Hot Chocolate & Other Terrifying Concepts
Posted on Tue Sep 9th, 2025 @ 3:27pm by Desmond Greene & Maeve MacKenna
2,413 words; about a 12 minute read
Mission:
Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: Driving from the Mansion into Salem.
Timeline: Late March 1992 — Saturday, late afternoon
Maeve stared down the mirror like it might start a fight.
“Right,” she told her own reflection sternly, “it’s just hot chocolate.”
A beat.
“With Desmond.”
Another beat.
“On purpose.”
Her stomach did a small, traitorous flip that had nothing to do with cafeteria food. She looked, for all the world, like someone who couldn’t cause a hairline crack in a saucer, much less level a building—small redhead, big eyes, freckles acting innocent on her behalf. The face of a choir angel, Da always said, pity about the gob on her. The innocence helped exactly no one when nerves got in; nerves meant tremors, and tremors meant hat stands toppling and Headmistress Summers staring over the rims of her glasses like Judgment Day in a pencil skirt.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned her own knees, because that’s where the quake tended to start. “If you so much as wobble I’ll defect to Canada.”
Her bed looked like a department store had exploded on it: fisherman sweater (comfort), leather jacket (attitude), one skirt she had no business owning (absolutely not), and the deep-red scarf she’d pretended she didn’t want to buy at the mall. She held the scarf up to her throat, turned her head left then right, squinted, and sighed.
“What even is a date?” she muttered, because talking to the room somehow made it less frightening. “Is it hands? There might be hands. Do I… hold one? How many hands is too many hands? Oh sweet suffering saints, I am going to die of hot chocolate.”
She flopped onto the mattress, then immediately sprang back up because sitting made her think and thinking made her useless. She paced instead—three steps to the dresser, pivot, three steps back—like a wind-up toy with delusions of grandeur. A ridiculous part of her wondered if he’d smell like he always did when he’d just been outside: rain and resin and something warm, like the inside of a music shop. Another part of her—louder, tireder—whispered the word she didn’t use out loud: after.
After the tents. After the coughs. After the numbers they stopped saying in front of the younger kids. After learning there were only so many times you could pretend the world was fine before the pretending turned to stone in your throat.
He’d put his arm around her at the mall. Just… placed it there, gentle as a secret, and the noise in her head had gone from a roar to a hush. She’d barely managed a joke. Maeve MacKenna, scourge of decorum, rendered speechless by a half-hug and a daft bucket hat. Pathetic. Horrible. Possibly hopeful.
“Alright,” she said to the scarf, because the scarf had behaved admirably in past emergencies. “We’ll be brave together.”
She looped it once, twice—practical warmth disguised as a flourish—and chose the sweater over the skirt, the jacket over the unknown. Boots: scuffed. Hair: a losing battle, tamed with a knit headband she’d pretend was a choice. She considered makeup for exactly one second, then laughed at herself in the mirror—too much like playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Money. She patted her jacket until coins chimed and found two crumpled singles and enough quarters to shame a jukebox. “First round’s on him,” she told the coins, “second’s on me. Equality is expensive.” She stuffed them back, then paused, palm pressed flat to the dresser, breath held for a count of five like Jean had taught them when the bad thoughts prowled the corridors.
This wasn’t a mission. No one to rescue, no one to bury. Just two people who’d survived a great deal, trying to sit across from each other without catching fire. She could do that. Surely.
Her mind, helpful as ever, flashed an image of Desmond’s grin—the one that climbed slow and easy, like a sun coming out from behind weather. The one she pretended not to notice when it aimed at her. The burn in her chest felt almost… nice.
“Grand,” she told the mirror Maeve who had finally stopped listing sideways. “You’re small. You look harmless. Use it. Picture of innocence, me. Meanwhile he’s a whole forest and Alaric is… Alaric. And yet somehow I’m the scary one? Honestly.”
Out in the courtyard, a car door thumped. Engine coughed, caught, settled into a patient idle that sent a faint vibration through the windowpane—just enough to remind her she could shake the world without meaning to. She rolled her shoulders once, twice, until the fight bled off and something steadier settled in its place.
Keys in one pocket, coins in the other, scarf secure, heart a drum. She closed her door carefully, like noise might spook the moment, and moved down the hall on quiet boots, the red trailing like a small, brave flag behind her.
At the top of the stairs she paused and let herself smile—small, private, a secret passed from her reflection to the rest of her.
“Just hot chocolate,” she whispered, and went to meet him.
Desmond hung up the phone. Earlier that day he had run through the mansion. He needed help. He'd gone looking for anyone to save him. He couldn't find ask his first choice, she was the source of his problem! Kennedy was nowhere to be found. Al said he was going for a supply run ten minutes before Desmond panicked. Jennifer and Hayden were working in with Doctor Reyes. Rahne... No. And he didn't know Josiah well enough to ask for fashion advice.
He had nice clothes. A bunch of flannel shirts, t-shirts, jeans, and even a pair of slacks that were only slightly ruined by a fight with a Mutant-turned-Sentinel. In the end he ended up calling home. Baby sister Alexis had picked up and refused to give the phone to their mother. She complained at no end about how Michaela was being mean for not sharing the Gameboy, and that she deserved a turn. It took a solid twenty minutes for Desmond to soothe his baby sister and get his mom on the phone.
His mother had calmed him down. Her tone was light, amused, and teasing. Her big strong boy was going on a first date and he was nervous. It was a delight for Ellie Green to have this profoundly domestic moment with her son. She calmed him down, told him what shirt to wear, what jeans, even pointed out he should wear his good boots. And then she reminded him to put on clean underwear and take a shower. "Moooom" Desmond groaned in embarrassment at the personal hygiene tips. But he did them anyway.
With his nice tan-and-white flannel shirt on, blue jeans that were relatively new, and good boots, Desmond surveyed his bedroom. It was more of a mess than he liked it to be. He had dug around his closet for the right outfit, and those selected were on the deskchair and small sofa. But his bed was still made, his desk was neat, and everything was more or less organised, except for the mess.
With that, he hurried downstairs to the garage. He checked out a black Ford Explorer. Jean had told him it had belonged to one of Alternate Class' first members, and that if he were to drive it he better take good care of it. Desmond had chosen it because it was one of the few cars he could comfortably sit in.
Maeve tugged open the passenger door and slid in, the seat dipping slightly under her weight. The smell of the car was faintly woodsy, like leather warmed by sun and pine needles. She fumbled with the seatbelt for a second longer than necessary, nerves jangling in her fingers.
“Right then…” she began, and instantly wished she hadn’t, because her mouth kept going without her brain’s permission. “...nice car. Big. Er—roomy. For your… branches.”
Her face flamed. Branches?! She clapped her hand over her mouth as if she could shove the words back in, then dragged it down to cover half her cheeks instead. “Saints alive, just—drive, will ye, before I say somethin’ worse.”
She leaned her temple into her palm, elbow against the window, pretending to be fascinated by the frosted glass while her ears burned red. Her other hand twisted in her sleeve, restless. It wasn’t like her to be tongue-tied, but here she was, tripping over car compliments like some eejit on her first school dance.
The engine rumbled alive pleasantly, and Desmond set the car into Drive. He hadn't said a word. His mind was caught on two things. The first is that she looked really nice. She wasn't dressed much different than usual in his eyes, but she did always look nice in his eyes too. The second was 'Branches'. Did she mean his arms? Or his hair? He didn't really have branches. He could grow those vine-like... things. Were they vines, or were they more like roots?
The car turned onto the rural road connecting the Mansion to Salem proper. Desmond's mind was tumbling words around as they drove. And after several minutes of silence he finally blurted out. "Do I have branches I don't know about?" His voice was filled with a mix of horror and absolute confusion.
Maeve’s laugh burst out, quick and bright. “Branches! Saints preserve us—no, ye’ve not branches. I meant arms. Big ones. Ye take up half the car.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, grin tugging despite herself. “And—aye—ye look nice. Proper effort gone in. Didn’t think ye owned a shirt without sawdust on it.”
Her gaze lingered a beat too long, tracing from his shoulders down the neat line of his shirt before flicking back up. She tried for nonchalance, but the grin softened in spite of her. “S’good, though. Suits ye.”
Fingers fussed with her scarf as she turned back to the window, retreating into mischief. “Lucky thing, too. Would’ve been a shame, me turnin’ up lookin’ half decent and you not keepin’ up.”
"Thank you, my mom he..." Desmond wanted to respond excitedly at her compliment. He was quite pleased with how he looked. But admitting that Mrs. Green dressed her now 19 year old son might not be the most advantageous admission on a first date with a pretty girl. He swallowed the rest of that sentence. "Thank you. I don't look half as good as you do though." His eyes had snapped away from the road and took her petite frame in in maybe two seconds before switching back.
It was a good thing Desmond didn't sweat anymore. If he did, his hands would've probably slipped off the wheel. Why was he so nervous? He had hung out with Maeve hundreds of times, even just the two of them. But now it felt like his stomach was about to tear open with butterflies.
Maeve’s laugh bubbled out, soft and surprised. She glanced at him sidelong, eyes bright. “Ah, listen to ye—smooth as silk. Bet that line’s broken hearts all over the mansion.”
Her grin curved wider, giving the words away as a tease rather than a jab. She tugged at her scarf, cheeks glowing, then added more gently, “Careful now, Des. Ye’ll have me believin’ it.”
She let the warmth of it linger a moment before clearing her throat, leaning back in her seat. “So then—ye actually know a good place for this hot chocolate, or are we just drivin’ ‘til somethin’ looks friendly?”
"You better believe it. I never lie." Desmond said. His voice filled with that faux-coolness he had learned from his dad's movie collection. The leather jacket, fast-car-driving, pomade hair cool, like James Dean. He even gave her a cocky grin, his teeth flashing from the lights of an oncoming car. "And we're going to the Grind Stone. Kennedy told me about it a while back. It's supposed to have chocolate milk made with real chocolate." His coolness gave way to an enthusiasm that might feel a bit out of place coming from a giant 19 year old, but Desmond did genuinely like hot chocolate.
Maeve huffed a laugh, giving him a sideways look. “Never lie, is it? Grand. Eyes front, big lad, before ye put us in a ditch.”
“The Grind Stone,” she echoed, mouth quirking. “Real chocolate? Now ye’re talkin’. First round’s on you, second’s on me—brought my quarters and everything.”
She settled back, boots braced on the mat, the knot in her chest loosening a notch. “So what’s your poison then—cream, marshmallows, cinnamon? Choose wisely, Greene. I’ll be judgin’.”
"Look at you. An independent woman of means." Desmond rumbled merrily. "How about I buy the drinks, and you pay for the snacks?" He was trying to recall the menu he had seen when they were last in town. They didn't have a take-home copy, and his memory wasn't the best at recalling details.
"My poison for hot chocolate toppings?" He mused the question for a moment. "Mom used to make it with mini-marshmallows, and sprinkled cinnamon on top. That was always a hit. I once made hot chocolate for my sisters with whipped cream. And I found an old bottle of caramel sauce I dumped into the glasses too. That was pretty good!"
Maeve snorted. “Independent woman of means, is it? I’ve about six dollars in quarters, don’t get notions.”
She tipped her head, thinking. “Mini-marshmallows and cinnamon’s a grand shout. Caramel sounds like a mortal sin… and I still want to try it.” A beat. “I’m gettin’ cream with a pinch of cinnamon. I’ll nick one marshmallow off yours—for science.”
She drummed her fingers on her scarf, warming to it. “Deal on snacks. I’m buyin’ a brownie the size of my head and a cinnamon bun if they’ve got one. We’ll split ’em.”
Her mouth curved, softer. “Hot chocolate for your sisters sounds deadly sweet, by the way.” Then, back to mischief: “If you end up with a whipped-cream moustache, I’m not tellin’ you straight away."
She settled in, boots firm on the mat. “Right then, big lad—lead on to the Grind Stone. Eyes front.”
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