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DIY Credit Dr.® - Strategy 4 (Never Pay Your Credit Cards On Time)
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starqueensthings · 10 months
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Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)
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AO3 | Next Chapter
Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.
Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)
POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.
A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️
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A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.
The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.
In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.
The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.
Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.
The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.
‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’
The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.
“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.
Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.
“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.
“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.
“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”
“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.
“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.
“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”
“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”
The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”
The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.
“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”
Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.
“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”
He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.
Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.
“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”
“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”
He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.
The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.
Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.
“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”
Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.
“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”
His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.
The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”
Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”
A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”
You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.
“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”
His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.
“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”
You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”
Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.
“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”
“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”
“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”
“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”
***
The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.
A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.
If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.
A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.
‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.
Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.
He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.
“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.
“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”
The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.
“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.
“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”
“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”
“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.
“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.
“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”
The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.
The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…
“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”
Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.
“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”
It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.
“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.
“Indeed,” he breathed.
His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.
‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.
“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.
“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.
“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”
An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.
“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.
“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”
“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”
“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.
The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”
He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”
“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”
“That is obvious.”
The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.
“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”
“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”
“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”
Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.
“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”
His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.
It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.
The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.
“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”
So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.
Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”
“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”
The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.
“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.
Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.
You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he’d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.
“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.
“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”
He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.
The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.
“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”
“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”
His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”
He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”
He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.
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viridianriver · 30 days
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NO CORPORATIONS 2024
So to (belatedly) continue my project from last year, I'm gonna try to stop giving money to corporations this year. Partly for environmental reasons (consumerism is wrecking the planet) and partly for political reasons (in the US our politicians are bought out by corporations with the money WE SPEND THERE??) and lastly for ethical reasons, since so much of our consumerism in the US goes to fund war, or is based in an extractive economy that relies colonial labor practices
So in no particular order here are my goals for the year!
SUBSCRIPTIONS
Cancel them all, except for ones which fund artists directly. I'm gonna try to move back to managing my own library of .mp3s instead of using Spotify, I already cancelled Amazon, and I'm dumping ad free Tumblr after that AI news came out, and I'm gonna search out any others I'm forgetting. (lpt "losing" your credit cards every year and requesting new ones is a great way to root out subscription services you forgot about!)
TRANSPORTATION
I'm gonna try and learn to maintain the car I've got, or at least go to local mechanics if I can't, and reduce driving in general and bike more. I've got an ebike and solar panels, maybe I can rig something up to charge the bike with solar and have totally free transport?
HEALTHCARE
I'm gonna see if I can get my EMT / wildness medicine certs renewed and maybe get some new med training bc knowing a bit about medicine is a great way to pay less into the for profit 'healthcare' system.
And spend time on preventative exercise, strength/balance/cardio shit so my body's not fucked up from desk job shit.
Am gonna have to keep spending on a real vet bc while I'm happy to Redneck Doctor myself I'm not fuckin with the cat
BILLS
power: I'm gonna try to set up a DIY solar system with panels I already have or can get cheap on Craigslist to supplement my electricity.
water: when I get my gutters maintained I'm gonna get a diverter installed so I can use water for gardening instead of have it go down the drain for the city to sell back to me
ac: gonna get back in the habit of airing out the house on summer nights instead of using the ac a lot.
car and home insurance: I'm gonna start the habit of shopping for the cheapest every year and playing the companies off each other
FOOD
I wanna get a greenhouse built this Spring and start gardening. Plus continue to shop local for other groceries. Maybe get to know some hunters to buy some venison and other local game?
MISC SHOPPING
Craigslist, Facebook Marketplace, barter, repair, buy-nothing group, etc. Secondhand eBay if it's not local. Seriously no more Amazon / Walmart / Target
FUN
It's gonna be a year of hiking, backpacking, basement punk and metal shows, potlucks and garden parties, craft nights, bonfires. Screw the club I can be a ho at home that's why they call it HOme. Also gonna try some new sport, haven't decided which. Maybe I'll try to get better at swimming? The public pools just charge enough to maintain them.
DEBT / RENT
I'm gonna make it a point to not take on any new debt at all. If I can't pay for it in cash in full I'm not having it. Same with renting shit, if I can't own it I'm not having it. I kno I'm in a pretty privileged spot to even say no to this shit after getting a house but wowww both of those business models are just fuckin robbery. And I'm trying to have a mindset shift to "if I can't pay cash I can't have it"
INVESTMENT
I'm gonna pull my money from the big banks who reinvest your money in companies they choose themselves, which include a lot of military and oil&gas, and put it into stocks I choose myself, and a local credit union.
I know stocks might be a weird choice to get into as someone who's trying to detach from corporations, but if you have stock, you own part of a company. Which I prefer to feeling owned by them, which is what this consumer culture and hustle culture makes me feel.
I'm also gonna try to learn about activist investment, which is basically owning enough stock in a company, collectively with other activists, to get a vote in corporate boardrooms. (since stocks are shares of company ownership and if you have enough you have voting rights on how companies are run)
I really think that if more people pulled their money from banks (which get crazy amounts of power from the amount of company stock they buy with your money) and invested strategically instead we could collectively change shit? Idk, this is one I need to learn more about. But this group of investors getting sued by Exxon inspired me, you know they actually have a chance of making changes if they got the company running for their lawyers.
MINDSET
I'm gonna try to have a long term sustainable mindset, if I beat myself up for not meeting every goal perfectly it's just gonna ruin my goal to make this a long term lifestyle change.
And I'm gonna try to work on thinking long term, like if I want something I'm not gonna buy it right away or bookmark it for later. Because if I really want it? I'll remember it and come back to it myself. (I did that with a new ebook reader I couldn't find used tbh, it was one of many new gadgets I wanted but the only one I kept on coming back to wanting)
And if I do want something? It needs to have some concrete payoff it'll give me. No not the dopamine, I'm thinking like the education more reading gets me, or buying tree seedlings to get fruit. Think about my consumerism like planting seeds, only go buying shit that'll grow into something greater
Lastly, I'm gonna look only at materials and not brand loyalty. Teach myself to find quality stuff based on the fabrics or metals or other materials used, not the brand reputation
MORE?
If anyone has other ideas I should look into, I'd love to hear them! I'm still pretty new to this shit and
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paletigers · 1 year
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Brahms Heelshire Headcanons
I’ve seen the takes on here and I am disappointed. So I will now set the record straight and provide some hot takes on this man.
•He’s very intelligent ↳ I don’t know why Brahms fans don’t give him full credit but this guy is insanely intelligent. His entire room exemplifies this: the walls being diy soundproofed/insulated, the beartraps and animal traps in his room takes competence to set up properly and place in a strategical manner, the countless number of books in his room so hes obviously well read, etc. etc. 
•He’s a master manipulator ↳ Along with his intelligence comes his manipulation skills. I think the fans of Brahms often misinterpret the whole “baby talk” Brahms does and says it’s a fetish thing or a mommy kink thing, but I believe it is pure manipulation. There’s a lot of context in the movie that gives this point weight. Greta is said to have had a miscarriage, so pretending to be a dead boy that gives Greta comfort is just a manipulation tatic. This can also be seen when Brahms having just revealed himself uses a baby voice to call out to Greta after striking Malcolm. ANOTHER THING, the whole “going to bed” sequence I also feel is misinterpreted. I think it is a mixture of self ‘satisfaction’ as well as manipulation on Brahms’ part. He’s obviously infatuated with Greta and doesn’t want to lose her, so he plays along to get back into her good graces after almost killing Malcolm.  ((I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum, but I really don’t see the mommy kink thing. I can see him being a submissive of sorts however.))
•He’s the one truly in control of his parents. ↳We’re told in the movie that Brahms parents are the reason he lives in the walls and can’t come out, that they made the rules for Brahms to follow, and that they hire nannies to take care of Brahms for when they eventually go off to abandon Brahms. BUT I think this is a load of horseshit. I believe the Brahms doll was his idead and was a way to control his family in a sense. I also believe that at first, Brahms was probably just forced to stay in the house out of sight at first, but as he grew up and got bigger and too much to handle, that he made the choice to live in the walls. I imagine that the secret room he lives in was probably a playroom that his parents didn’t even know existed and as he grew older it became his bedroom. The dude is tall as fuck and stacked for gods sakes, he took out Malcolm kind of easily (by suprise, but still). I can’t imagine that the parents knew about all the secret entrances and chose to live in the house and in the master bedroom knowing their child could sneak up on them and kill them in their sleep without being genuinely frightened by him and controlled by him. If they had the power, why didn’t they make it so Brahms physically could not leave the walled up bedroom??? Why didn’t they close all the secret entrances?? Where is the thought. The doll is also pretty random for Mrs. Heelshire to have wanted made, since Brahms killed that girl as a child. She wants a constant reminder of the boy who murdered a girl and lit himself on fire accidentally? Okaaaay. We see Brahms at the end of the movie repair his mask, what if he made the doll or wanted the doll to be made? It’s a power move on his end.
Okay, now for the actual hot takes •BRAHMS HEELSHIRE IS A TRANS MAN!!!! ↳ So OBVIOUSLY I’m not saying this is canon, but this is my personal favorite Brahms headcanon. There’s so much subtext that can be interpreted in this way and here’s what I think: It (1. Explains the reason for the creation of “the boy” doll (2. Why Brahms has such a disdain for his lush lifestyle (3. Could give a reason to the death of his childhood friend at his own hands, and (4. Why that fucking doll SO:
JUST GONNA SAY THIS BEFORE I START: this headcanon is based off my personal experience as a trans guy and someone with mental illness. I don’t want it to seem like being trans is the reason he did all of this stuff, but a different explanation to why all of this could have happened. (1.) The doll is the “accurate” representation of Brahms. If we are going with the pretense that Brahms is transgender (FtM), this would mean he would have grown up in a strict, gender role inforced, conservative household and been raised as a girl. Being FtM, this would have been an incredibly triggering and traumatic experience, seeing how the Heelshire parents are so strict in the movie. This probably would have included punishments for Brahms acting out of line or “unsightly” in regards to gender presentation. It can also explain the relationship between Brahms and his parents. We only see what the movie shows us (obviously) so we don’t have much insight into why Brahms acts this way or why he holds his parents hostage in the way he does. It seems that Brahms is entirely to blame while the poor parents are just victims. But we know nature and nurture are really important things to a child’s syche growing up, and I don’t entirely believe the parents are blameless, this headcanon or not. For this particular headcanon, I think the parents probably abused Brahms in the way “old timey”/ “traditional” parenting works like the authoritarian parenting style relying heavily on punishment. While Brahms obviously has a mental illness that could explain the way he acts, this could have been combated if the Heelshires had raised Brahms in a way that recognized their child was ill and got him treatment. The way they phrase his personality as a child gives some speculation that the parents knew he acted out of the ordinary, but seemingly they didn’t do anything about it. My own personal headcanon is that Brahms probably suffers from some sort of personality disorder such as HPD, historonic personality disorder or some sort of other disorder. People with HPD when abused or in an instable home environment can increase risk, which could have led to Brahms lashing out during childhood. For this headcanon in particular, having a personality disorder while being abused in addition to having feelings of gender dysphoria could have caused Brahms to “snap” in a sense. I dunno, food for thought. ((author projecting onto brahms whaaat no way))
(2.) So like, Brahms is obviously very unhappy with his current living situation. He prefers living in (his own sense, i suppose) a comfortable, personalized cramped room rather than even step foot outside into the actual house. In the movie, we’re told they forced him to live in the walls to hide the fact he wasn’t actually dead, but I mean genuinely how does that make sense, especially if they’re scared of him. They have enough money and resources to cover up the murder of the girl and the best case scenario for them is..that? (once again it kind of gives weight to the abuse theory because how is that a healthy mindset or actions to take after your kid does something like that??) So TLDR, I believe that the reason for living in the walls even with his power over his family is because he just genuinely hates it there. Living with abusers in a house that caused you so much pain that living in the walls seemed like the best option. It also gives him freedom to sneak around and have freedom despite how ‘princess tower’ of a situation it looks like.  (3.) Why did he kill that girl? In the movie, the explaination would just be “he’s insaaanee oooooh mentally ill person scarrryy” but I suggest something with a bit more substance. The girl, Emily, probably seemed like everything Brahms couldn’t be for his parents, like a constant reminder of his failure to be the perfect daughter. Emily could have been favorited by his parents and she could have been a constant comparison against Brahms as a form of abuse. (why can’t you be more like emily, stuff like that). Obviously thats not Emily’s fault, but in a child’s mind in his state it could be his reason to “get rid” of her.  (4.) What’s up with that doll? If, previously stated in the post that the doll is not the mothers idea, then why would Brahms request the doll to be made? ITS A REPRESENTATION OF BRAHMS WANTING A CHILDHOOD OF BEING RAISED A BOY!!!!! GOD DAMN IT!!! Forcing his parents to take care of this doll of how he sees himself and his parents resent him for it??? COME ON THATS SO FUCKING FUN!! Especially since Brahms wears a matching porcelain mask!!! It’s a facade!! It’s his inner feelings of how he sees himself!! Especially since he was burned on his face, he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of himself already, making the mask and the doll would probably give him a fucked up sense of gender euphoria!!! I THINK ITS NEAT!!! I only have a couple of regular headcanons for him since we don’t know much about his character but the trans headcanon is all the meat of this post and how I feel about him. I think it gives a really fun reading of his character and provides an explaination to all the weird shit happening in the manor. Let me know what you guys think, obviously if you don’t agree with this headcanon thats cool! Cis Brahms is just as fun :)
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disputeai · 5 months
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How To Use AI To Fix Your Credit
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diycreditdr · 5 months
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DIY Credit Dr.® - Strategy 3 (Using Credit Cards Like A Pro)
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Oops, I did it again. When someone sends me something via message, I tend to answer forgetting that deletes it, and I didn’t credit the sender. I was so happy to get this, it’s my all-time favorite church conversion, b/c it’s DIY- absolutely no fancy remodel. I posted it awhile ago and have been looking for it ever since. I can’t believe it didn’t sell. 
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It was built in 1903 in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. They did have to repair the exterior. But, McKeesport, unfortunately, is ranked #4 of the most dangerous 100 cities to live in by the National Council for Home Safety and Security.  
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I just love it so much, though, just the way it is, but look at the price changes it’s gone thru: $70,000 ~ Reduced to $69,950 ~ Reduced to $69,500 ~ Increased to $79,500 ~ Reduced to $77,500 Increased to $83,000. Now it’s $99,000. Maybe the neighborhood got better?
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If it wasn’t in such a dangerous area, it could be a phenomenal gothic palace. 
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It’s a crying shame. Look at this huge altar in the kitchen. The owner is leaving a Viking stove and appliances that the buyer would have to install. 
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It’s being sold as-is and there’s some code work to do before moving in. The furniture is fabulous, and it’s not included, but the owner is willing to sell pieces.
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The building is huge- this is the main bdm. There are 4, altogether.
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Some of the flooring has to be replaced. 
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One of 2 baths.
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Check out this old wood stove.
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The owner also wants cash- no exceptions. Are those organ pipes against the wall?
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Well, i must say that no one’s broken in and taken the antiques. The owner must be living here, or someone is, b/c I even found it listed on Apartments.com.
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There’s a very large rounded basement.
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A nice side yard.
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And, a deck. No one’s messed with their wrought iron table or the grill. 
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I don’t know what to think. If I hadn’t looked it up, I would never think that this neighborhood was bad. It looks so nice.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1501-Union-Ave-McKeesport-PA-15132/245290952_zpid/
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Top Benefits of Hiring Professional Concrete Services
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repentarium · 1 year
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Me: maybe a cute little holiday sorry will Help Me, the working title is gonna be Season's Greasons lol
Also me: >16k later it's getting a silly Wham! xmas song lyrics. Bon appetit.
Featuring holiday angst, diy rage room, Gremlins, gremlins, a tree named Fangorn, a panic attack at the hardware store, Trauma™️, and a happy ending (not like that).
Merry crisis!
Excerpt below.
After Steve was old enough (in his parents eyes) to be left at home with paper money and a credit card, they stopped making it a big deal. Christmas, that is.
When he was younger, they could dress him up like a little handsome doll and slick his hair back and make sure he kept his bowtie on just right all through their coworkers’ holiday parties and all through the dinners and the photos and the cheek kisses.
Of course the parties were horribly boring; he was always the youngest kid there, the food tasted weird, and he had to sit quietly for basically the whole time, which he wasn’t very good at.
His Christmas memories are mostly of too many lights, too many people who are too drunk and too loud, and all the various times he was taken to the side to be screamed at by his dad for being ‘out of line’. In a closet or a foyer or a spare room or the top of the steps, away from the eyes of the people who might have judged them. Always, after, his dad’s face turned into a happy mask again, and he would smooth his own hair and it’s like he willed the beet-red angry blush of his cheeks to calm. Steve would be left to trail after him, grabbing at the sleeve of his suit jacket. If he was still teary-eyed at all his dad would rip the sleeve out of his hand and walk faster.
After his parents decided he was old enough to be left alone, they’d still hired the decorators to come in, so there would be a perfectly-lit tree in the window and staged empty presents and everything would look twinkly and warm and dramatic. They'd take some photos and then leave for most of the season.
This time they'd told him they aren't hiring the decorators again; his parents hadn't been to the house in Loch Nora all year. Even after all the repairs and the government cover ups, they just stayed away. The last Steve heard, they were going to sell it. They had hated Hawkins even when it was just a normal American dream kinda town, and now it's just a poorly patched dark house in a poorly patched dark town. What was the point?
For the holidays they had some sort of company get together in Chicago, where his dad’s main offices were and then… the Bahamas? Brazil? Some warm place that starts with a ‘B’ he thinks. It doesn’t really matter. It’s gonna be like all the other years in a lot of ways, but he wasn’t going to have a big King Steve party.
He probably could throw another rager, he’s honestly sure it’d be easy and familiar and like flexing a muscle. No one hated him so much, even after everything, that they’d turn down a rager.
But it made his skin itch to think about it. Buying the beer and liquor and snacks, seeing everyone fight over the hot tub, everything smelling like stale beer and perfume and maybe someone’s soft hands on his face which, while it might be nice in theory, if he's being honest with himself the whole charade was too much.
All this to say, there’s no rager. He’s thinking he’ll have a repeat of Thanksgiving, which his parents were also away for. A frozen tv dinner (he bought an extra when he got the esteemed Thanksgiving Dinner Meal two weeks ago), some kind of spritzy wine cocktail he bullshits his way through, some movie he borrowed from Family Video. Maybe he'll get some lights. No big deal.
It’s the kind of thing that’s only really sad if you let it be, and Steve’s had a whole life of not letting things be sad. It’s self-preservation, but it’s worked so far.
He’s got a couple of weeks still, but he knows the holiday movies go fast so he’s rummaging through them during his shift, planning to squirrel the one he wants away so no one gets to it first. He’s about to give up and just plan to turn something on the tv honestly, it’s all kids movies and love stories and they’re just making him feel worse.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon before school’s out so there’s nothing going on; ample opportunity for Eddie to come in and hang out, which he’s taken advantage of. Steve has joked a lot about the trauma bond that you get out of the Upside Down but it’s kind of not a joke. You save the world with someone, you save their lives and they save yours, and it means something.
Eddie’s there now, sitting cross-legged on the counter, and he and Robin are painting each other’s nails. A bright red that they’ve decided is ‘festive’, which had made Steve roll his eyes.
He was startled out of his studying by all the yelling, so he wanders over, both of them shoving their hands in his face and making him pull his head back so he doesn’t smudge anything.
‘Very cute.’
‘Thank you, King Steve. I think I am.’
‘We know you think you are.’ Robin scoffs and grabs the nail polish, raising an eyebrow at Steve. ‘You want?’
‘Someone’s gotta actually do the work around here, Robs.’
‘Yeah it’s swamped.’ Eddie hops off of the counter, gestures around the ghost town of the shop, and wanders over to where Steve had abandoned the holiday display.
Robin grabs Steve’s hand and pulls him until he’s flush against the counter, stretched across it, and starts painting his nails delicately with the tip of her tongue poked out in focus. She’s gotten really good at this since they started working here; it’s not the kind of thing that would slide at the food court, but it’s safe here, as long as Keith doesn’t catch them and they don’t wreck anything in the process.
By the time Robin’s finished painting Steve’s nails, Eddie has come back over and slapped a VHS onto the counter next to Steve. He cranes his neck and sees the cover.
‘This is the one you want, babe.’
‘Eh. It looks… creepy. I don’t really do horror after all the, you know. Horrors.’
Eddie clutches his heart a little dramatically. ‘It’s not creepy, Steven, it’s cinema. It’s iconic!’
‘I’ll consider it.’ he sighs.
'Consider it a little harder. It's the right choice.' Eddie grabs the VHS box and walks it back into the employee office, probably putting it in Steve's jacket pocket like some awful reverse pickpocket, or like a niche Santa.
When he comes back, he's carrying a little piece of paper and his eyebrows are confused.
'I wasn't snooping, first off. Secondly, aren't you already all fancied up? I thought your folks' kind got the work done early and by someone else.'
It's just a little list that says 'lights, movie, tree(???), that sparkly plastic stuff'. If he didn't write it down he'd walk out of the store empty handed.
'Oh. They're selling the house apparently. They won’t be back, so…' they don't care. He shrugs.
'So you're decorating yourself?!' Robin is somehow excited and devastated. 'Are you going to be alone for the holidays Steve?! You're an asshole for not saying anything sooner, you could have come over for Thanksgiving!'
Eddie is still gawking at Steve like he's some kicked and broken puppy looking for a home and it's making him feel so fucking small.
'Robs it's fine, this is, like, normal for me, it's not a big deal. It's not a Thing, I've never really done big celebrations for the holidays, you know that. We're going to have our little Party Christmas and that's just fine for me.
'Steven. You are coming over to my house after work, that settles it.' Eddie grabs a pen from the desk and scribbles out 'movie', then tucks the list into a pocket. The pen gets tossed at Steve, but it bounces off of his chest and lands back on the counter.
'Ed - it's fine, I'm fine!'
'That's not what people who are fine say.' Robin says under her breath.
'I'm going home after work, it's a Wednesday. I open tomorrow.'
'It's not gonna take long. You'll get your beauty sleep.' Eddie raises a dramatic wave and walks out of the store with Steve protesting at his back.
'Sounds like you don’t really have a choice here, pal.'
Steve throws the pen at Robin; she ducks and snaps at him until he sighs and brings his hand back over to her so she can touch up the smudged polish.
No matter how many times he'd repeated to himself that he wasn't going to Eddie and Wayne's new place across town, he found himself parked outside the apartment with his forehead against the steering wheel, chill slowly seeping into the parked car.
He jolts at a rapping at the passenger window. Eddie is standing there with a cardboard box, and he nods at Steve to open the door.
Steve leans across to pull open the passenger door, and the box is dropped unceremoniously into the seat.
'Come upstairs!' Eddie smiles at him over the box.
'Sorry, I was pretending I didn't exist for a minute.' When Eddie pinches his upper arm Steve leaves the car, makes a big deal of wincing and rubbing his arm, grumbles and follows upstairs anyway.
'Wayne's out, but I wanted to show off the tree!'
It’s hard to miss the lights even from the street, but when they push through the door into the apartment it’s still a shock that they’ve crammed so much festive into the space.
The tree is tall enough that the top is slightly bent against the ceiling; the lights are all sorts of colors, the ornaments are a mess. He can see a few standard colorful baubles, but most of the decorations seem to be completely random - there's some little stuffed animal, like the kind you get from a claw machine. A tiny wrench. A couple of small framed photos that seem to be a grinning child Eddie. A couple of clay things probably made by that Eddie child.
'There's so much to see!' Steve chuckles, kind of delighted, and when he looks over, Eddie is beaming proudly.
'We used to have a lot more, we lost a couple of boxes in the Apocalypse.'
'I don't think it'd stay standing if you crammed anything else on.' He's examining some sort of horrible popsicle stick creation with pipe cleaners and googly eyes that he thinks it's supposed to be Rudolph.
'No way, we always get the strongest tree.'
'It smells… green.'
Eddie is just watching him take it all in, but his smile is falling a little. Steve hopes he hasn't insulted him, he just has never seen anything like this.
Steve hasn't spent a ton of time at Eddie's place, but the difference from the last time he'd picked him up was startling - it wasn't like when the decorators came to Steve's hours, when everything was trim and restrained and delicately sparkling. This was honestly practically gaudy, but it was fun and it was homey and friendly. There were stockings across the wall behind the TV, lights and sparkly plastic nonsense anywhere it could physically be. It all felt glowy and warm, and all at once it made Steve feel loss for something he'd never had. It's only sad if you let it be.
'I know, it's kinda trashy but I guess it fits.' Eddie's hands raise out in a gesture that says 'after all, look at me'.
'No!' Steve snaps out of his oncoming sadness, pushes it aside. 'It's awesome, Eddie. I've never seen anything like it, it's so happy.'
That perks Eddie back up a little, even if it makes him blush a little and kick his foot. 'It's not exactly designer. I bet you've seen some real fancy stuff.'
Steve scoffs. 'Our tree was the same every year. Only white lights, a bunch of glass ornaments, Tiffany of course. Red bows. Boring.'
'That's rough.'
Steve nods at him soberly and goes back to the tree. 'This would never fly.' He lifts a little G. I. Joe figure hogtied to the top of a hot wheel car in Eddie's direction. 'What even is this?'
'Heist gone wrong.'
'Do the army guys do a lot of heists?'
'No, that's why he messed this one up so bad.'
'He needs to learn to plan a little better.'
'Yeah, yeah, yuck it up, he's in mortal danger.'
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efixcredit · 1 year
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socialpinch · 2 days
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airgenerationau · 15 days
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Split System Air Conditioning - What You Need to Know
A ductless air conditioner is a great alternative to whole-home, central forced-air systems. It’s worth checking with an expert about capacity, sizing and installation requirements for your home.
Split systems have an indoor and outdoor unit, connected by a conduit that houses the power cable, copper tubing and condensation drain line. They are quiet and offer flexible installation in homes with no ductwork.
Types
Unlike traditional systems, Split System Air Conditioning have the condenser and compressor located outside, away from the house. This means that a split system is usually less noisy, and it will also save you money on your energy bill.
They work by converting refrigerant into a liquid, which travels through the heat exchanger, or fan coil. This cools down the air, which is then pushed back through the ducts, and the cycle repeats itself.
The systems can be either ducted or ductless. Ducted systems will connect to the ductwork in your home, while ductless mini splits will use multiple air handlers with remote controls for each room, giving you much greater temperature control.
Ductless systems can also benefit from a higher SEER rating than packaged units, because they are not subject to energy loss through the ducts. They can also be wall-mounted, which is a great choice for smaller rooms. There is a small amount of waste because the air will travel through a pathway between the indoor and outdoor unit, but this is a minor problem when compared to the amount of energy wasted by traditional ducts.
Installation
While there are some DIY kits available for ductless mini-split installation, it’s best to
have a professional do the work to avoid mistakes that can lead to poor performance. In addition, improper installation can void the unit’s warranty.
The basic components of a split system air conditioning are an indoor and outdoor unit, connected via copper piping. The indoor unit will house the evaporator coils and fan to cool and dehumidify your home’s air. The outdoor unit or condenser will take in the refrigerant and air from the ductwork before pushing it out through the piping into the room.
During warmer months, your split system heat pump will blow air that’s cooled by the evaporator coils, and during colder weather it will reverse to transfer the heat into the room. Choose a high SEER-rated unit to save energy and money on monthly utility bills. Some units may even qualify for energy efficiency rebates or tax credits.
Energy Efficiency
Ductless mini-split systems are often more energy efficient than duct-based air conditioning because they don’t experience the energy loss that a central air system experiences when it runs through a home’s ductwork. Additionally, they can be set up to operate more efficiently by cooling only the rooms that are in use and avoiding heating or cooling spaces that aren’t occupied.
Indoor units are slimmer in profile than window air conditioners and can be mounted in any location that is accessible for mounting. They can even be recessed into your ceiling or wall. They’re more aesthetically pleasing than window units as well, with some models featuring an elegant jacket to hide the unit from view.
And finally, because the noisier components such as the fan and condenser are located outside, they’re much quieter than a window unit. This can help to keep a home quiet and peaceful. In fact, it’s so quiet that people sometimes forget that their AC is running.
Maintenance
Like any equipment, mini-split air conditioners require some basic maintenance. Although it’s best to leave major Split System Air Conditioning in Denham Court repairs and a full service to qualified professionals, there are a few things property owners can do to keep their mini-splits in top working order.
Regular cleaning helps to reduce dust and grime build-up which can cause overheating, strain on moving parts and lower energy efficiency. Maintenance also includes lubrication of components that move which prevents excess friction and makes for a smoother operation. Property owners can help by opening the inlet grille to clean air filters every month or two (depending on use) as well as cleaning any dust or cobwebs around the indoor unit and keeping the outdoor unit free of leaves, dirt, mulch and debris. Adding a recurring annual reminder in your mobile phone before heavy use seasons is a great way to keep on track with maintenance. This will make sure your split system air conditioning is delivering the optimum
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