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As promised, here is chapter 3 of Pâtisserie! Not much happens in this chapter, but it does help better flesh out Gideon's character. Chapter 4 will be posted next Thursday as per the schedule. Till then my lovelies, follow, favorite, and comment to let me know what you think!

The absence of light from any of the dusty windows immediately told Gideon that nobody was home.

_Good. _

He was in no mood to deal with his pa at the moment. With his grandma in the hospital his pa had become increasingly belligerent around the household, often inflicting his anger without the need of an excuse.

"_The fuck did ah say abou' keepin' tha floors clean!?" _he had recently blustered at Gideon, upon somehow finding a small pebble on the splintered wood floors.

"Ah built this house with mah own two paws! Ah took ya in when no one else would! An' this is how ya repay me? Trackin' in fuckin' rocks n boulders? You piece o' shit faggot."

Gideon shook his head at the memories as the front steps groaned under his weight. His pa hadn't been lying though; he had indeed built the house himself. When he was younger. And it was obvious.

The single story home was just outside the city limits of Bunnyburrow, falling under county jurisdiction where building codes were somewhat laxer. The outside of the house consisted of sun-bleached dull splintered wood. His pa couldn't afford paint when he built it, and only ever threw on a coat of wood finish when the last one wore off. The foundation was lopsided and the house seemed to lean to one side. And there was a total of 6 windows, two on the front, two on the back, one facing east and one facing west. Each had a cracked pane of glass staring out forlornly into the cornfields like abandoned monocles.

The shingles were made of red clay, and were easily the nicest part of the house, as they were the newest. Gideon should know, he put them there himself over the summer. During a particularly severe thunderstorm a gust of wind had knocked loose some of the old shingles, and the roof had leaked for days afterwards. Gideon had been forced to slave away on that roof, day after day in the boiling sun, ripping out the old shingles and putting in the new ones. He was honestly surprised that his pa had managed to afford the nice looking red clay. Later he had learned it was because he had sold his grandma's armoire.

Of fuckin course, he had thought at the time.

Stepping into the home, Gideon sighed deeply as he inhaled the scent of dust and whiskey. The house only had 4 rooms. The front room took up half the house and contained the living, dining and kitchen space. The living space had an old-school television set with two antennae sticking out. An ugly brown and orange zig-zag pattern rug occupied the floor between the tv and an equally ugly musty couch with a faded yellow floral pattern. There was also a hearth with a soot-stained brick chimney that was the only source of heat come winter. Then there were two bedrooms, of roughly equal size, separated by a hallway that branched out from the front room. And finally there was a small bathroom at the end of the hallway, with a toilet, a sink, and pathetic excuse for a shower that never ran hot.

Gideon walked down the hallway and into the bedroom on the right. It was his own, modest space, and he flipped the light-switch next to the door, illuminating the humble foxden. His twin bed was shoved into the corner with a red and white patterned quilt draped over it haphazardly along with his unfluffed pillow. Clothing was hanging out of the chest at the end of the bed and was also strewn across the floor, almost as if the chest had vomited the clothes violently throughout the room. There was also a small desk with a lamp next to the bed, and above that Gideon's lonely window. He could see the fronds of the cornfield set ablaze by the golden light of the setting sun, their stalks swaying in the gentle breeze.

Gideon unbuttoned the top of his overalls and the clasp at the base of his tail, shimmying out of the denim contraption and leaving himself in just his white shirt and boxers, his tail twitching at being released from its prison. With a huff he flung himself onto the bed, the springs protesting at his sudden weight. He laid there and stared at the poorly plastered ceiling, thinking of nothing in particular, until his thoughts started to drift to a certain cougar.

Fuck.

He sat up and brought his paws to his face, groaning as he rubbed his temples. Why did the cat bother him so much? Yeah, Bobby had cried, but so what? Tons of the kids he tormented cried. What made this any different? He should've smashed that violin to pieces!

Viola.

"GODDAMMIT!" he shouted in frustration. He was working himself up over nothing. The cat was no different, and he should treat him like any other pussy who had crossed him. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as he made his resolve. He would go back to the music room tomorrow, during free period. He would confront the faggy little musician again. And this time he would shatter the slender instrument right in front of those serene, ochre eyes as he watched them fill with tender tears...

At that thought he shuddered. But now he knew what he had to do, and he would do it. Tomorrow, he would make sure Bobby Catmull knew who he was.

Satisfied with his plan, Gideon stood up and walked over to the chest at the edge of the bed, grunting a bit as he pushed it out of the way. On the spot that the chest had been Gideon wiggled free a couple loose floorboards, revealing a small hidey hole. With his pa gone it seemed like the perfect opportunity to indulge in a little secret pleasure. Reaching into the hole Gideon grasped around for what he was looking for.

Yes, he thought to himself as he pulled his paw free. The dusty volume he held still had faint glimmers of the gold finish that once embroidered its black bindings.

The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Doe

Normally Gideon was turned off by the typically dour attitude Doe took to his work, but at the moment Gideon was in the mood for something a little more melancholy than Clauser or Lord Bearon would provide. He opened the well used volume to one of his favorite poems and began to read the words out loud softly to himself.

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines! - they hold a treasure

Divine - a talisman - an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure -

The words-

A loud bang broke Gideon of his reverie. The front door had just slammed, and he had been too caught up in Doe's words to hear his pa's old station wagon pulling up to the house. His ears pressed against his head as he scrambled to toss the book into his hidey hole, replacing the floorboards and pushing back the chest just as the door to his room flung open.

"Why the HELL are ya still up!?" he heard his pa bellow as the scent of whiskey met his nose.

It was going to be a long night.