the way it always was, and they just sat there, drinking and coming out of their shared hangover induced stupor.

The routine was always the same; only varying slightly from weekend to weekend, based on who'd been more plastered than the other, but it always ended the same way.

Both of them sitting across from each other, looking haggard and sobering up.

Kennedy could never decide if she liked the silence between them better than the bickering, since both were equally enjoyable, but she chalked that up to the nature of their relationship.

Being friends at age nineteen with the same guy you'd convinced to eat crayons at age four was a special thing.

Seriously, once you convinced a guy to eat colored wax for your amusement an unbreakable (if somewhat odd) bond was formed. It was the kind of bond that allowed them to sit across from each other in complete silence, both of them looking like they'd recently had close encounters of the shock therapy kind, without a word of contention between them.

Until, that is, the tell-tale scent of fresh newsprint reached her nostrils and she heard the sharp 'SNAP' of the daily paper being unfolded.

"Job." Was the single word from her companion.

"Yeah." Was the equally concise reply.

She was handed one section of the classified ads while he took the other (trying to conceal the fact he had the comics folded inside his half).

He had to have his Garfield in the morning. It was like his coffee. Necessary if he was to remain somewhat manageable throughout the day.

Kennedy started scanning the paper and after about a minute (during which Ramone had tried to stifle his chuckling lest she know what he was up to...as if she didn't already know), things proceeded as they always did when they were job hunting.

"Waitress?" He inquired, looking over the edge of his paper at her.

"Absolutely not...bus boy?"

"Doubly absolutely not." He sneered at the thought before turning his attention back to the paper, "Um...Secretary?"

"Can't type. Bartender?"

"Too young," they said in unison, sounding equally disappointed.

Ramone made a 'hmm' noise, "Topless dancer?"

That one always earned him a slap on the head with the sports section, but since it was always in the paper, he had to ask.

"Babysitter?"

Their papers drooped and they looked at each other, shaking their heads.

"People like us should be kept as far away from influencing children as humanly possible."

"I concur."

And the papers were raised again.

"The video store's hiring again," he said with a slight lilt in his voice.

"Circle that one."

"Umm...Convenience store clerk?"

Kennedy considered it, "Which shift?"

"Third."

"That's a negatory with a double helping of hell no. Rather not be riddled with bullets, thanks."

"High school janitor?"

"My life's ambition realized...circle it."

"Hey, lunch lady is in here too," Ramone teased, smoothing out the paper on his side of the table.

She leveled her eyes at him, "You wanna get slapped with the Packers scores again?"

He held up his hands in defeat, "Alright, ok, no lunch lady. I get it. No cause for physical violence."

She tossed a sugar packet at him, "There's always cause for physical violence."

Ordinarily, such a gesture might have resulted in a sugar packet battle, but the two were just too tired to do so at the moment.

Kennedy sighed heavily, "I've got nothing else that we're qualified for..."

"Yeah, me neither. 'Cept this 'join the army' ad."

"Huh uh, no freakin' way."

He shrugged and sat back in his chair, "It'd be interesting."

"So would be getting mauled by a bear, but you don't see me running out to do that, do you?"

"Yeah but...travel, see the world, get out of this dump." He gestured around at the tiny apartment, which, regardless of how much she might have wanted to contest his assessment, was indeed a total dump.

"Ramone, you can do that in the van...duh," she took a sip of her coffee and grimaced at the fact it had gone cold, "It's not like you've got anything keeping you here and you haven't got that much stuff...if you wanted to travel you could just...you know, pack up and leave."

When he didn't answer her she looked up at him suddenly in alarm.

He was being uncharacteristically quiet and he was making that face.

She knew that face. She'd seen that face a hundred times before. That was his 'thinking' face and Ramone Morton in combination with thinking never added up to anything good.

"Ramone," Kennedy said quietly setting her coffee mug down and moving to snap her fingers in front of his face to get his attention, "Ramone?"

He was too far away mentally to reach through auditory or visual stimuli.

Crap.

This could only mean one thing.

She'd given him an idea.

This would lead to bad things, she knew from experience. The sooner she snapped him out of it and distracted him from whatever brilliant plan had seized his mind, the better.

"Ramone!"

Not even a blink.

Oh, he was really gone. This was bad.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

She was about to reach across the table and slap him with a shouted 'Snap out of it!' a la Cher, when he tipped his head at her and spoke.

"Why don't we?" He asked.

So stunned by the mousy quality of his voice and the look he was giving her, she dropped her hand.

"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but why don't we what?"

"Pack up and leave?"

Kennedy blinked a few times, trying to piece together what he was saying into something that made some kind of logical sense.

Then she remembered. Ramone. Logic. These things didn't belong in the same sentence.

"Why don't we uproot our entire lives and go live in our van? Is that what you're asking me?"

"Yeah," he answered, eyes brightening, "I mean...what's stopping us?"

"Oh, I don't know...rational thought?"

"Haven't you always said you wanted to get out of here? To travel?"

"Well...yeah but I didn't mean as a vagrant."

He crossed his arms over his chest, "So what, you want to wait until you're settled and have a good solid job where you can take two weeks off to hit the Bahamas before going back to life in the 'burbs with the hubby and the two point five kiddos?"

She recoiled as though he'd slapped her, "Take that back."

"What?" He asked, knowing full well which nerve he'd struck and meaning to make her face it head on.

"'Burbs, hubby, two point five kids' that is NOT going to happen to me," she stated vehemently.

"My point is," he started, knowing that he'd just won half the battle already, "Someday we'll have something tying us down and we won't be able to do this kind of thing."

"So we just pick up our lives and leave?" She asked incredulously.

"What lives?" he countered, "We've got no jobs, no real crucial friends, our families kicked us out in case you forgot...we'll get tossed out of this flea trap pretty soon anyway now that we're both unemployed and can't make next month's rent."

He loved that shade of purple she turned when she knew he was right. It wasn't quite plum, but it was pretty damn close.

She was fuming; she hated it when he had a valid point. Or several valid points.

"We've got no ties to anyone or anything--except each other--now would be the perfect time to just--" he gestured with his hands, desperately trying to convey what he meant.

"Run?" She asked, making it sound cowardly.

"Not run. Run's not the word I'm looking for."

"Escape? Retreat? Turn tail?" she said caustically, "I can go get the thesaurus if you want..."

He cut her off with one word, "Fly."

She fell silent and a little more of her resolve visibly crumbled.

His tone turned pleading, "Don't you ever look around this town and think 'Damn, these people are never going to leave here'? Don’t you see them at the supermarket all working class and middle aged and settled down and boring and go 'I don't want that to be me'?"

"I knew I never should have told you about that," she muttered, "Stupid confidences...always come back to bite me in the ass."

"C'mon, Ken," he urged, utilizing the puppy dog eyes to their fullest extent, "We both want out of here, there's nothing keeping us here; what do you want, a sign from God? Let’s get the hell out of Dodge while we're still young enough to do it!"

Kennedy ran her hands through her chaotic hair and looked at him.

There was always some variation on this same topic of conversation every damned week and every week she'd had a reason to stay in town. Last week it had been because she had a steady job, two weeks before that it had been a potential boyfriend; this week she had no such excuse.

And he knew it.

The bastard.

He knew she'd have no other excuse than her own anxiety about leaving the only home she'd ever known and he also knew her pride (sin though it was) would never allow her to admit she was scared of uprooting herself from Nowheresville, Midwestern America.

She glared at him.

She should have said no.

She should have said no and shown him that he didn't know exactly which buttons to press to get her to go the way he wanted her to the same way she could with him.

She should have said no just to spite him.

Instead, she found herself gulping down her cold coffee and standing up.

He saw the evidence that she had relented in her posture and smirked accordingly.

She wanted to slap him for his cockiness and chastise him for getting crazy ideas and dragging her along.

But the only thing she did was sniff once and say in a much more determined tone than she would have liked, "I'll start packing."