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When Fallon wanted to engage in a nice, tedious activity, she often chose to do so in the privacy of her own room, a place she'd created and fine-tuned to the ultimate OCD feng shui. Whether it was a solo chess game or some good old marble rearranging, Fallon liked to do it barefoot and all alone. Today, however, things hadn't quite gone as planned. There had been a ringing. It had started slowly at first, creeping into Fallon's head as she ironed her pencil skirt. The humming grew louder and louder until it was practically echoing off the insides of the girl's head. She fled to the hallway, knocking on doors to see if anyone else heard it, but no one was home.

Sometimes her neighbors above and below her were noisy, and Fallon placed the blame squarely on their shoulders. Giving up a bit preemptively, she retreated to the study instead. The little diversion had her fifteen minutes behind schedule, which was unacceptable. Dressed in her school uniform, Fallon wore her hair up in a neat bun, holding a small wicker basket in one hand. There were a few plush chairs and a round table facing an open window. It was a nice location, and Fallon slipped into the seat, setting the basket in front of her. It wasn't her first choice of location, but she would have to make it work, to balance the discomfort with some source of appeasement.

Thin fingers slipped into the basket, pulling out a spindle of thread and a long silver needle. She stabbed the needle into the top of the thread to keep it secure, and then fished out a little plastic lattice-work square. The holes were no bigger than the needle itself, just what Fallon liked. The more intricate, the better! She had no idea what she would make today, maybe a little applique flower for Imogen. After Fallon's outburst in the kitchen a few days ago, she had been meaning to thank Imo for washing her dishes and retrieving her note card. It was a kindness that was unnecessary but appreciated, especially under the circumstances.

Looping a bit of thread around one finger, Fallon held the needle in the air. A pink tongue darted out to lick the tip of the thread, and she quickly slid it through the eye of the needle in one seamless motion. Sometimes, when she needed to focus herself, Fallon would sit in the center of her bedroom, threading and unthreading the needle until she calmed down. This afternoon, she had taken to the needle for a bit more of a fun purpose. Crossing her legs neatly under the table, Fallon lifted the plastic lattice square and began making even motions with her hands, cross-stitching like a champion, eyes never wavering from their mark.

Frankie was intense. Frankie was crazy-eyed. Frankie was passionately creepy. Or what that creepily passionate? Well, it really didn't matter. All of these things made Fallon feel Very Nervous. Predictability was a pretty important to the dark-haired girl, and she had this nagging feel that Frankie could explode at any minute. Based on prior experience, Fallon made a mental note not to use the word glitter, sparkle, or dreamy. It would really be for the best.

When Frankie came closer, Fallon lowered her eyelids, focusing on the last few loops of that square. She only looked up once she had finished. "Hello, Frankie," she said, voice an even pitch. No need to trouble the water in the excitable girl's presence. "I can make you a book mark." Setting her current project down on the table, Fallon darted manicured nails into the small basket in front of her. She pulled out a small silver business card holder and flipped it open with a flourish of her wrist. Out came a small pale blue note card that said "Needlework" at the top. Below, a smattering of words with blanks drawn out in even lines, things like "name," "date," "color scheme," "desired item," and other such descriptive categories.

Placing the card on the table, she used two fingers to slide it over to Frankie, setting a black ball point pen out beside it. "Just fill this out," she explained, tapping on the edge of the card. "It will be done three days after you complete the order form." It Fallon was turned upside down and given a good shake, it was fairly likely that a number of order forms of various shapes and sizes would fall out of her, like some kind of Staples dispensing rack. It never bothered the girl to make things for other people. She had Tupper Ware containers (she should really buy stock in the company) full of cross-stitched flowers and bees and stars filling the space beneath her bed. To actually have a purpose for her work was a nice change of pace.

Fallon picked up the project she had been working on and continued threading the next hole, eyes flickering to Frankie's work in the corner every so often like a pervert trying to subtly watch the hot chick in the car next to him adjust her bra. Oh, how she longed to organize the scattered ink wells. She would color code it. She would organize it by levels of ink left in the wells. She might even create a special Tupper Ware set-up for Frankie to carry all of her art supplies in.

In fact. Give her two minutes. She might just do it.

No surprise registered on Fallon's face -- because there was none at all. Frankie's obsession with Edward (and therefore Spunk Ransom) was as legendary as... a legend. Right.

Personally, Fallon was more of a Bella fan. She liked a nice malleable girl who will do whatever you say, a real pushover with little sense of self, a person whose sense of self is really just defined based on the object of love, which, in Fallon's mind, was... Fallon. Yep. She'd read the first three of the series, but stopped after she heard that the fourth book involved Bella getting pregnant. She couldn't really suspend her disbelief past that.

"It isn't nice to threaten someone who is doing you a favor, Frankie," Fallon said, eyes half-lidded and perusing the card. There was a certain finger-waggling in her voice, akin to the image of an angry grandmother holding a baseball and a shard of broken window and hovering over a red-faced grandchild. "I'm not sure I can make a person well. Could I just do the Cullen Crest? Perhaps one glittering eye? If I tried to recreate him, it would only be disappointing." Fallon's gift was culinary arts, not really awesomely detailed and realistic needlework. Sure -- she did intricate things, but more along the lines of very detailed flowers or other cartoon-y objects, not true-to-life faces. Plus... she did not doubt that Frankie might take a pair of safety scissors to her throat. The prospect of waking up to a crazy-eyed Frankie wielding safety scissors and hovering over her bed was enough to keep Fallon restless at night.

Grabbing another card, she repeated the series of gestures from before, sliding it across the table. "Please fill out another card. I could try to do him, but I cannot guarantee it would be up to your standards, or my own," she explained, offering a polite smile. A little extra polite, actually. Frankie might need a little extra.

Fallon took the card from Frankie, drawing full lips to one corner of her mouth. Hm. She could work with this. Reaching back into the basket, she pulled out another business card holder, this one more of a tarnished silver, and slipped the card inside, closing it with a satisfying snap! That would of been plenty of conversation for her, but then Frankie insisted on pulling a Frankie.

How lovely.

"Right." Blink-blink. "Thanks."

Slowly, ever so slowly, she reached for the thread that she had been working with before. No sudden movements. It can spook their kind. Fallon let her eyes fall back to the needlework and resumed her movements. There simply was not a polite response to "I will not pseudo-incinerate you this week!" Well. Maybe there was. Fallon would have to think about it. She kept a careful eye on Frankie in the meantime, eyes still flickering to the messy drawing area.

Fallon was almost always in the mood to look up skirts.
But not really Frankie's.
And not if it meant staring at Edward.
Gross.

Fallon largely regarded Frankie as the retarded cousin that shows up at all family events and that everyone has to be extra nice to because she is an extra special girl. Fallon also knew the statistics involved in unprovoked attacks of the mentally ill. As a bit of a nutter herself, Fallon could almost recognize the signs of it moving beneath those furtive eyes. Was she twitching? Oh, it was possible.

Her eyes moved from the half-completed tiny rose she held her hands, trailing up to the wild-eyes of the girl on the table. "Is there something that you need, Frankie?" she asked, using fingertips to push herself back from the table. Frankie didn't plan on... pouncing... did she? The thought made Fallon's heart race, her mind flickering images of Frankie's head on a pole. Probably not the healthiest thoughts in the world for a fifteen year old girl. OHWELL.

The pacifying nature that rattled in Fallon's bones told her to try to appease the crazy person before the situation escalated. The rocking in the chair had been bothersome enough (thank god it fell into a normal rhythm) and Fallon doubted that Frankie would become more subdued at this point. Not unless Fallon did something.

So she said the first thing that came to her mind. "Are you... hungry?" Perhaps next she would check to see if it was nap time. Or if Frankie needed to be changed. Or burped. There was probably a checklist to this effect buried in the depths of her ultra-organized sewing caddy, yes?

Frankie made a wise choice, whether she knew it or not, to refrain from throwing a temper tantrum. Fallon was holding one very sharp, very nimble knitting needle. It probably would not feel good to have it sticking out of her eye. Just ask Timmy Peregrin. Oh, that's right. You can't. Kidding? Maybe. Maybe. Fallon was the kind of kid who could have easily killed and hidden an annoying classmate if she wanted and still made it home on time for dinner with her parents. The fine line she walked between composed and sociopath was a treacherous path. Good thing for Frankie -- Fallon had a good decade of experience at controlling herself now.

Despite Frankie's flopping and odd statement, Fallon did not waver in her needlework, the small silver piece flitting in and out of each hole. She did not glance up to the over-excited girl. "If I was a vampire, then why would I be so involved in the culinary arts?" She finished the outline of the flower and allowed a quick glance up to the other girl. "It doesn't make much sense." Something told Fallon that a 'yes' or 'no' wouldn't do much to sway someone like Frankie. Perhaps she could simply use the logic of the series? Hm, one could only hope.