notes: last night i accidentally opened passbook on my phone and temporarily blinded myself for ten minutes. also, i know i make fun of brick a lot, but despite the fact that he's a broody little asshole, i still love him.
dedication: to jordan (aka two red converse). you know why. also go check her out because she is the sweetest and has a superb coffee shop au. 11/10 would recommend.
also: so apparently ffnet is leaving out words in my notes? so if you notice anything off, it's because of that.

title: cake a diem
summary: Blossom plots payback, and Brick is blindsided by her brilliance. In more ways than one.

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(i sleep in your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes; i know it's
a strange way of saying that i know i'm supposed to love you)

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v. Blossom isn't often bitter.

That's more of Buttercup's expertise and domain. She can sometimes be the human version of espresso. Blossom is, if anything, the exact opposite of that. She doesn't stay out late, she doesn't play her music too loud, or go to parties, or do anything that wouldn't be considered good behavior. Not that either of her sisters do those things—aside from blasting their music sometimes—but. The point is, she's not a wild child or anything.

And so, she has also never once in all her life stolen something.

She's always been a bit of a goody-two-shoes, as told by Buttercup and at least two other choice people who she won't name right now. She's tied for first place in grades among her class, she does her chores and work without complaint (cough unlike a certain somebody she's related to cough), and she even helps at the homeless shelter on weekends, sometimes.

But now? Now she's angry, and it's growing ever steadily in her heart. A small seed carelessly tossed aside that's taken root in her heart, and there's bound to be a plentiful harvest this year. A spark that's ignited a wildfire inside her. She huffs and puffs and she is going to blow a house down, even if it tarnishes her spotless reputation. Something precious was stolen from her, and if she can't have it back, well, then she is going to take something of equal importance.

Wasn't the term equivalent exchange or something? Or written in the laws of the universe—according to Buttercup, anyway. Maybe it was just fair and square. Like what fathers always tell their sons, 'if they hit you, you hit them back just as hard.' The way Blossom sees it, it's an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

Or in this case, a baseball cap for a hair ribbon.

Blossom has spent the better half of her Saturday off Googling art heists through history and watching Mission: Impossible. So far, she's taken two composition pages full of notes, eaten at least seven of Buttercup's sinfully delicious chocolate chip cookies, and developed a set of skills which she hopes that she'll never have to use. Also maybe a tiny, minuscule celebrity crush on young Tom Cruise, but that is inconsequential at the moment.

She's sprawled out on her bed, laptop playing the end credits music, as she studies her work. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and she's still in a pair of sweatpants and an old band shirt of Buttercup's. The redhead taps her glitter pen against her chin and furrows her brows, eyes scanning the pages and her neat, loopy handwriting intently.

Like all the great art thefts of their time—art heists are classier than robbing a bank, and people tend to die less, so—this one has to be planned to perfection. Nothing can go wrong, it just isn't in the cards; and she's going to make sure it stays that way. She has a Plan B, a Plan C, and even a Plan D. Everything must be pulled off flawlessly for this entire thing to work. If she's caught, or if something goes awry, all her work will be for naught.

Maybe she's just being extremely petty. And possibly childish, but this is a serious matter, okay.

Blossom picks up the list of impressive heists she'd carefully researched, and sighs. She wouldn't be able to dig a tunnel under her target and then strike like the thieves who robbed The National Fine Arts Museum in Paraguay back in 2002—she didn't have that much time, or enough money to rent a building to start digging under. But the planning part is important, she knows that well enough. The men who raided The Isabella Gardner Museum in 1990 had the right idea—disguises. They got away with literal millions worth in fine art, and still haven't been caught. She won't be using any weaponry or threatening anyone, because that's not like her.

She's already doing something she wouldn't normally do—ever. There's no need to go that far. Also, those kinds of things make it easier to be traced and caught.

What's she's taking isn't worth a ransom call, or millions of dollars either. Maybe just sentimental value, and she's not even sure about that. But she has her carefully mapped out plan, and she has determination. All she has to do now is check out the scene of her future crime, and then everything will be set into motion.

"This is going to require some recon," she says to Octi, whose button gaze is accusing and unrelenting.

Blossom tries her best to ignore the doll's blank stare and stands, stretching. She has to get going if she wants to do this tonight. It's the only time she has available at the moment, so. The date is nonnegotiable. She opens her closet door and pulls out a hoodie and plain jeans, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

It's payback time.

x

Bubbles leans over the counter and pouts at her. "Blossom, what are you doing here? Isn't today your day off? Hey, hey. You're in here way too much already. That's why dad gave you an extra day off."

The eldest sister smiles at her and waves. "That's no way to greet someone, Bubbles. I just thought I would stop in and say hi. It gets lonely at home when I'm by myself."

"Well if you say so," the blonde says, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, but she smiles brightly. "I was just teasing. It's just kind of weird because you don't usually come in until later to help with cleanup and stuff."

Blossom brushes some fringe out of her eyes and takes in the bustling shop around her. It isn't raining today—or it hasn't yet—but patrons still came prepared, their umbrellas resting in the rack by the door or leaning next to their tables. The bakery isn't extremely busy right now because it's only three pm, but there are always stragglers in between rushes on the weekends. Especially on Saturdays. Bubbles has soft music playing in the background, and everything almost makes her want to just stay here and forget her vendetta. On Saturday evenings her youngest sister plays the ukulele and sings instead of just having the music system on in the background, and Blossom doesn't like missing it.

But.

She tucks a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear—it's all loose because of her absent hair ribbon, the reason she's doing all of this—and laughs. "Yeah, I know. I was just out and wanted to stop in and see you. I'm not sure that…that I'll be able to make it tonight. I'm um, I'm not feeling very well so," she fidgets with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "So I just wanted to let you know."

Well, she's not exactly lying. She doesn't feel well at all. In fact, her confidence in this venture is fading fast, and her anger over the whole thing is disappearing even faster. Her whole plan has 'BAD IDEA' stamped all over it in red ink, and it's surrounded by striped caution tape warning her not to go through with it. But she also finished what she starts—excluding that one cross stitch 'Bless This Home' project that's been buried in her closet since the sixth grade. She just wasn't good at that. How many times did she prick her fingers again? It was pretty bad when she had to use a thimble in something that wasn't even hand sewing.

Blossom starts in surprise as Bubbles reaches over the counter and puts a hand on her forehead. "Hmm, you do feel a little warm, and you're even dressed down today. Not that you don't look good! You just, you can make anything look good. Um, you also look a little flushed. You should be at home, resting, instead of here!"

She laughs and holds up her hands in surrender. "I know, I know. And I'm going. There's just a few errands that I have to run before that. Then I promise to go home."

Bubbles purses her lips and narrows her eyes. "Is it anything Buttercup and I can help you with? If you're sick, you don't need extra exposure to the cool air."

"No," absolutely not, she thinks frantically, "I'll be okay."

Her blonde sister leans back. "Okie dokie, just make sure you get home safely. And don't stay out too late, okay? Even if you're not sick yet, if you overdo it, you could be."

Blossom nods and is about to assure her that yes, she'll do just that, when there's a loud bang followed by clattering from the back. The two sisters look at each other in surprise and even some of their customers glance up from their conversations.

"REVENGE," Buttercup screams, then cackles maniacally from somewhere in the back. Her exclamation is followed by someone else swearing up a storm, and several pots and pans clanging together.

Bubbles meets her sister's questioning gaze. "Mitch is working today."

Blossom worries about their middle sister, sometimes.

She waves at Bubbles again and turns toward the door. "I'll see you after closing, okay?"

The youngest Utonium sibling waves back and smiles. "Okay, bye!"

After leaving Confection Connection and pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she cautiously walks around the block and comes back to check on things in Knead Bread?. Today, Boomer is waiting and bussing tables, Butch is lounging in a corner booth, and Brick is manning the counter. Perfect. She ducks around the corner and starts the trek to their apartment, mentally doing the calculations in her head. Today is Saturday, and usually on Saturday, Brick goes home first—that leaves Boomer and Butch to close up. Mojo is out of town at some baking convention, just like the Professor. So between eight and nine pm, Brick will be the only one home.

She smiles and pops her headphones into her ears.

What could possibly go wrong?

x

Murphy's Law.

First rule of thumb: Never ever, ever ask yourself or anyone else what could possibly go wrong. Because, given the situation, anything and everything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Blossom stares up at the apartment building, wondering how she didn't think of this when she was here earlier. Now it's almost dark, and she has no way of actually getting inside the building. Instead, she's stranded on the ground, in the middle of the bits and pieces that were formally her flawless plan. Didn't the homes of potential targets usually have a trellis? Some vines? Something? Isn't that how it happened in all the movies? This would be a lot easier if there was a trellis.

But no. There is not a trellis that she can climb up to Brick's window. Darn it. How could she not have accounted for this? If she can't even get in, then she also can't get what she came for. She's even been to their apartment once before today—actually invited that time, albeit it was a rather reluctant invitation. And yet somehow this very small, very important detail slipped her mind.

The Johnsons live on the fifth floor, and there's no way she can get up there without help.

Even if she had remembered, it's not like she could've dragged a ladder downtown. So maybe this had been in vain all long. Now she feels stupid. It's a good thing no one else knows about her entering and snatching plan. And it really was just entering. It wasn't like she was going to break into their apartment.

Well she can't just walk in through the front door, so there's no point in going inside. All that's left is to go home, defeated, and eat a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Maybe she'll watch some rom-coms to try and cheer herself up. It's doomed to fail, but what else is there?

Dejectedly, she heaves a sigh and turns to go home. Dusk is over by now, and the streetlights are flickering on around her. One near the alley that stretches behind the apartment building is having a difficult time actually turning on, and it draws her attention. When it does finally come on, she notices something that she hadn't before.

(For the second time today, she wonders how she could be so dumb.)

A fire escape.

Forget trellises and weak ivy vines, that is the way to go.

Blossom jogs into the alley and checks her watch. It's almost eight thirty, so she still has time. With a triumphant smile, she looks up and counts the windows until she reaches Brick's. Amazingly enough, it's right off the fire escape. Coincidence? Hm.

Humming the theme from Mission: Impossible, she vaults herself onto the rickety metal structure and starts to climb. It's part ladder, part landing, and part stairs. A sketchy thing at best, she wonders if it's been inspected by the city lately. But it holds, and as she makes her way up the escape as quietly and quickly as she can—which, it's not easy, okay, her sneakers make a dull clanging sound every time she takes a step—and within five minutes, she's at her target entrance.

And there, on the desk by the slightly cracked window, is the very thing she came for.

Blossom braces herself and pushes the window open the rest of the way. She slips one jean-clad leg inside and her breath catches. She can't believe she's doing this. Is she really going to sneak inside and take the cap from right under Brick's nose? Seriously? What would her father think of her? And Bubbles? Buttercup would probably encourage this. Maybe she would've even brought the ladder had she come along.

She shakes her head. No, she's come this far. There's no turning back now.

The redhead slips inside and lands gracefully on the floor with a soft thud. Brick's room isn't anything like she remembers it, but then again, that was close to eleven or so years ago. The light is off, but she can clearly see around. His bed is neatly is not hastily made, there's at least one shelf jam packed with books, a planetary system model like the ones they made in fifth grade sitting on top of it, and a jacket hanging on the back of his door. It's nothing like she expected it to be.

She tears her eyes away and picks up the red baseball cap he's worn every day since probably before she can remember. It's worn and around the edges, most likely from all the use, and she fingers it carefully. It makes her wonder, if this one if so old, why doesn't he just get a new one? It doesn't have a decal, and it doesn't look like anything special, and she's seen planet of plain red baseball caps in stores through the years. But this one feels different somehow. It smells nice too, like him.

Her heart nearly bursts out of her chest when she hears the footsteps coming down the hall, and she quickly slaps the thing on her head—backwards, in her haste, just like he's always worn it—and scrambles for the window. She's hallway out of it, face flushed, when Brick pushes open the door of his room and catches her in the middle of her escape.

The light filtering in from the hallway lights her rosy cheeks, and her wide, rosier eyes. Her expression is a cross between shock, embarrassment, and fear. She's dressed in an old, faded pink hoodie and dark jeans, with well-worn pink converse on her feet. And she's wearing his cap. It's on backwards, and some of her auburn fringe is sticking out the hole in the back. There's a bit of black face paint smudged across her cheeks, and she's smiling.

She looks beautiful.

Blossom gives a cry of surprise and accidentally falls out the window. There's an earth-shattering bang as she lands on the fire escape, back first. She rolls over and practically jumps an entire level, landing on the fourth floor platform with an even louder clang. Brick rushes to the open window and watches her descend with Olympic-like speed. She lands on the ground and is running down the street before he can even think of going after her.

Something red catches his eye, and he stares down at the end of a red ribbon sticking out of one of the desk drawers.

x

Blossom doesn't stop running until she's at least a good five blocks away. Her hair is a mess and she feels like her soul is about to float out of her body, and she leans over and braces her palms on her knees.

"Ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh."

He saw her.

Brick saw her.

He looked stunned, too. Probably because he never expected anyone to climb up the fire escape outside his room just to sneak in and steal his favorite baseball cap, of all things. Probably also because she would've been the last person he would have expected to do so. She closes her eyes tightly, but all she can see is him.

His eyes are wide and his mouth is open in surprise. He's not wearing a shirt, and she tries to rub the image out of her head. He must've just gotten out of the shower because his hair was wet against his neck and she can clearly see water droplets dripping down his cheeks. Blossom grabs at her hair—it's not very effective, because she's still wearing his cap—and screams.

Why did she do this again? Why why why?

This was absolutely not supposed to happen. She hadn't counted on—on—

And now he's stuck in her head, standing there in his low-hanging plaid pajama pants. Shirtless. Why is he even that—that built? He works in a bakery, for crying out loud. He shouldn't be…be like that. It's not fair, she thinks mournfully.

Blossom rubs her back (she's sure there's an imprint from his fire escape on it) and wearily starts to trudge home. When Buttercup and Bubbles return to find her lying immobile on the couch, bundled up like a burrito and staring blankly at the tv, their younger sister declares that Blossom looks even worse than before.

The redhead replies by burying her burning face even deeper into her blanket burrito.

"I'm a criminal," she whispers to herself when they can't hear her.

x

Blossom sleeps fitfully, the stolen cap stashed away in one of her dresser drawers.

Brick doesn't sleep at all.

tbc

—

end notes: you see i even referenced her story. the art thefts are all legit too okay. i was researching them at two am this morning to write this. sadly, that's not even out of the ordinary for me.