A soft, pink child's blanket was twisted about her ankles, its fine stitch lettering half obscured. The trapped name, Lettie, certainly did not belong to the ankles any more than the blanket. Said ankles nevertheless continued to move in the wearisome throes of sleep, further trapping the thing. Arms followed suit, forcing a pillow into a curious new position that would provide both cold and dark to delicate skin and eyes it cushioned. Augustine's groan was thus muffled, even as a snout emerged from beneath the duvet near her elbow, tickling those tortured, tired limbs with its curious sniffling.

This was the blanket's namesake, one Lettuce Tomato Fortescue.

Never bacon, the leopard print pig who went by Lettie continued to snort and sniff her way to the strip of sunshine which pestered the pair of them and foretold the Ghosts of Spin Classes Missed. It had been after a long night of celebration for Augustine when she’d finally carried the creature to bed, and neither piglet nor witch could be blamed for present laziness.

Mostly, though, Lettie was hungry.

"I wish I could feed you a BLT,” Augustine murmured into her pillow. And then, mournfully, "I wish I could have a BLT."

But this was not possible for two reasons.

Firstly, Augustine could not use a frying pan without burning down half the building. Secondly, Hercules Mulligan was expecting her later. And Hercules Mulligan lead by example. The human-shaped muscle was all about turkey bacon, kale, and farm fresh tomatoes that would have made Augustine’s father cry. And, of course, there was no bread. The L in a Mulligan BLT served the same purpose.

At this thought, Augustine’s face screwed up, and she turned away from her pillow, facing bright reality. “Sod him,” she told Lettie. And though she sounded weak as ever, the fragile creature who always slept most light (so she claimed), it was with resounding clarity and high volume that the name left her lips. “THEODOSIA!"

The pig seemed to know what this meant, and burrowed the rest of the way out of the duvet, revealing a cute pink head and what appeared to be a smile. It squeaked excitedly.

Another bedfellow was woken from some deep slumber: a lump that might have been mistaken for part of the bedclothes turned out to be instead a white French bulldog, who leaped to its tiny feet and wagged vigorously upon the mattress as if he’d been released from the binds of Locomotor Mortis.

“Dosia!” She called again, having sat up a bit by now and leaned forward in a yoga pose to collect the dog. Her attempts to pacify him were vague. “Dosia, do you feel like BLTs?” She hardly waited for an answer before adding, charitably, sister-sweet, “A sisterly breakfast in bed.” Augustine’s eyes shot to the nearby clock, double-checking that it was, in fact, still breakfast time.

And then: “Can you make them?"

“Have you seen my dress? The one from last night…” Had she been wearing it when she left the party? She’d thought so.

Also: “Is the bacon in the fridge organic? Can you press out the grease? Mulligan’s going to kill me. He can’t know I was out last night.”

Dosia didn’t make it a habit to sleep in.  She had gone to bed at a reasonable hour the previous night, after all.  Tucked into bed at around ten, she’d flipped through the latest round of magazines she had to check out before her sister saw them.  It was always nice to be prepared, just in case. 

Thankfully, she was doing her job so there wasn’t really anything exciting to report on.  Sure, there was a “who wore it best” thing to pull out, but it wasn’t like they said anything negative about Augustine.  That was a plus.  She would have had a meltdown if that was the case.  She’d probably just be aghast she’d been wearing the same robes as someone else, to be honest. 

But, that wasn’t something even Dosia could control.   Not that she wouldn’t probably be instructed to try from now on.

She’d nod and pretend that it was feasible, of course, because what else was she going to do? 

Oh right.  Dream about it. 

She’d woken up once in a cold sweat, having dreamed the same exact thing happened again at the same party and the scandal of it all (as she imagined Tine might put it) was too much to bear.  Not even Dream!Mulligan could get her to open the door.  And that was a feat because Dream!Mulligan had a little more charm than the real one.

Though, she assumed Augustine didn’t know (re: mind) the difference.  There was a sneaking suspicion that the training sessions weren’t purely platonic by the astute younger sister.  But no confirmation was to be had yet.  It was that much easier to cover it up when she didn’t know.  Not that it made her want to know less. 

But, thankfully it was just a dream and the only thing to remind her of Mulligan in the morning was the routine (she loved routine) 8 AM owl about Augustine’s training session, wisely addressed to Dosia instead.  She’d opened it with a laugh, especially at the greeting and placed it on the counter.  It’d be hours yet before she’d bring the enclosed note for her sister to her room. 

Plenty of time to make her own breakfast, take a shower and clean up, read a little bit more, peruse over the schedule for the upcoming week… all the important things… until..

THEODOSIA

She faintly recalled there was a muggle movie where a sister or two screamed the name of their youngest sibling too, or step-sibling or something… but looking up from her second cup of tea, she mulled her mouth and sighed, pushing herself off the stool near the counter.  She’d get there, she assured herself, feet landing on the cold floor and sending her scurrying to her room to get  her socks. 

Pulling them on, she wasn’t shocked to hear her name again.  “COOOOMING!” she bellowed in response and bounced off the edge of her bed before catapulting toward the door. 

When she appeared in the doorway of her sister’s room, she sighed.  She couldn’t imagine sleeping with pets.  Especially the evil little pink thing and the white rat thing… ugh.  She liked the white rat thing better than the pink one, at the very least.  “What’s it, Tine?” she slid the rest of her body into the dimly lit room, raising her eyebrows questioningly. 

BLTs. Courtesy of her, of course.  Rolling her eyes (as was common reflex), Dosia made her way over to the chair in her sister’s room and picked up one of the pillows – moving the dress in question out of the way in the process, “Right here,” she answered as if she had known that all along and looked up with a bark of a laugh.

“Mulligan already knows, “she tossed the pillow at her sister – the creatures responding with their chorus of cacophony, as always.  “He owled like… four hours ago.  Might as well enjoy the greasiest BLT you can.  He’s going to run you ragged today.” 

She took a beat and looked at her sister right in the face, "Not that I'm assuming you'll mind."

In her own tiredness, Augustine did not immediately recognize the signs of it in her sister. Dosia, despite her tiny form, always seemed to be there, ever-wakeful, ready for the challenge of Augustine the dramatic arts scene. The recent graduate's salary was the best investment Tine had made in her short career. The actress couldn’t imagine what she would do if the day came when her baby sister decided she wanted to explore other options.

… Which was why she didn’t imagine it.

(And why she always picked out expensive Christmas gifts.)

Augustine leaned forward still, stopping the dog from escaping her clutches, and popped back up seeming newly energized by the appearance of last night’s dress. Which would have to be thoroughly restyled if it were going to slip out in today’s sunlight. There was something chic, a little dark, about wearing last night’s dress down the sidewalk, gracing it with a messy bun and giant sunglasses, recovering from the glamour with a healthy lunch and a huge iced black coffee. (Even in winter.) “You’re a doll,” she breathed, relieved. Her smile spoke of soldiers spared. “Do you think the color is all wrong for me?”

For the moment, there was no edge of don’t you roll your eyes at me, I’m the older one. She was hungry, and wanted to stay on Dosia’s best side.

And then the pillow came flying. Augustine made an impressive face— ever the drama student— and lifted her hands reflectively which in turn caused the dog to escape. The pillow hit her softly, landed unceremoniously in her lap. She stared daggers at her sister. But then: “He’s a ball buster,” she agreed, tossing the pillow aside on the mattress. She ignored the protests of her pets and stifled a yawn with her hand; Dosia was paid to keep them in line, too. (Though if anyone else had caused them a fright…) “I must have run off three BLTs yesterday. And I bet he makes me do the weights today.”

Toning.

Much as Augustine’s face read ugh, once she was there, in it, sweating up a storm, she loved it. The high of a workout was addictive. The power that she felt in her fingers, her legs, her brain when she was running, sparring, lifting gave her shivers. The good kind.

She considered the owl and weighed her options. Which… she didn’t really need to do. She was going to have the BLT, anyway. She’d already decided, the moment Lettie’s snout had tickled her awake.

“BLT’s and green juice,” she decided, as if Dosia had already agreed. It was reasonable. The kale would make up for the grease and the lack of action-packed vitamins in plain lettuce.

Finally, more or less awake, she truly took in her sister’s appearance and judged, by the footwear, that she too had been deep in slumber. Whoops. (At least she had an alarm clock for sister!) “Extra ginger for you,” she said knowingly, giving the girl a playful smile. And maybe a bat of lashes to soften any sarcasm that was liable to leave Dosia’s lips. A silent pretty please for their breakfast. “Any luck with that magazine? You look like you were up late...”

Now what might have been the reason for that? Surely not the sheepishly grinning owner of the lost-and-found party dress.

“Is it possible for colors to be wrong?” Dosia asked, only half-cheekily this time.  She didn’t  really care about what colors were ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ for a person: wear whatever you wanted, that was always her motto – or at least she said that to Augustine, who would do that anyway.  Dosia had her own strict dress code but it appeared out of necessity, rather than any sort of personal inclination toward styling.  She just needed to look older. Otherwise people didn’t take her seriously.  Even when she did dress older… sometimes they still didn’t. 

So, the dress color was obvious not that important.  Augustine, she was sure, did not look bad in anything.  It was truly one of the talents her sister had mastered: looking good in pretty much anything.

Though, she guessed part of that was because of the workout session that they were currently debating.  Running? Weights?  That all sounded terrible.  Dosia did not like to exercise.  Well, not conventionally.  She could be persuaded to do yoga… and even then, she really only liked the stretching part of it all – a throwback to her days behind the barre and training. 

But, even then, she wasn’t the active sort.  It was just not her thing.  (Granted, at this point, she wasn’t even sure she had things.  Well, except throwing pillows at Augustine.  That was definitely her thing.  She didn’t know if anyone else could feasibly get away with it either. 

There would always be a need for someone to throw pillows at Tine, wouldn’t there be? 

Sighing heavily, she was resigned: BLTs she would make… and ugh… juice!  Dosia wrinkled her nose, “Just because you need to drink them doesn’t mean I do,” information important for Augustine to remember.  She was her manager and assistant, that didn’t mean she was living the same life.   She could do whatever she liked in terms of her diet. 

She didn’t even really like BLTs.  Or maybe she thought that at the moment because she really didn’t want to make it.  “But it’s okay,” she soothed her own ruffled feathers with the memory, “I already had breakfast.”  Hours ago.  Lunch was probably a more apt meal at this point.  She’d do that while Tine was at the gym though. 

“When you and the…” she paused, trying desperately to not call Tine’s pets beasts, “animals,” to the point, accurate, and less mean than she would have been if it were later in the day, “crawl out of bed, everything is ready for you.  I marked the pages you’re mentioned on.  I even put little tabs on the pages for that girl you hate…” for whatever reason the name escaped her, “Oh and your ex.” 

That was delivered quickly, to avoid the rage, and Dosia made a wise dart for the door.  “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready.  Magazines on the counter,” she ducked out of the door before the pillow could follow after her – she anticipated hearing it thud against the door as she high tailed it toward the kitchen.  Now to make BLTs…

“Is it possible for colors to be wrong?”

Augustine’s opinion on the question— and others like it— was a revolving door of change. While she loathed the try-hards of her industry, those fledging hangers-on who clearly did not have a natural talent for cool, and while she was not about to admit publicly that she'd ever cared what she was photographed wearing, it was true that even Augustine Fortescue looked to things that flattered when it came time to stepping out for the papparazi fleet. And even she occasionally questioned a color against her blessedly tawny undertones.

Despite it all, her go-to uniform of oversized blacks, swath of gray knit scarves and hats, and footwear that was either cloud-cushy or slim and ankle-biting seemed to eschew such worries.

“On some people,” she said, at length, and her look to a grumpy, hungry Max affirmed that she was rarely one of these. “We have warm undertones, so you don’t need to worry, Dosia,” she added with another yawn that melted into a fond smile.

Even so… “My beauty juice isn’t going to hurt you!” Her eyebrows danced up, daring her sister to argue with her words of wisdom. “Kale keeps us young. Kale and SPF… have you seen my...”

Dresses were forgotten now that they’d been remembered, and it was moisturizer that was on her mind. But breakfast… and her pre-workout routine. Tine finally disengaged herself from the French bulldog and yoga-stretched her way to the edge of the bed, pushing away from the princess-and-the-pea pile of imported, high thread counts and sinking to the floor to scrounge for a pair of pillowy down slipper-boots. They were the most modest part of her current uniform, which consisted of expensive Malkin underwear and a see-through mesh bra.

She turned back to the bed and fished up the dress, which she yanked unceremoniously over her head. As she crossed the room, animals at her ankles, she plucked a completely useless, sheer robe from a hook near the endless alcove of mirrored wardrobe doors and pulled it over the wrinkled dress. “I wasn’t kidding about the extra ginger,” she called sweetly, sinking into the chair in front of her vanity. She ran a hand through her hair, combed it with black-painted fingers into a knotted bun, and reached for her face cream. “You need some spice in your life!” Besides hers truly. “And I need extra crispy bacon,” she murmured to her reflection as she patted it down with cream.