reposted in reply to my first part because i replied to the parent comment instead. I TOLD YOU I WAS DUMB
anyways, have a little bit o' chuck backstory. i'm thoroughly convinced that he was raised by two mommies, because of reasons.
hope you enjoy!

--

Chuck had reasoned with himself that it wasn't the cupcakes themselves that got him into this situation. It was Mike "I Can Ruin Your Life By Looking You In the Eyes" Chilton. And that's why Chuck always keeps his hair curtains on--no one can pierce him in his very soul with eye contact. Eye contact is something he fears, which never really struck him as a problem until he entered his teenage years. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you," they'd say. "Can you see?" they'd ask. "Get a haircut," they'd chant. And Chuck would just shrug, and flip the hair out of his eyes for a split second just to check if the person was staring him down. He did get a good perception of his surroundings through the chunks of hair, but it was only as much as he wanted to see. It's safe behind his bangs. Like when he would hide beneath the quilts as a kid, so the monsters living under the bed wouldn't get him. Monsters are no match for his mothers' soft quilts.

He'd attempt to peek over the dining room table, as short as he was at the age of six--to see the progress of his mothers' quilting. "Are you done?" he'd press. "Are you done now? How about now?"

"No, pumpkin," Mama would say. "You can't protect yourself from monsters with an unfinished quilt."

"Maybe I can!" Chuck said. "It's only a matter of time before they get me, so hurry up!" He remembered his manners. "Please!"

Then Mama would drop her scissors, and Mommy would drop her fabric, looking at each other, laughing lightly. Mommy said, "Honey, it's not a matter of time. It's a matter of timing."

Chuck was puzzled. He didn't think this phrase would make the quilt get finished faster, nor did he think the monsters had a strict schedule to follow. Maybe they did? There was nothing scarier than an uptight, organized monster. He'd get eaten, and the monster would still have time to run the rest of its errands. He thought it was horrifying. So, instead of going straight to bed with his regular old blanket, he flipped his hair out of his eyes, shrugged, and sat down with his mothers, watching them cut and sew and patch.

"Chuck, honey, it's time for lights out," Mama said. Chuck was falling asleep at the table.

"But I wanna..." He yawned. "... I wanna watch you make it."

"It's too late. Come on, time for bed."

"Nooooo," Chuck groaned, though he didn't put up much of a protest when she picked him up and slung him over her shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling comfortably. "Don't turn off all the lights."

"I won't. You know I never do," she said, setting him down on his little racecar bed. "And remember, you've always got your nightlight."

"It's not that bright."

Mommy was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Bright or not, monsters are afraid of sailboats."

"But why?" Chuck asked. Mama flicked on the mini sailboat light. "Sailboats aren't scary."

Mama tucked him in, and Mommy went to his closet, separating all the clothes so they didn't make scary shapes in the darkness. Then they were both crouched down next to Chuck's bed, straightening out the blanket so it covered him from neck to toe. Mommy stroked his hair. "Monsters aren't afraid of the same things we are," she said.

"Mattie, stop building it up," Mama laughed.

"But it's true!" Mommy insisted. "Monsters hate cookies and puppies and sunsets on the beach. They hate all things precious and beautiful, like Chuck." She poked his tummy. "That's why they'll never get you," she said, kissing him on the forehead.

Chuck smiled, clutching his purple hippo. "That's good."

"Yes, it is," Mama said, kissing him on the forehead as well. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"What!" Chuck cried. "There's bed bugs?"

"No!" Both mothers cried in unison. They looked at each other and jerked their heads at Chuck, silently telling each other, "you're responsible for this one."

Mama did take the fall. "It's just an expression. Your bed is very clean. No bed bugs, pumpkin."

"Now go to sleep!" Mommy said. "Or else you'll never show those monsters who's boss."

"Okay!" Chuck shut his eyes tight. "Good night, mommies!"

"Good night, Chuck," they both said.

"What about Pippy?" He held up the hippo.

"Good night, Pippy," they said, quietly walking out, leaving on every hallway light to seep into Chuck's dark room.

-------

So it is Mike's fault that he's in this situation right now, not his own, and not the cupcakes. That is clear. This is what happens to people when they try to abide by social commons. Askin' about recipes and whatnot--who does that?

Then Chuck remembered he offered the recipe in the first place; the theory that this was all Mike's fault starts to fade gradually.

"Charles? Dude? You okay?" Mike is asking. Had Chuck not spoke? Or moved? For awhile? He hadn't noticed.

"Oh," says Chuck, snapping out of it. "You can call me Chuck. Sorry, uh. No one really calls me Charles."

"Hm," Mike says. "Chuck. Sweet. Cool." He lets that sit for a second. "Oh, and you can call me Mike. Not Mr. Chilton. I'm not like, above you or anything."

Yes. Yes, you are, and you don't even realize it, you bastard-coated bastard with charming filling. I bet you know how to cook something like that, too. And it would taste delicious. "Okay, Mike," Chuck says.

"All right, so, do you wanna get sta--"

"Can I use your bathroom?" Chuck asks impulsively.

Mike stops. Blinks. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

"Uh, where... is it...? Again?" Again? There was no first time. Stop lying to yourself, Charles.

"Uh, well, the employees' bathroom is right over the--" He points vaguely, and Chuck just shouts, "yeah, thanks!" and zips on over to sit on the toilet and totally not cry.

Crying? No. He isn't crying. Hyperventilating because of this anxiety-inducing situation, yeah. Same thing, just dryer. He sits in a stall with his face in his hands, letting out shaky breaths and groans. He tries to convince himself everything is okay, and that Mike won't flip a scalding hot pan onto his face if he admits he can't cook. But then he remembers, that's not in his best interest, because hell, he really, really needs a job.

Bad ideas. Bad ideas. Why do I only lead my life through bad ideas.

He knows Mike's the nicest guy in Detroit, but what if that's part of his cheery-cafe-owner persona? Like, if you mess with what means most to him--his cafe, his cooking, his Burners--does he turn into a huge, terrifying monster? With like, chainsaws for arms? Probably. That's what he's getting at, yeah. No one can be that nice without there being some sort of catch. Chuck bites his fingernails. Hard.

He hears voices outside. Mike's soothing one, of course, but it's only going to be so soothing before he finds out the truth. There's another voice, deeper than Mike's. Triumphant in tone, almost--Chuck can't make out full sentences, but he hears "new kid" and "cupcakes" and "delicious as heck." Everything he doesn't want to hear. Then, the Voice That's Not Mike's gets louder.

"New kid? Woah. Texas doesn't know what to make of this."

I need the approval of the entire state of Texas? Shit. I'm done. It's over. Is there a window in here? I'm out.

"Don't worry, Tex. He knows what he's doing. He'll be a great part of the team, I promise."

No. No. He did not just say that. Chuck screams a muffled scream into his palms, and hopes no one hears. He is tearing up, he is. He glances to his right, where he sees an empty toilet paper roll. Nothing to wipe the fear off his face.

Not his hair, nor a sailboat, nor a quilt will get him out of this one.