I Dream of Disney (One-shots)

Advent Day 6: Grocery Store Meet-Cute

[James P. Sullivan (a.k.a. Sully from Monsters Inc.) x Reader. You can decide if he's monster, humanoid or a mix of both. Today, you get two things: 1. A one-shot 2. A reminder not to take life too seriously. Enjoy!]

December 15th, Wednesday

Dear Diary,

I saw him again today. Proof, perhaps, that miracles are possible. It couldn't have been a more ordinary setting for something so extra-ordinary: in the fresh foods section of the grocery store, surrounded by the red and violet hues of poison-berries, gooseberries and pokeberries. I hadn't been paying attention to anything other than the recipe that I'd crumpled up in the bottom of my shopping basket underneath the carton of twelve Komodo dragon eggs. I'd been peering into the last line of my spidery handwriting, where my mom's secret recipe went into absurd detail explaining what kind of Durian was needed for culinary success, when I'd heard a voice that I hadn't heard in six years.

"(Y/n) Hemlock," It was a siren's call, begging my heart to leap from my throat and dash itself to the floor at our feet, "I could hardly recognise you without the braces."

I froze. Funny how just his voice could paralyse me, as if I'd been turned to stone as surely as the stare of pearly gorgon eyes. My voice failed me, but my eyes did not as they trained on him exactly. Not that it was difficult to see him – even in college, he'd stood out from the crowd.

There's no need for me to go into detail about his appearance. There must be thousands of words dedicated to that very thing, if you'd just paged through the shiny, scale-bound journal that I'd kept during my uni days. I don't need to explain that the monster filled the room: still brawny and muscular, a dashing almost-eight-feet tall, and with that soft, cerulean fur that she'd felt the brush of during hundreds of hugs. Spruce-blue eyes inspected me, not unkindly. As if he really wasn't sure.

"That's me," I smiled at him, my tongue flicking out nervously in a gesture not uncommon to most reptiles, "But you look just the same, Sully."

There was a glint in his spruce-blue eyes, "Can't say the same for you."

I blushed. Certainly hope not, I thought. It had been a long time since I'd been a shy student, sitting in the back of the classroom at the prestigious Monster's University's School of Scaring, trying to write down every word that Professor Knight burbled and, simultaneously, trying not to lock eyes with him. To be called on by the professor, I had figured then, equated to certain death.

Then James P. Sullivan, of the great scaring lineage of the Sullivans, had roared into the room. I won't ever admit it, but he even caused me to jolt. He'd sat next to me then, shooting me a toothy smile as he asked to borrow a pencil. I knew that he was trouble from the moment we locked eyes.

I was right. He'd been kicked out of the scaring programme at the end of the semester, expelled from MU just a few months more than that.

"You look good," Sully added, "I mean – just in case you didn't notice I was saying that already."

"Thanks," I grinned, "You too."

This drought of vocabulary must've been caused by the earthquake of a pulse in my wrists and neck, making me grit my teeth in something that I hoped was friendly to prevent my fangs from knocking together. If he noticed my nervousness, he didn't make it obvious. The smile that he sent to me was just as refreshing as a sea-breeze. He'd always been that calm, hadn't he? Even before the scare simulator – the first real assessment to determine if we'd be allowed to continue in the scare program.

"I never knew what happened to you," I realise aloud, hoping that I wasn't flushed, "You were on your way to rejoining the Scare Program – leading your frat to victory – and then the next thing I know, you and Mike Wasowski are being escorted out of the gates of MU."

Sully's smile softened, becoming sheepish, "It's actually a long story -"

"I'll bet."

Talk to me, I silently begged my old university crush. Stay here and catch up and tell me every small detail of your life. Though where I was ready to camp out among the greengrocer's place, quite content to linger between the mounds of cassava root and elderberries, sampling the scent of toxic hogweed and aconite that would look great in my kitchen, I could see Sully's face contort in urgency.

My cheeks flared red. Did I look too desperate.

"You're probably busy," I blurted before he had a chance to speak, "I – shouldn't take up too much of your time. I guess – there shouldn't -"

I had started inching back. Thankfully not too far back or I would've smacked into a case of pickled urchins and caused a shower of oily, spiky embarrassment – before I had even gotten close to death by public humiliation, I felt pressure on my hand.

The hand that was grasping the basket was now bracketed by a claw.

"I am busy. About to start my shift, actually," Sully said quickly, "But Mike insisted that I stopped by here first-"

"Mike? Mike Wasowski?" I couldn't help but laugh, "Wow. Who'd have guessed?"

Sully also muffled a laugh into the back of his hand. When Mike and Sully had first met, they'd hated each other's guts. Mike had thought Sully was an ignorant, nepotistic airhead. Sully had thought that Mike was a friendless, big-headed nerd. Both were right.

"Who'd have guessed?" Sully repeated with a smile. "Look, I really have to get going – but why don't we get together sometime and talk? Before all of the holiday craze. I can take you to dinner and we can catch up? I've missed you."

I've missed you.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do it," I blurted, "Let – let me give you my number."

Luckily, there was a scrap that I could tear off of the recipe at the bottom of my shopping basket. Paranoid, I wondered if he thought it'd be weird to draw a smiley face at the bottom of the paper, so I didn't. I opted for my number and name, neatly printed at the bottom of the paper.

"Great. I'll call you," Sully said.

"You better," I winked.

It was a momentary lapse of sanity, that wink. It was way too much, wasn't it? Before I could agonise about it, dissect my own actions until I needed to have myself declared mentally unfit, Sully's smile quirked up at the edge. Was it possible, I wondered later, that he thought I was flirty? That he liked it?

I tried not to look at him as he walked away in the store. It was too cliché, too cheesy, to watch him walk away – but I couldn't quite help myself. Six years since I'd had to box up my feelings for him and yet it felt easier than breathing to recall that box, blow off the dust and pry the lid open. My stomach was quivering with bats and vampire moths. Especially when he reached the check-out and glanced back at me with a smile.

I waved. He waved back.

"See you Saturday," He mouthed.

I bit down on my lip to keep from giggling and nodded. Though I turned away to the chilled section, where chupacabra nuggets and griffon ribs were arranged in neat carboard boxes of Mrs Ooze's Ready-To-Eat meals, I was only able to focus once he'd left the store. After breathing deeply and making intense eye contact with the dim, cardboardy eyes of Mrs Ooze herself, I forced myself to look down at my recipe.

I cursed.

"How many durians was it again?" I groaned. "Mom's going to kill me."