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#and act out strange scenes and pull other coworkers into our dances
toadcircus · 4 years
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my closest friend is getting another job and we wont work together anymore and last week is our last shift together and im so sad!!! im going to miss her and our high jinks so much like the absolute levels of tom foolery that we commit is unprecedented !! i will miss her so much like istg if i cry on wednesday ill be mortified but ive spent like 1 and 2/3rd years seeing her multiple times a week!!  
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dustedmagazine · 3 years
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Ian Mathers’ 2020: We’re stuck inside our own machines
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I’ve had a song I loved in high school and haven’t thought much about since stuck in my head. The song “Apparitions” by the Matthew Good Band is a fine example of the alt rock of the late 90s; if you grew up then but somewhere down in the states (or elsewhere) instead of my southern Ontario you may well have your regional equivalents, and like this one they may not resonate terribly strongly outside of their time and place. It popped back into my head after a long time recently and of course 2020 has changed it a little. A song that as a teen I felt keenly as about loneliness (albeit also about how technology can feed into that) of course now plays on my nerves as another small piece of art about the way that most of us (those scared and/or responsible anyway) have only that relatively narrow, technologically mediated connection to the people we love. All of us, artists and listeners alike, are trying to fit our feelings and art and selves down these little connections, with some success.
On a personal level, 2020 wound up being stressful in ways we couldn’t have predicted even after the pandemic hit. In circumstances that could have seen governments on this continent support those unable to work (and those who shouldn’t have to), support those workers who are truly essential, support workers and renters and even landlords and small businesses, instead we got a near-total abeyance of those governments using the resources we provide them with to save any of us. On a personal level my wife and I were lucky enough to be able to work from home (not that it didn’t come with its own forms of stress, and now that I’m off until January I have several work/stress-related illnesses to recover from) but still saw friends and loved ones lose good, used-to-be-sustainable livings overnight, saw family businesses succumb to a near-total absence of effective government support after months of trying to keep above water, etc.
It is probably no surprise that this is not a situation conducive to listening to music, let alone writing about it; I have deliberately and happily kept busy on behind the scenes stuff at Dusted that I could still manage but looking, at the end of the year, at the amount I managed to actually create is demoralizing if not at all shocking. I’m not sure I think next year will be ‘better’ in many important ways, although at our job there is a growing feeling among coworkers that next year has to have some work/life balance because 2020 was, maybe more than anything else, unsustainable.
That’s not to say I didn’t spend a lot of time and emotion on music this year, and if nothing else constant sleep deprivation, stress, and panic meant I was probably open to being deeply moved by all sorts of art even more than normally (it’s gotten to the point where I can’t even read a sad or moving twitter thread out loud to my wife without getting teary, which is kind of… nice?). Funnily enough the band that did the most to keep me sane didn’t really put out anything in 2020. Personal favorite, Low, instead started, in early April, getting on Instagram with something they called on whim “It’s Friday I’m in Low.” With one brief break they have now done by my count at least 35 shows (catalogued here, by the way), every Friday at about 4 my time.
Admittedly it’s easier for Low to pull this off than some bands, since the 2/3 of the trio that sing are a married couple (they’ve had a couple of socially-distanced backyard shows with bassist Steve Garrington, but he’s mostly been isolating elsewhere). These shows have seen the band’s Alan Sparhawk take a mid-set break to do follow-up phone interviews with the acts featured in the COVID-curtailed touring bands series Vansplainingthat they started on YouTube, or just to give a tour round their vegetable garden and talk tips. It’s seen Alan and Mimi Parker draw on their impressive, 25+ year body of work (averaging 4-5 songs a set, I don’t think they’ve repeated themselves yet) and talk a bit between songs about pandemics, politics, song choices, and whether Alan should grab his bike helmet this time.
They’re not the only musicians out there speaking love and sanity (and playing music) into the strange digital interzone filled with hate and disinformation where we’ve all been forced to gather while locked down, but they were and the most consistent and steady signal being emitted each week. No matter how tired I was from work or what new symptoms I’d developed or what horrific thing I read into the news, even if I had to take an emergency nap while it was actually airing, every Friday the show was there. Once things do return to something more like normal, it’s one of the few things I’ll unambiguously miss about this weird-ass year.
So if that makes an argument for Low as my band of the year (admittedly again… it’s not like Double Negative has aged poorly, either), that does a disservice to those 2020 records I did connect with; even if there are still literally dozens I have to go through, many of which I expect to love, my top picks this year (if as unrankable by me as always) hit me as hard as any top pick in recent years did. So here I present a quick and informal top 5, which the rest of my top 20 following in alphabetical order. Here’s hoping for more time and space in 2021 for music, and even more than that, for more support for those who need it from those who could have been providing it all this time. (The Matthew Good Band, incidentally, always did best with their ballads. “Strange Days” is another I’ve had in my head these days; the image of moving “backwards, into a wall of fire” has stuck with me since the 90s and it’s never felt more grimly appropriate.)
Greet Death — New Hell
New Hell by Greet Death
This one is, in some sense, cheating; it came out November 2019. But that just means it’s the latest winner of my personal Torres Prize for Ian Being Late to the Party (so named because becoming slightly obsessed with Torres’ Sprinter just after I sent in my 2015 list was the first time I noticed that one of my favorite records of each year tends to get picked up by me just after I call it quits on the year, no matter how long I try to wait). This very doom and gloom slowcore/metal/(whatever, just know it’s heavy) trio at first felt very much like my beloved Cloakroom (whose Time Well has also won a Torres Prize) but sure enough nuances revealed themselves. Back in February it felt almost a little too negative, but then the rest of 2020 happened. And the extended burns of “You’re Gonna Hate What You’ve Done” and the title track remain searing.
Holy Fuck — Deleter
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Probably the record I’ve been trying to write about the longest in 2020, and the one I’m most disappointed in myself that I just couldn’t get the requisite paragraphs together. It’s a wonderful effort from the consistently great Toronto resolutely human-created (and —mediated) dance music quartet, one that both feels like a summation of everything they do well, and with the addition of some outside voices (including strong turns from the singers of both Hot Chip and Liars) a step forward at the same time.
Spanish Love Songs — Brave Faces Everyone
Brave Faces Everyone by Spanish Love Songs
As the year got worse, this roar of defiance only got more crucial for me to hear every so often; I was a big enough fan of it, even after writing it up for Dusted, that when they solicited fan footage for a subsequent music video you may just be able to get a glimpse of me in it. (I’m the one in a “No Tories” t-shirt.) My punk rock-loving twin brother was the one who introduced me to Spanish Love Songs and we were supposed to spend an evening in June screaming along to them live in a packed, sweaty room. I need that in my life again.
Julianna Barwick — Healing Is a Miracle
Healing Is A Miracle by Julianna Barwick
It’s a sign of what 2020 has been like here that even just this album title leaves bruises, and while I privately worried Barwick would have a hard time following up 2016’s sublime Will (probably my favorite record that year), it seems that continuing to take whatever downtime she needs to keep focusing and refining her particular muse has once again yielded amazing results. Anyone who thinks they know what a Barwick track sounds like should really check out, say, “Flowers”, but much of this record absolutely sounds like Barwick, just even better than before. She also boasted my wife and I's favorite streaming concert of 2020, an absolutely gorgeous rendition of this album with Mary Lattimore showing up.
Phoebe Bridgers — Punisher
Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers
I joked on Twitter recently that I have far too nice a dad (and far too good a relationship with him) to be as obsessed as I am with Phoebe Bridgers’ “Kyoto”, but here we are. Like most of her generation, Bridgers’ social media presence ranges from shit-posting to inscrutable, but even though things are often just as hard to figure out in her beautiful songs (as they often are in life), there’s an emotional clarity to them that can just grab you deep down. Couple that with seriously impressive songcraft and the progress from her already astounding debut Stranger in the Alps and more than anyone else in 2020 I’m excited to see just where the hell Phoebe Bridgers is going to go, because it feels like she’s talented and hardworking enough to go just about anywhere and drag a lot of our hearts with her.
Other Favorites
Aidan Baker & Gareth Davis — Invisible Cities II
Anastasia Minster — Father
Deftones — Ohms
Hum — Inlet
Kelly Lee Owens — Inner Song
Mesarthim — The Degenerate Era
Perfume Genius — Set My Heart On Fire Immediately
Protomartyr — Ultimate Success Today
Rachel Kiel — Dream Logic
The Ridiculous Trio — The Ridiculous Trio Plays the Stooges
Sam Amidon — Sam Amidon
Shabason, Krgovich & Harris — Philadelphia
Stars Like Fleas — DWARS Session: Live on Radio VPRO
Well Yells — We Mirror the Dead
Yves Tumour — Heaven to a Tortured Mind
Five Reissues/Compilations/etc.
Aix Em Klemm — Aix Em Klemm
Bardo Pond — Adrop/Circuit VIII
Charles Curtis — Performances & Recordings 1998-2018
Coil — Musick to Play in the Dark
Hot Chip — LateNightTales
Ian Mathers
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angrylizardjacket · 5 years
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when i said it i thought it was true [3] {Ben Hardy}
A/N: 2973 words. Fake Dating AU.
[part 1] [part 2]
Roger Taylor has barely spoken two words to you since the start of filming, and it’s caused you so much anxiety. Were you disappointing? Did you not look or act accurate enough? Sometimes you catch him watching you when you’re with Ben, the two of you in costume, and he just looks... pensive. 
Brian’s nice enough, soft spoken and always kind when he speaks to you, actually mentions that seeing you and Ben together makes him a bit nostalgic, and you’re not quite sure what to make of it. 
The day you see the real Amanda, the woman you’re playing, you feel like you’re about to pass out. It’s as if you’ve got a direct look into your future, she could be your mother, though her hair’s just a little lighter than yours, hence the wigs they keep putting you in. She’s incredibly beautiful for her age, but that’s not the most striking thing about her. She cries the first time she sees Rami in costume, and she doesn’t speak to Roger. 
The moment she meets you, she has to take almost a full minute, hand covering her mouth as she looks you over. It’s like a test, and all you can do is stand there awkwardly in full costume, watching as she tears up a little.
“What do you think?” Brian asks with a proud smile, and she lets out an incredulous laugh. “It’s a little uncanny, isn’t it?” Nodding, she approaches you, smiling brightly and greeting you warmly. 
“Feels like I’ve gone back in time.” She’s surprisingly soft spoken, and she tugs at your collar, straightening it, before she rests her hands on your shoulders. “I’m flattered they’ve got you playing me, dear.” She tells you, and you think you might cry.
She only stays on set for about a week, the week you’re filming on the Garden Lodge set. The two of you are talking before filming starts for the day, you’re trying to glean any information you can that would help bring depth to your character, and Ben joins you. It’s the first time she’s seen him in full costume, and when he presses a kiss to your temple in greeting, her voice dies in her throat. Ben looks confused, concerned as she has to excuse herself.
It keeps happening, something about seeing the two of you in costume, together and sweet, it’s something she can’t stomach. She can talk to Ben normally, even when in costume, but the moment you arrive, and he smiles at you like he does, she feels her heart in her throat.
“I loved Roger, perhaps to my detriment.” She admits, taking a long sip of wine. She’d invited you out to dinner with her before she has to fly back to her family. “And I know what they’re saying in the movie, but he never really loved me.”
When you go to Ben with this information, he’s quiet, before he admits that Roger told him that when they were younger, their relationship was far from the sanitised version that was being presented in the film. 
They’d been together for years, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she loved him, and he took her for granted, always assumed she’d be there when he got back from trips and tours, he’d even proposed to her, and yet he’d do any pretty young girl while he was away because he knew he could get away with it. He’d cheated on her, and lied to her, and strung her along because it was easier than letting go. 
Roger Taylor can’t bring himself to speak to you; you’re the spitting image of his biggest fault. Perhaps the way they’ve got it in the movie is his attempt at an apology, not that she’d accept. 
Something about your relationship with Ben changes after that. It doesn’t feel like a performance, the way it used to, it feels more grounded. Neither of you are sure how to deal with the new information, but when the cast go out for dinner together, he’s got a hand on your knee under the table, and when you’re hanging out in his trailer between scenes, you let yourself fall asleep against him where you’re watching Netflix. The two of you go out with some of the others for the night, and he kisses you as you’re leaving the club together, his hands holding your face so softly, the kiss so surprisingly tender that you don’t even hear the click of the paparazzi’s camera from where they’re hiding around the corner of the building, and when you see the kiss on instagram the next day, you don’t think you care.
“Have you seen my nice, black blouse?” You called, elbow deep in a pile of clean washing on a Saturday morning.
“Which one?” Ben calls back from the shower, and you frown at the clothes before you; you really had meant to fold them sooner.
“The nice nice one, the one I wear for callbacks, you know the one I’m talking about.” And you move to rifle through the closet again, glaring at each piece of clothing as you flip past it.
“You sure it’s here?” The shower shuts off while you’re eyeing off a perfectly fine cream shirt that could serve as a decent replacement if you came to it. “Are you sure it’s not at your place?” He asks, stepping out of his adjoining bathroom wearing only a towel.
“No, I’m pretty sure I came back here after my last callback.” You mused, and you could hear him getting changed behind you as you tried to recall the last time you’d found yourself in the shirt in question.
“This would be easier if you just lived here.” He muses, letting the statement hang in the air. After a beat, you turn to look at him, brow creased as you considered his words. “If you want to, you can.” He offered, standing there in just a pair of jeans, his hair still damp. It might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“Are you serious?” Voice quietly hopeful, your expression brightens as he nods, grinning. Blouse forgotten, you cross the room in a few paces, throwing your arms around him. “Really really?”
“‘course I am.” He doesn’t tell you he loves you, but it’s there in the tone, in the way he kisses you, and it’s there when he spends the next twenty minutes helping you look for your shirt, though when you admit you don’t need it for a few days, he suggests breaking in the bed to fill the time.
“It’s the same bed.” You laugh as he flops back on it, coaxing you over.
“Yeah, but it’s ours.”
The wrap party for Bohemian Rhapsody is... a lot. It’s a bit overwhelming; you’re by Ben’s side and everyone wants to talk to him, congratulate him, and they want to talk to you, tell you how beautiful you look. Everyone is everywhere at all times, and the only constant is Ben. 
His arm is around your waist when the two of you are standing by the bar, he’s chatting to someone who’s name you’ve forgotten, though you’re pretty sure he’s the second assistant director or something, and you’re trying to communicate to the bartender what you want over the music, leaning over the bar. The moment the bartender finally nods in recognition and scurries off to get your drink, Ben turns, sees your eyes shining bright in the light of bar, and he forgets what he’s saying, just for a moment. The guy he’s talking to leaves, pulled away by someone in the crowd, and you turn, smiling brightly, confusion creasing your brow when you see Ben watching you.
“What?” The bar is in a terrible location, far too close to the band they’ve got set up, but Ben can read your lips well enough in the bar’s fluorescent lights. He shrugs, doesn’t even attempt to answer as the band, not ten feet away, blast their way through a guitar solo. They’re mostly playing classic rock, a few Queen songs here and there of course, and they’re not bad, they’re just loud. 
With your drink in one hand, you take his without thinking, weaving through the crowd, his fingers linked with yours. When you find the door to the courtyard, which is significantly quieter, you feel like you can breathe again. The air outside is cool, and you drop Ben’s hand now that you’re not likely to lose him in the crowd, and the two of you find seats to the side by a tall table. 
“You don’t have to stay with me all night.” You tell him, resting your head on your arms, watching as he lights up a cigarette. It was a filthy habit, but damn if it didn’t make him look a hot. Hotter. 
“I know that, dude,” he pauses, taking a draft and looking, watching all the people talking and laughing and bopping along to the music, “I like your company.” He says it easily but it still has you grinning, and when he catches sight, he grins in return.
He doesn’t leave your side. Not for the rest of the night. 
Photographs are being take all night, and when you look back on them, you see you and Ben sitting side by side, his arm around you as you lean into him, laughing, and he grins at something off camera. You see the cast together for a group shot, all smiling brightly, most a little tipsy, and you’re holding Ben’s hand, your linked fingers just visible in a gap between Allen and Lucy. You see the two of you in the background of a shot of Rami looking absolutely ecstatic; you’re fixing Ben’s hair, and he’s giving you such a soft, endeared look that you hadn’t noticed at the time. If you crop it enough to make it your phone background, you don’t feel the need to call attention to it; for reasons you can’t quite articulate, it makes your heart warm.
It’s strange, and the thing that terrifies you is that it doesn’t feel like acting. It’s that grey area you keep finding yourself in, where it feels so familiar, and it’s like swimming upstream to remember that it’s all fake. 
The two of you don’t even share a kiss, not even when you’re both tipsy, not even when you lean in to murmur something in his ear, and his answer brings his lips inches from yours. You want to kiss him, to forget that it’s all fake, but he sees you hesitate, and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. Lips twisting in to a sad smile, you look out at the crowd of coworkers around you, dancing where the band had been replaced with a DJ, and you take another sip of your drink.
You’ve passed tipsy and dived straight into being drunk by the time you’re ready to head home, or well, back to your hotel room, but that required a taxi. Ben’s not much better off, and when you tug him into the back seat with you, he doesn’t argue. He’s the one who tells the driver the hotel they’ve got you all set up in, and you just lean against him, eyes fluttering closed, contentment filling you as he wraps his arm around you. 
“I don’t have any makeup wipes!” You gasp into the silence of the hotel elevator. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to head to his room, your arm tucked into his to keep you from swaying in place in the elevator. It might also be that Ben refused to let you be by yourself after you almost face planted getting out of the taxi.
“I’ve got some in case of emergencies.” He assured, fidgeting with his key card before the elevator comes to a stop.
“See, this is why I love you.” The words come so easily that neither of even catch at first as you make your way down the hall. Ben slows once your words have sunk in, and you both realise what you’d said. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.” Voice quiet, there’s a sudden sinking sensation in your chest that dampens the whole night for you, but he doesn’t say anything, just opens the door and starts rummaging through his suitcase for the wipes once he’s inside. Once he tosses them to you, he follows it quickly with an oversized shirt to sleep in. 
There’s a solid five minute argument about who would sleep on the sofa, both of you trying to give the other one the bed. It takes you yanking a pillow from the bed, laying on the sofa and refusing to move for Ben to concede defeat. The sofa, however, is the single most uncomfortable piece of furniture you’ve ever had the misfortune of trying to sleep on. Sucking up your pride, you clutch the pillow to your chest as you make your way to the edge of the bed. He’s turned away from you, engrossed in his phone.
“Ben?” You ask, and he looks over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised in question. “The sofa is really uncomfy.” You pouted. With a grin, he shifted, making room for you.
“Holy shit.” Ben looks like he’s just seen a ghost. The two of you are in a nice restaurant in the city, it’s not five stars or anything like that, actually it happened to be your favourite little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with surprisingly good food and excellent service, and you were treating yourselves to a night out before Ben had to step outside to take a call. You didn’t begrudge him, that’s just how life was for the two of you. “Holy shit.” He repeated, and you looked up from your meal with raised eyebrows. 
“What’s up?” You ask, and to see the smile spreading slowly over his face has your heart warming. When he meets your eyes, he’s beaming.
“I think I’m going to be in X-Men.” He said quietly, and your fork fell from your hand, clattering against your plate.
“Holy shit.” You echoed, and he laughed a little, taking your hand when you offered it to him, squeezing gently. 
The stars seem to shine a little brighter as Ben beams up at them, your hand in his as the two of you walk home. Sure, there’s paperwork, nondisclosure agreements, rehearsals, and a few months until filming actually begins, but Ben’s landed a role in a high-budget action movie, and you’ve never been prouder. 
He spends the next few weeks in countless meetings, almost constantly in and out of phone calls with his manager and various producers, and when he’s not filming with Eastenders, he was usually training. He’s barely home, though neither of you are home a lot, you’re busy with your own projects, but when you see each other, he’s elated. You haven’t seen him this excited or motivated about a project before. 
Sometimes you miss him. Of course you miss him, you love him after all, he’s your boyfriend and your housemate, and you tell him all of this over dinner and he looks like he wants to say something, like he wants to freeze this moment in time forever, to bottle it up if he could.  You’re so proud, and you love him so much, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world to watch those two parts of you coming together over a microwave dinner.
In the weeks leading up to filming, things change, and you feel like you never see him anymore. It’s not like before, then you were just busy, now he’s all over the country, in meetings and fittings and workshops. He calls, but your bed is so empty and sometimes you just want to come home to him and he’s not there, and he won’t be home until the end of the week. Things are still good and bright when you see each other - he’s always eager to make up for lost time - and you never once doubt how much he cares about you, but you feel... out of sync. 
The two of you had fallen asleep not facing each other, but you wake with his arm draped across you, and it feels so familiar, so right, that it stings when you actually come to and realise where you are. 
It’s been years since you’d woken up next to him, and you’d forgotten how pretty he is in his sleep. Part of you thinks that’s a good thing, that if you start to remember now you might keep dwelling. Another part of you urges you to go back to sleep; pretend or not, you should savour this moment you’ve missed so dearly. That’s the part that wins.
You expect when you wake again, for him to already be up and moving, as far away from you as possible, but instead you hear a sleep-rough greeting in your ear, and feel his chest firm against your back, his arm still around you where you’ve tucked yourself against him.
It’s not pretend, it feels like history repeating itself, and so you let yourself forget it’s fake for the moment, lean into him just a little and give a sleepy greeting back. Your heart already aches knowing how lonely you’ll feel once either of you move.
“I forgot how nice you smell.” He murmured, and that’s when you feel your heart already beginning to break. Instead of letting yourself crumble, your link your fingers with his hand where it’s slung over your waist.
“I forgot how warm you are; you’re like a furnace.” And you hear him laugh at that as he leans into you too, and let yourself bask in the moment.
the rat pack: @hotspacedeacon @strangeandwonderfulconcepts @itssaje @d-r-e-a-m-catchme ​ @callumidiot @rockandrollandshit @bohorap @pietrorunsforme @sweetfierceimagines @itsjackothy @mhftrs @sherlockiantheatrenerd @softbenhardy @multifandomgirlrandomstuff @virtualsheepeat @smile-nine @i-padfootblack-things @deaconsroger @spookyfrances @holyurlbatman @your-idiotic-excellency
(crossed out means it wouldn’t tag; i’ll try again for the next part, lemme know if you wanna be tagged xx)
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freaoscanlin · 7 years
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Given Unsought, Part 1
A/N: This fic is something I’ve been working on and I’m pretty deep into it now. I’ll be posting the full thing on AO3 as soon as I figure out just a bit of it, but I thought I’d put the first part up now. This is a retelling of season three of Agents of SHIELD where Jemma came back from Maveth just a liiiiittle bit different. The final fic will be about 40-45k, and it’ll be broken down into weeks. Jemma/Daisy with mentions of other ships. Warnings for language, injury, isolation, past abuse. I’ll be posting the fic in chunks and tagged on my blog as “given unsought.” Thanks to @insidiousmisandry for encouraging this, you enabler.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.  The Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene I, Line 147
Week Four
In her years at SHIELD, Daisy had learned to evaluate the silence of the post-mission flight. The grim quiet of a failed mission had an entirely different flavor to the quiet of exhaustion after a successful op. And a truly successful op didn’t usually contain great stretches of time without talking. Bringing an agent back from the dead usually called for breaking into one of Hunter’s many secret stashes of beer on the quinjet and cracking open a cold one. If Bobbi was the pilot, she’d play cheesy eighties pop on the intercom and Daisy could get a dance party started in the hold.
She’d even twirled May once. That had been very, very strange, and Daisy still wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed that.
The flight from Gloucester should have been jubilant, full of dancing and music. They’d brought Simmons back. She was safe, and coming home, and Fitz—after months and months where Daisy had lost hope—had done it, the cheeky bastard. He’d gone to another world and had come back clutching his friend. By all rights, even though she’d drained all of her energy, Daisy should have been standing on her seat, holding a beer aloft and shout-singing Captain & Tenille with Mack. Instead, she sat quietly in the co-pilot’s seat and watched his giant hands as he moved them over the controls.
“Feeling okay?”
“Nothing sleeping for a year can’t fix.” She stretched out her arms, grimacing as her muscles creaked. “I still can’t believe Fitz did it.”
“Can’t you? He’s a determined one, our Fitz.”
Daisy nodded. She could have flown back on Zephyr One, but she hadn’t wanted to abandon Mack. Plus, she suspected that she’d only be in the way as Bobbi checked Simmons over. And maybe there was a desire to avoid more unnecessary medical checkups herself. Sure, she had the mother of all migraines, but the nosebleed had stopped. She’d be fine. “What do you think it was like over there?”
“Looked like it was pretty dusty.” Mack flipped a couple switches overhead.
Daisy glanced down at her front, still covered in dirt from the explosion of the monolith and hugging Jemma afterward. “Well, you’re not wrong.”
“We’ll find out more soon enough, Tremors.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just impatient. I can’t believe she’s back. Like finally, something’s going our way.” Chasing down the rapidly expanding inhuman outbreak pattern had grown exhausting. Convincing Dr. Garner to let even one of the people onto her team of secret warriors doubly so. She’d fallen into the classic pitfall of being evaluated by him herself earlier that day and even though she hadn’t wanted to rail at it as much as she would’ve in the past, he did leave her feeling frustrated and annoyed.
But Simmons was back, and she was going to be fine, so that had to count for something.
“A much needed win,” Mack said, smiling as he agreed. “Seatbelt on, we’re coming in.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Pilot sir.”
Mack rolled his eyes at her, but she caught the smile he tried to hide.
The Zephyr had beaten them back to base. Though Daisy expected everybody to be busy with Jemma, Bobbi stood with her hip cocked and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for the loading ramp to descend. Daisy groaned.
“Time to head to the lab. Coulson’s orders,” Bobbi said.
“I’m fine. I just need to sleep and I’ll feel like a human being again. Things just got a little shaky for a bit—ha. Literally.”
“You passed out twice,” Bobbi said, tilting her head. “We’ll put you on a bunk next to Simmons.”
Okay, that might not be terrible. With all of the science that needed to be run, it wasn’t like she would be able to see Jemma at all otherwise. Daisy followed Bobbi out of the hangar, both of them waving cheerily at Mack as he sarcastically called that, sure, he’d be happy to handle the post-mission checklist by himself, no problem.
“He loves us,” Bobbi said as she walked Daisy to the lab.
Bobbi had lied: they’d put Jemma off to one side of the lab and Daisy was led to the other and checked over by a SHIELD tech. With their leading inhuman biology expert on another planet for months, the rest of the lab workers had had to step up, and it just wasn’t the same. None of them ever gave her lollipops the way Jemma had sardonically taken to doing to keep Daisy from griping about getting poked so much. She wanted to complain, but Bobbi kept looking over and raising an eyebrow at her. Daisy decided it was easier not to cause a ruckus.
“Can I go yet?” she asked.
“Just a couple more tests, Agent Johnson.”
“Sameer, we’re poker buddies. You know all my tells, I think that entitles you to call me Daisy.”
For that, he took another vial of blood, though he assured her he would’ve done that anyway. Daisy grumped at him and leaned back on her cot. Movement on the opposite side of the room, near where Jemma still slept, caught her eye. One of the techs running blood tests did a double-take at something on his screen and began gesturing, wildly. Fitz and Bobbi immediately raced over. Daisy rose to her feet, too, only for Sameer to grab her arm.
“You probably should give them a moment,” he said.
“If she’s hurt—”
“They’ll figure it out much faster without distractions.”
As much as she hated it, he had a point. Daisy allowed herself to be pulled back, and sat down on the cot while Sameer ran the rest of his tests. She kept an eye on things, monitoring the way the surprised tech gesticulated while talking to Fitz and Bobbi. Fitz shoved him to the side and typed rapidly into his computer. Whatever he saw on the screen made him shove both hands into his curls and rest his hands on his head, elbows out.
Bobbi put a hand on his shoulder and said something to the tech.
“Something’s wrong,” Daisy said. “Something’s wrong with her—I need to—”
But Fitz stomped right past her when she stood up. Bobbi looked over, met Daisy’s eyes, and shook her head. She gestured for Daisy to stay put.
“She can’t expect me to just sit here when something might be wrong with Simmons,” Daisy said.
“Looks like she does.” Sameer rummaged in the pocket of his lab coat and held out a grape lollipop. “Will this help?”
“No.” But Daisy took it anyway. She flopped down, determined to stay until Bobbi gave her some answers. She missed the needle until Sameer had it in her arm. “What the—hey! What are you doing?”
“Dr. Morse’s orders. It’s just a sedative.”
Daisy felt her eyes begin to roll back into her head. “I’m cleaning you out next time we play poker,” she said and the last thing she saw before she slept was Simmons, curled up on a cot, asleep.
The only mercy when she opened her eyes was that her head no longer ached, but everything else pretty much sucked. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her left arm had fallen asleep because she’d apparently laid on top of it for hours, and Mack hadn’t carried her back to her bed like he occasionally did whenever somebody (Bobbi) knocked her out. She’d apparently been kept in the lab, drooling into a pillow for all the techs to see. Not that there were many of those around at the moment.
Daisy rubbed her hand over her face and grimaced at the gritty sensation. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was just after four a.m., and groaned. “I’m quaking Sameer into a wall next time I see him.”
“I’d advise against that.” Bobbi’s voice sounded rusty. Daisy looked over her shoulder and saw her on the chair beside her cot, eyes open and arms crossed over her chest. The knee brace had been set aside for the night. “He was following my orders.”
“Yeah, well, don’t think you’re forgiven either, Barbara.”
Bobbi made a face and sat up. “Like you’d have gotten any sleep with that migraine you tried to hide. You can thank me later.”
“Thank. Right. That’s exactly what’ll happen.” Daisy sat up and stretched. She looked over across the lab, to the other cot on the far end. “Is Simmons okay?”
Bobbi paused for so long that Daisy swiveled away from Jemma to face her coworker. “Is something wrong? The planet wasn’t killing her slowly, was it?” Best to blurt out the worst possible option, get it out of the way, even while her brain hammered Not Jemma not Jemma not Jemma.
“No. Her body adapted to what we suspect is a lower level of oxygen, so that will cause a few problems in the short term. Her metabolism’s changed. But she’s healthy.” Bobbi folded her arms over her chest. “But there’s something else, though. She’s pregnant.”
The word slammed into Daisy so hard it might as well have been a punch to the face. “She got sucked into an alien planet and came back pregnant? Was it something in the air? Or was it the planet? Wait, how is that even possible? And is she okay? Is the baby okay? How far along—”
“Easy there, motor mouth,” Bobbi said, and Daisy abruptly shut up. Hysteria, she realized. That was what coursed through her veins. That, and adrenaline. “One question at a time.”
“How?” was all Daisy can manage.
“She hasn’t talked much, but as far as we can tell, it happened the usual way. As far as we can tell, she’s about four weeks along. That’s early to tell, but we’re SHIELD. Cutting edge is kind of our thing.”
“She wasn’t alone over there?”
“There was an astronaut with her. She didn’t say his name, but we’re assuming that he’s human.” Bobbi shrugged.
Daisy looked toward Jemma. In sleep, she remained twitchy, pale and drawn like she constantly awaited danger. For all they knew, she did. Daisy’d barely heard her say five words since Fitz pulled her out of the portal.
Speaking of…
“Guess there’s no need to ask how Fitz is taking it?” Daisy asked. Late one night, drunk off cheap tequila and sitting in the middle of the room he’d turned into a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream in search of Simmons, he’d confessed that he’d made his move. Daisy, not nearly as drunk, had found herself struggling to congratulate him, with no idea why. They’d be cute together, she’d said, when they got Jemma back. Of course they would be. They were Fitz and Simmons. FitzSimmons. They already had a smushname all their own without even trying.
And hell, Fitz’s mania had paid off, hadn’t it? Fitz had doggedly and methodically followed the steps to save her for months, while Daisy threw herself into finding inhumans so she wouldn’t have to think about the grief and fear waiting just around the corner, far too close for comfort.
“I don’t know,” Bobbi said. “He didn’t say much when he came back.”
She gestured. On the other side of the lab, Fitz had a studied frown on his face as he stared into a microscope. From the set of his shoulders alone, Daisy figured bothering him would be one of the worst ideas she’d entertained since trusting her mother.
“You know she asked him to dinner right before…” Bobbi trailed off.
“I know,” Daisy said. “Should I—I don’t know? Talk to him?”
“You can try, but I don’t think it’ll work. I’m sending Hunter to annoy the truth out of him if he gets back soon.”
Daisy raised her eyebrows. “You’re going straight to the nuclear option?”
“For a man whose talents are very annoying, he’s also very good at what he does.” They both paused when Daisy’s wrist-unit beeped with an alert. “See you later.”
“Um, if she wakes up, tell her I’ll stop by?” There was too much she wanted to ask, as she was burning with curiosity and kind of a weird sense of unreality and terror. Her friend was pregnant. With an actual human child. Well. Daisy looked at her hands. Maybe mostly human. Who knew? Daisy sent one last swift look at Jemma and left to handle whatever emergency had arisen on the inhuman front.
What the hell happened on that planet, and what would Jemma do now?
Week Six
For the next two days, her timing was so terrible, it might as well be one of their plans. She dropped by whenever she could get one of the other agents to cover the enforcement agency channels, but Jemma was always sleeping. Daisy busied herself with briefings and seeing Joey, and worked on trying to track Lincoln, who wasn’t answering her calls. Finally, she escaped and made it to Jemma’s bedroom, but there was no answer to her soft knock, so Daisy moved on to her own quarters two doors down and passed out face first into the mattress.
Coulson called her in before she was even fully awake the next morning, to a distress call in Tallahassee. It turned out to be a false alarm—just a kid with a lighter and some superstitious neighbors—but the mission still nearly went sideways three times. Daisy couldn’t deny that she was frustrated. Searching for other inhumans was beyond trying to find a needle in a haystack. More like a needle in a field full of haystacks.
And behind all of that a constant tattoo beat in her head: Jemma is pregnant, Jemma came back from an alien planet with a baby.
In the hangar bay after nearly five days in Florida, she stepped off the quinjet and frowned. “Why don’t you go on without me?” she asked Mack.
“Tremors?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Got something on your mind?”
“Nah, I just—I just—” Stop babbling, Sk—Daisy. He’s going to know something’s up. “I think I’ll take a walk, clear my head before I get stuck in an underground base and feeling all claustrophobic. Or worse, somebody needs me to do something.”
Mack eyed her, but he nodded. “I’ll keep your paperwork warm for you.”
“My hero,” she said, and waved at the rest of the support team as they headed in for post-mission grub. Daisy moved back to her quarters to grab a set of civvies, pulling a dark beanie over her hair, and made for the secret exit that put her on Fourth Street. From there, it was only a few blocks to the bookstore.
She kept an eye out, just to be sure nobody tailed her, before taking a deep breath and stepping resolutely to the appropriate shelf. Wow, this area of the bookstore was huge. And there were so many books with similar titles. Daisy stared at the bookshelf.
Rows and rows of babies stared back at her from the covers. She picked up What to Expect When You’re Expecting because even a homeless hacker living in a van had heard of that one, and paged through. More than part of her felt ridiculous. It was absurd that she’d even be here looking at these books. Jemma had, like, a gazillion degrees, she was bound to know everything that went into pregnancy. But Daisy didn’t, and she felt kind of stupid about it.
Even worse, there wasn’t really a What to Expect When Your Best Friend Went to an Alien Planet and is Now Expecting. Unfair. There seemed to be every other super-specific topic of baby raising on these shelves. But that was Jemma Simmons for you. Always going above and beyond in the most endearing way.
Daisy selected a couple books that didn’t look as schmaltzy as the others, ones she suspected might be written with the fathers in mind, and carried them to the counter. She paid cash and made sure not to be memorable, neither staring nor avoiding the cashier’s eyes. When she left, she kept the beanie low.
At the next store over, she picked up a cloth shopping bag just in case the plastic bag they gave her wasn’t opaque enough. She also rooted around in a small gift section, as she didn’t want Jemma to think she was avoiding her or weird about anything. So a little trinket, that seemed like the ticket. A little blue vase of bright yellow daisies, cheerful and bobbing gently in the breeze of a ceiling fan, caught her eye, and Daisy paid for them almost without thinking about it. Books safely hidden, flowers in hand, she went home.
For once, she was in luck.
“Skye!” Jemma’s face lit up when Daisy stepped in. Then she looked down and away, sheepish. “Daisy. Sorry.”
Daisy held out the flowers. “It’s a multipurpose gift,” she said. “It’s pretty, and it’s a reminder. You can call me whatever you want.” She absolutely meant that. Everybody else had an adjustment period where they called her Sk-daisy, which was aggravating but at least they were trying. With Jemma, Daisy was so happy she was back that she didn’t care.
She studied her friend, pale and diminished but vibrantly alive, and words came tumbling out. “I can’t stay for too long, I’m tracking law-enforcement channels, but I’m really sorry that I haven’t come sooner. It’s—there’s just a lot going on.”
“And I’ve been sleeping.” Jemma’s voice cracked, but her smile felt real and familiar.
“Which is good,” Daisy said a little too fast. Sleep was good for the baby, right? It seemed like it would be. “Do whatever you need to do to get better. We need you. And I…” What did you say to somebody who comes back from another dimension with an amniotic passenger in tow? She sat down on the bed, glancing once at where Jemma’s hand resting on her abdomen. Absently, like an afterthought.
Jemma sighed. “Bobbi told you.”
“The tech who ran your tests wasn’t exactly discreet. Coulson fired his ass, don’t worry, but Bobbi told the team in case it got out. I know you probably don’t want to talk about what happened yet, but when you do, I’m here to listen.” Daisy set the bag of the books on the floor and sat on the bed, close to but not crowding her friend. Bobbi had warned her that Jemma still jumped at everything.
“I’d rather listen now, if that’s okay.” Jemma leaned forward. “The terrigen is spreading?”
“And so’s the paranoia.” Shoptalk. She could handle shoptalk. Daisy filled her in on the nightmare of the past few months, the way cocoons spread all over the world, with inhumans popping up—
“Like daisies?” Jemma interrupted, giving her a small, real smile.
“I’ll let you have that one,” Daisy said, unable to stop her laugh. “We found a new one a few weeks ago. Joey Gutiérrez. He’s very sweet. He just melts metal, like, poof, wow. I think once he gets a handle on it, he’ll be incredible. If we can ever get Dr. Garner to sign off on letting him be a full-time team member.”
At this rate, Andrew was never going to sign off on anybody for a secret inhuman team.
“And you?” Jemma asked, surprising Daisy. “How are you handling all of this?”
“I…” Daisy blinked. She hadn’t really thought about it. How was she handling Lincoln being a fugitive, the ads from politicians on TV, the fearmongering and spreading hate toward what she was? The message boards about “How to Hunt Inhuman Scum” that twisted her stomach into knots? Even at SHIELD, where she was insulated, a couple of the new agents still twitched whenever she walked into the room. “I’m handling it. I’ve been more worried about you, to be honest. You’re really okay?”
“I think so.” Jemma’s voice was soft, like talking too loud hurt her ears. “I just…there’s…some of it is hard to talk about and—”
She jolted like frightened prey when Daisy’s cell phone buzzed. “I am so sorry,” Daisy said.
“N-no, it’s okay. You should take that.”
Guilty, Daisy picked up the phone and answered. Lincoln’s voice, distressed and just as afraid as Jemma seemed, filled her ear. She gave Jemma one last apologetic look and, passing the daisies on the nightstand, hurried off go to handle yet another crisis.
Part 2.
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