Much Like Stardust

II. Night Two: Book Thesis and Birthday Cake

"How come?" Larry watches as Vincent turns around and continues walking backwards.

"It's quiet here," the sarcophagus behind him screams, not proving his point. "No one will be coming here," he changes his opinion and turns back around, not waiting for Larry to respond.

Vincent gives a finger salute to the Anubis statues and walks into the, for some reason, parchment smelling room. He's surprised that it doesn't smell like sulfur, but parchment is more than welcomed instead of the former.

He tosses his backpack on top of the rock above the pharaoh, regretting it as papers fly out and onto the floor. He groans and squats to get them.

Banging comes from the sarcophagus again, "Yeah, yeah," Vincent taps his papers onto the rock and sits on it, "I would be pissed too if I were stuck in some coffin built to be me sized," Vincent pulls out a book and a pencil, he starts his thesis once more.

THUD THUD

"If you're worried I've gone, I'm still here. Just doing a stupid thesis due next week," he groans, "the book is so stupid, too. I didn't even get to pick it."

Vincent grabs his phone and plays music on a low volume. The atmosphere is just right for finishing a thesis. There's a quiet commotion from outside the exhibit, but Vincent doesn't feel up for doing unpaid exercise.

It was a timely process, finding a way to word it just right to make the proper word count. He had finished it just before midnight, and he was proud of himself.

With many askew papers where he sits, Vincent sets his final draft down. He gathers the papers in an order that makes sense to him, and shoves them into his broken backpack. He zips it, knowing it would fail him when he needs it most to say shut.

"Did you know," Vincent begins to the, most likely, rotting corpse, "I absolutely hate English, and that's saying something," Vincent tries to joke about his accent, he is British after all, "It's an absolute shit show in there. Like, I understand reading is important and all, but why do we need to read books from the eighteen hundreds," there isn't a response, "Period pieces, I get it, but why?" Vincent sighs, "I suppose I bore you with my complaining."

tap

"Is that sarcasm?" Vincent stops his doings.

tap

"Funny," Vincent rolls his eyes.

He began rambling on about how his school is stupid, as any angsty teenager would do. For the rest of the night- which was only two hours- he could spend pumping himself up for the birthday cake he was going to make for his father when he got home. Despite claiming birthday parties were childish and a waste of time, any excuse for cake was worth it to his father, and it seemed to run in the family.

His phone rings, the music stops for it, he answers the familiar name, "Vincent, have you gone home?"

"Is this going to be a thing?" Vincent makes sure his backpack is securely shut before setting it on the floor and hopping up to sit once more, "It's a bit odd, no?"

"I just want to make sure you've gone home at the right time," McPhee tries to joke, "I don't want to find out you spend the night there and get bad grades from it. How is that so odd?"

Vincent raises his eyebrows with a smirk, "I mean, sure, the sentiment is nice, but don't you think that calling a minor so late at night isn't predatory?"

"Vincent- for god sake- that's not the point of this," McPhee sighs, "Have you gone home?"

"Yeah," Vincent lies, "About to enter the flat now. So, ciao," Vincent ends the call and sighs. He looks at the pharaoh-- or the rock above him, really-- "Oh boy. Can you believe the nerve on him," Vincent crosses his legs, "Thinking I'm leaving at twelve," he snorts, "as if."

There isn't much he could do, it seems that Larry had figured everything out. Vincent says his goodbyes to a few of the exhibits and exits the building. With a short twenty minute walk, Vincent makes it home at 2:34. It's still dark and quiet on his street.

Cake time.

His father wouldn't be up until after he left for school, because of his nightly activities, and because he had work at nine. Vincent might not be there when he wakes up, but his cake surely would.

Footsteps come toward the kitchen, "Hey, kiddo," Vincent looks at his father, he glistens with-- it better be from a shower. "You get home from work?"

"Yeah, yeah," Vincent nods and looks back at his cake in the oven.

"Whatcha making?" the timer goes off and Vincent pulls the cake from the oven.

He stabs it with a fork and pulls it out; clean. Perfect. He shoves it into the fridge and grabs some frosting making materials. Vincent's father stands idly by, not sure what was going on.

"I- uh- I was making you a birthday cake," Vincent purses his lips together, "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Well, it's nice of you to think of me," he sits in a chair and watches Vincent whisk ingredients together, "How's the job treating you?"

"It's good," Vincent looks up for a second, "Larry, the guy I work with, he's finishing the job tonight."

"Vinny," Vincent looks at his father, "I don't like you working so late. Can't you not work at night?"

"Pops," Vincent stops whisking, "I volunteered to work a little late at the shop, it's usually empty anyway so I can take a nap on the job and not get yelled at. Besides, the pay's pretty great."

Vincent might have lied. He told his father that his weekend job at a grocery store was low on employees, so he volunteered for the night shifts during the weekdays. He didn't think it was that big of a deal, but his father didn't need to know the real reason he stayed out so late.

"Okay, okay," his father holds his hands up in surrender, "What flavour is the cake?" he dips a finger into the frosting.

"Rude," Vincent playfully glares, "It's chocolate."

"Good, good," Vincent dips his one finger into the frosting, "Lucy wants to take us out for dinner at that fancy restaurant- uh- Jerry's, or something," he looks up at Vincent, "Think you can make it?"

As much as Vincent wants to, he knows that his father wants to have a quiet dinner with Lucy, "I would need to call a few days in advance," Vincent lies, "and, besides, I don't want to let my coworker down," he doesn't mind escaping the hectic museum for his third night there, but he also doesn't want to see his father kiss someone who wasn'þ his mother.

"Alright," he doesn't seem too bothered by it, "get that cake out and let's frost it. I need me a' early morning snack."

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Edited

Word Count: 1808

Notes: Just imagine that Chris Evans has a British accent.