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whitehotharlots · 3 years

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Things really are this bad

Yesterday, Freddie posted an excellent piece titled “People of Color Have Agency.” It’s free and I encourage you to read it all the way through, but its gist is found in the title: contemporary anti-racism regards non-white people as having no control of their actions, nor any moral culpability for anything they themselves do. Why? Because white supremacy is such an all-encompassing causal force that it prevents non-white people from having human agency. Freddie points out, correctly, that far from being liberating, this conceptualization of race and racism flatly dehumanizes non-white people, and, in doing so, centers the actions and experiences of white people as having determined the entirety of human existence.

From the piece:

I suspect that placing all of the blame for historical crimes on white people is strangely comforting for white leftists: it advances a vision of the world where only white people matter. It says that the sun rises and sets with white people. It suggests that white people wrote history. It assures white people that, no matter what else is true, they are the masters of the world. That all of this is framed in terms of judgment against the abstraction “white people” is incidental. I think if you could strip people down to their most naked self-interest and ask them, “would you be willing to take all the blame, if it meant you got all the power?,” most would say yes. And of course in this narrative people of color are sad little extras, unable even to commit injustice, manipulated across the chessboard by the omnipotent white masters whose interests they can’t even begin to oppose. All of this to score meaningless political points in debates about inequality and injustice.

I don’t have anything especially poignant to add (you really should read the whole piece). He repeatedly assures his reader that some of the more absurd aspects of anti-racism being described actually are real and quite pervasive. This move is necessary because, although his descriptions are objectively correct and plainly obvious, they cannot be articulated with appropriate harshness without it sounding like the writer is exaggerating (a poisonous rhetorical milieu made all the worse by conservative critics who could have a field day simply describing wokeness as it actually exists, but instead understand it in the most idiotic manner imaginable.)

But no, Freddie was not exaggerating. Everything he describes I have seen in person and in print multiple times. There exists, believe it or a not, a sizeable faction of the left that does not believe Imperial Japan was an imperialist power, that expecting non-white people to adhere to basic standards of decency is akin to slavery or genocide, and that black people are so inimically traumatized by historical racism (that such trauma is even literally embedded into their genes) that they cannot follow rules or obey laws. This is the state of liberal antiracism in the early twenty-twenties, and it doesn’t become any less ugly by us pretending that it’s not as bleak than it actually is.

Basically, people belong to two groups: Non-whites are non-entities and therefore sympathetic, blameless victims. Whites, conversely, are all-powerful and therefore the horrors faced by most people all across this blighted planet are caused by the very existence of whites. This understanding is racist, chauvinistic, narcissistic, and dehumanizing. And it’s utterly dominant in anti-racist discourses right now.

I have made this point before, but it bears repeating: whiteness and white supremacy have become conceptually indistinguishable. The former was previously understood as a description of a people’s racial markings and was therefore fluid and inchoate and, progressives once believed, a complete social construct, a fabrication, something that we faced an imperative to stop taking seriously. The latter concept, white supremacy, was used to describe myriad aspects of a pervasive system of racial inequality. A small child can suss out how weakening the conceptual status of the former is an absolutely necessary prerequisite for addressing the urgent concerns posed by the latter.

Instead, however, the contemporary anti-racist left (call them what you want: corporate anti-racists, wokes, neoracists... it’s all the same stuff) has done the exact opposite. Racialization is calcified to the extent that we consider the presence of racial markers to be the sole driving force behind all human interactions. This makes malignancies unchangeable, but that’s beside the point. We’re not actually looking to reform systems and improve the lives of everyday people of color: we are, instead, concerned with burnishing the image of the Democratic party, helping dull grad students get their PhDs, and assisting the book sales of a small handful of the most cynical authors the human race has ever seen.

But this is just all so incredibly absurd. Like... Jesus fucking Christ people, fucking think about this shit for a second or two. Take this piece for instance. It’s not from everydayfeminism or some random tumblr: it’s from the New York Times. It describes an incident in which two black middle school girls were very badly harassed--even urinated upon--by 4 middle school boys. The headline reads “A Racist Attack Shows How Whiteness Evolves.” The catch? The perpetrators of the attack were not white.

Just because the boys weren’t white doesn’t mean they weren’t doin’ some whiteness. Oh no. As the author explains:

While it’s tempting to see the reported ethnicity of the boys suspected in the assault as complicating the story and raising questions about whether the assault should be thought of as racist, I look at it through a different lens. Instead of asking what the boys’ reported racial identity tells us about the nature of the attack, we should see the boys as enacting American whiteness through anti-black assault in a very traditional way. In doing so, the assailants are demonstrating how race is a social construct that people make through their actions. They show race in the making, and show how race is something we perform, not just something we are in our blood or in the color of our skin.

Herein, race is not only real but inevitable, all-pervasive, and unchangeable. And race does not correlate with traditional markings like dialect, place of birth, or skin color. Nosir. Race is behavioral. The stuff this writer dislikes (rightly or wrongly) are what constitute whiteness. The stuff this writer loves (victimhood, and also presumably the Marvel Cinematic Universe) are what constitute non-whiteness.

This idiotic conceptualization leads inevitably to all matter of malignancies--from petty inconveniences to world-historic atrocities--to be understood under the same umbrella, and emanating from the same magical force--a force which, it just so happens, we’ve already established cannot be altered or changed or even understood in a coherent manner. Whoops, sorry. But, hey, this is why it’s good that we don’t want to reform anything even though all we talk about is how bad everything is. Biden 2024, y’all: Keep America Entropic.

If this understanding of anti-racism had been explicitly designed to worsen and perpetuate racism, it could not have done a better job. But it wasn’t--maybe in the upper corridors of the liberal political and NGO sphere some people realized this was a great way to pretend to care about racism without actually changing anything, sure, but a vast majority of the people peddling and accepting this bullshit are earnest in their desire combat racism. They just can’t conceive of doing so in a manner that hasn’t fully internalized the deranged, neurotic mysticism that’s drilled into our heads from birth in order to make us accept the brutal inhumanities of neoliberalism.

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ziamhaze · 3 years

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My Future in Fic

Yeah, so, the 100k fic that I’ve been working on for the past six months? The one that was going to be uploaded to AO3 last week? Yeah, it’s accidentally getting published...

Where do I start?

I suppose with a massive thank you to anyone who’s clicked on any of my fics over these past two years. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. I never ever thought about writing as a career. I’ve never written anything prior to my Harry Potter AU Compartment 451. I didn’t even take an English class in undergrad or grad school. I genuinely just had an idea for a fic I wanted to read and since no one had written it, I had to do so myself. Since then, I’ve written every single day for 2 years. I left my job in the entertainment industry, got accepted to one of the best creative writing programs in the world on a scholarship, and now one of my stories is being considered at Harper Collins. Yes, the Harper Collins. It’s the longest shot in the world, but for legal reasons I was not allowed to upload the fic version on any website prior to submission. Even if they don’t pick it up, I’ve been advised to continue to shop it around to agents.

What I can do, however, is share the premise.

If you’ve been following my tumblr and watching my tags - I SEE YOU ALL OUT THERE - then you’ll know that this fic was meant to have Zayn with his signature undercut hairstyle and one more little thing...

Someone sent me an ask a while back about what this fic was supposed to be about. I believe I said something about it being an adaptation fic, but not from a film/tv show/other piece of literature, from a song. This next fic was meant to be an adaptation of the song Younger by Ruel. Later on, it also took shape with the help of Remember by Liam and a few others that you can find here.

The miniature summary is as follows:

When his father suddenly passes, twenty-nine-year-old Liam Payne is brought back to the Sydney suburbs where he grew up. He doesn’t plan on seeing his childhood best friend, Zayn Malik, at the burial service. They haven’t spoken since going from brothers to strangers one fateful day fifteen years prior. But Zayn puts an end to this when he approaches Liam after the burial, offering his condolences and asking if Liam can help his archaeological research team with photographing their newest project. The unexpected closeness forces each man to wade through uneasy emotions. For Liam, a mixture of grief, lost identity, and confusion over why he’s willing to interact with the one person he swore he’d never forgive. And for Zayn, a tidal wave of anxiety that comes from finally facing a part of himself he’s always chosen to deny. When We Were Younger is a story heavily rooted in blurred identities and exploring what loss can look like in two different scenarios: death and friendship.

For obvious reasons, their names will be changed. Liam, to Hutton. Zayn, to Cairo (his ethnicity will also be changed to Egyptian). As you can see, it was meant to be my big ‘enemies to lovers’ fic. Technically, it’s ‘best friends to enemies to lovers’, but you know.

Right, so what does this mean for me going forward?

I still have so much inspiration when it comes to writing Zayn and Liam as characters. I don’t plan on putting a complete stop to writing them, but with my career taking this large of a turn, I do have to prioritise my time. That said, as of now, I can’t afford to write long-form fic any longer.

Soon, I’ll be starting a PhD program where I’ll be writing another full-length novel for mass publication. For fun, here’s a little insight on the two ideas that I’ll be pitching:

1. Underground boxer (loosely based off Liam) falls in love with arms gang leader (loosely based off Zayn). Throughout their love story, the latter has to outrun the psychological trauma his father (the leader of Zayn’s rival gang) still throws his way.

2. Cold War AU. Paris, circa 1950/51. Ambassador’s son (loosely based off Liam) befriends new student (loosely based off Zayn) at the international school. Paris is a ticking time bomb; war is about to break out at literally any second. The two clearly have feelings for each other, but can’t act on them because homosexuality in the 1950s...yikes. When war does break out, the two are separated, and as Liam’s character goes out to find Zayn’s, he learns a secret of his that changes everything.

Whichever I don’t write for the PhD will be the novel I write following it.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue to write (and edit) like crazy. Ever since I randomly wrote C451, there hasn't been a day that’s gone by where I haven't written something. It may have only been a paragraph or two, but never zero. This is how you get better. This is the equivalent of going out and shooting free throws for 30 minutes a day. You have to put in the work in order to get better. I'm very lucky that I'm incredibly self-disciplined and I've been able to crank out as many stories as I have over the past 2 years.

That said, I’ll be writing shorter little oneshots. I have several ideas that I’ve been sitting on, but haven’t ever thought to write because I HATE writing short stories. Little ideas that don't have huge plotline/climax potential, but that I want to just see on paper, I'll probably end up writing. If I had to guess, I'd say they'll come out to around 10-15k. Also, sequels? Prequels? Haha, you never know...

I’ve also got a series called “Sleep Drabbles” that are, yes, you guessed it, a series of drabbles based around one theme: sleep. I also have a few scenes that I want to write which are based on ziam’s kids, not actually ziam themselves. If there’s enough demand for that, I can upload those too, but they’re quite niche, so I don’t think the general fandom would be very interested.

As far as frequency for all of this, I have no idea. I’ve always done things at my own pace and written stories that I want to write, for myself. That won’t ever change, so I don’t want to commit to one drabble a week or one short-length fic per month. It takes me weeks (months for this last fic) to research and interview the necessary people to get character arcs correct/believable. I love that part of writing, and so if I have a little story that I want to write that may only be 10k but takes me ages to put together how I want, then so be it. I will always be around to answer asks/messages and please, continue to tag me in your writing tag posts! But please, no prompts.

So, that’s my future with fic.

Again, I cannot say thank you enough to every single one of you. Every single thing that people tag me in (@malik-payne , @zqua1d , @zentiment , @liamisthesun , @redyellowberry I’m looking at you), I appreciate and love! The recommendation lists that people have put me on, THANK YOU! It’s wild to think that I used to look to rec lists for years and now I’m on them. @ziamfanfiction THANK YOU for always having my back with exposure! @paynefulperiods , my beloved beta reader, THANK YOU for always encouraging me and putting up with shit first drafts. @march-z5 , THANK YOU for always being on call for ideas and listening to me bang my head against the wall at 4 am.

Now, might fuck around and make a fake picspam for the fic that never was...

Also, all of the behind scenes pages for each of my fics are now public, so feel free to check those out here.

I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for making this journey possible. I know people say that a lot when they gain a following of any sort, but I truly truly mean it. You have to have talent in order to be an author, but you also have to have people who want to read your stuff. Proof of concept is a real thing.

So thank you a million times over.

Speak soon my friends.

#ziamhaze #my writing #ziam #ziam fanfic #ziam fanfiction #not sure what to tag this #also gonna be reblogging for a while bc I know people are going to be curious about where the next fic is and won't have seen this

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missanthropicprinciple · 3 years

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A Tale of Elio and My Fixation with Lovable Androids

TL;DR Feel free to scroll past this unless you’re keen to read my ramblings about androids, Neoclassical art, children’s lit, and bad science fiction movies.

Since the late 1990s one of my favourite books has been A Tale of Time City (1989) by Diana Wynne Jones. It’s a mildly confusing story but engaging, with memorable characters, including the android Elio, pictured above - my own fan art from a few years ago. Studio Ghibli really needs to make this film if no one does a live-action version, seeing as they brought Jones’ novel Howl’s Moving Castle to life. Here’s a scan of my favourite edition with mesmerizing cover art by Richard Bober.

This book inspired me so much I’ve done research on it. I wasn’t in a class in grad school that allowed me to write about it so I took it on as a casual independent project in 2019. Two days after my dad died of cancer I was scheduled to present my paper on Elio from ATOTC. Needless to say I was not able to finish writing the essay. I told the department coordinator I would likely not attend but I would let him know. He was seriously surprised that I showed up. I must have looked like a ghost - wearing a nice top, skirt, tights, and short heels. I was still in total shock but I thought I might as well press on. My paper’s working tile remains as it was: Elio: Android Autonomy and the Personification of the Sun God. I presented a long bullet point list of working ideas and research done up until that point. My work is still on the broad side because it’s an intersection of young adult fiction, Neoclassic art, and android autonomy; I have some narrowing to do. Here are my main arguments thus far:

Firstly, the android character Elio’s physical characteristics and personality are inspired by Helios, the Hellenistic Greek god and personification of the sun. Apparently, Elio is a Spanish name meaning sun and also an Italian given name referring to the element helium, originally derived from the Greek name of the sun-god Helios.

Secondly, Elio and Helios share more than an etymological connection and the comparison of Elio to Helios can be articulated in two distinct ways: the aesthetic comparison, and that Elio possesses some of the qualities Helios is known for. Jones’ work repeatedly associates Elio with sunlight and golden hues, aspects which are exemplified in the 1765 Neoclassical painting Helios as the Personification of Midday by Anton Raphael Mengs. (I vaguely remember translating a couple passages from a large art book written in German when I was studying Neoclassical art.)

This work is considered an unusual depiction of Helios. Mengs uses a motif of the glowing arrow which is interpreted by François-Xavier Fabre as a symbol of the midday heat and the sun's rays which penetrate and give light to the earth. The representation of the sun in this way is considered unusual for the 18th century because it goes against Classical and Baroque iconography which portrays Helios riding a chariot. Ironically, Jones references this. Elio proclaims his fondness for films, particularly the chariot race from Ben Hur. Elio, like Mengs’ depiction of Helios, lacks a chariot but retains his beauty and powers.

As for Elio possessing some of the qualities of Helios, the god is often referred to as “all seeing” or “Zeus’s eye.” Similarly, Elio has the ability to anticipate problems and see what humans do not, but not because he’s a god, but because he’s a servant. However, this is where his self governing comes into play when he uses his observations to take action beyond any directives he has been given. His physical strength, like Helios, exceeds that of humans. Elio himself says, “my utmost is more than twice that of a born-human” (Jones, 211).

Thirdly, Elio’s self awareness allows him to use both his powers of observation and superior physical strength independent from humans. He does not always wait to be told how to use his power; he wields it. Not only does he play a part equal to that of humans in Jones’ plot, he specifically controls the fates of certain human characters. For example, he doesn’t always utilize his speed when he’s at the beck and call of his master, Sempitern. He makes choices not to fully comply with the demands made of him.

My fourth point, which I can’t quite articulate well, is that the most significant dynamic of this comparison is the body of Elio and how his physicality interacts with his autonomy. Elio acts as an individual who contributes to a wider mythology just as Helios does. Yet, while Elio is superior to humans in many ways, his quasi-humanity allows him to act in ways which align with Helios’ qualities.

For example, Elio makes personal choices and exhibits emotions not necessary for him, as an android, to function. He confesses a desire to harm another android out of annoyance where a passionate opinion would not be expected from an android. This human failing is indicative of the same autonomy which allows him to act as Helios does. Elio has been constructed as a superhuman body in terms of his abilities, however, the human qualities which contribute to his Helios-like powers undermine his intended purpose.

Ultimately, Elio ascends the usefulness of his “owned” body by acting independently from the humans who utilize him. His human qualities make him vulnerable and therefore he loses some of his godlike powers. Elio, while only an assistant to his human owners, utilizes his own physical and mental powers to maintain his autonomy. Conversely, his god-like qualities make Elio more human rather than affirming his android identity.

This is a very complex subject and I don’t really know where I’m going with it and have possibly made some suppositional errors. TL;DR: What I do know is that Elio presents a paradox: being idealized for his abilities allows him to be autonomous while being autonomous disrupts the servitude of his body.

I am in the process of determining what lens I will use to analyze Elio’s experience and functionality of being an android. I’m thinking about using Alan Turning’s 1950 work Computing Machinery and Intelligence. I’m still navigating the literary theory aspect, or indeed philosophical aspect, of this area of study.

This brings me to something I came across later that relates to Elio and ATOTC.

SPOILERS AHEAD

The closest depiction of an android that I’ve seen to Elio other than Data is from a terrible and somewhat forgotten science fiction film from 1989. “Byron”, (played by pre-Jurassic Park-fame Bob Peck) the android in the painfully awful film Slipstream comes very close to Elio in terms of tone, attitude, and characterization. Despite the embarrassingly bad script and dialogue, Peck does a bang-up job, seemingly acting in a wonderful film running parallel to the absolute trash his co-stars were apparently “acting” in. Yes, I rewatched this film just to write this analysis. (The secondhand embarrassment is off the charts and I had it playing at a low volume most of the time Byron was not on the screen.)

When you first see Byron he’s acting out autonomy but you’re not aware he’s an android. The audience is told he’s an escaped fugitive, a murderer, and that’s all we know for over half the film. Yet there are several clues. When you first see him he’s running over rugged terrain in a suit which was kind of a big hint but nothing makes sense in this film so I just thought that it was a weird costume choice. Then he’s literally shot with a grappling hook. He doesn’t seem to be in pain even though he’s shocked by it, and then is pulled down by a bounty hunter named Tasker (Mark Hamill) and hits the ground from a great height and doesn’t die. He just quotes what I think is John Gillespie Magee, Jr.’s "High Flight”: “I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth….and touched the face of God.” Next time you see him, he’s in handcuffs, looking super depressed, and apparently not bleeding out from the now absent grapple hook that’s gone through his forearm.

He eventually quotes Lord Byron to cryptically indicate his name which is lost on Bill Paxton’s character, Matt. “Byron” essentially means cowshed. It’s ironic because Byron the android is in many ways a receptacle of knowledge. Matt even says sarcastically, “Well aren’t you a walking storeroom of information,” and Byron responds cheerfully, “Yes.”

Byron breaks out of his handcuffs saying they’d “become rather superfluous.” You think he’s just showing off but once you know he’s an android you know he’s just honest all the time. He then heals a blind child and paraphrases Psalm 127:3. Matt says, “I didn’t know you were a healer.” Apparently Byron can perform cataract surgery in less than five minutes. Along their journey together (Bill is set on collecting the bounty on Byron’s head before Tasker can catch up) they camp out. Byron sleeps with his eyes open. (Even if he is an android wouldn’t his eyes need to be “cleaned” in the same way humans need to close our eyes and blink?) Matt wakes up to find Byron seemingly strangling him. “I was feeling your carotid pulse,” he explains. “I was just checking for arrhythmia and episodes of ventricular tachycardia.” At this point you realize he’s not so much a spiritual healer as a doctor who philosophizes a lot.

Byron’s miraculous behavior and pontificating is called into question by a nomadic spiritual community which has been torn apart by an attack on their village. As he lays dying, Ben Kingsley’s character calls Byron a “false prophet” but his faith in this stranger is somewhat restored when he says, “all that will be left of me is bits of gold in the sand. You have a soul, do not abandon it in death.”

Another character says, “The stranger is no mortal man.” Therefore it is clear that Byron likely isn’t human. We don’t find out he’s an android until 46 minutes into the film. Once that’s cleared up, other concepts arise in the script. While not well executed, they are really interesting; emotion both positive and negative, free will, perfection, A.I. slavery, and murder are all addressed throughout the second half of the film. Byron says he doesn’t understand “hate” in context of his “master” to whom he was nurse, brother, father, mentor, and friend, but he admits he was more of a slave than anything else.

The character Ariel takes an interest in him for a variety of reasons, especially romantically. In one very evocative moment we see Byron in a museum exhibit, a false garden of Eden, full of fake vegetation and taxidermies, full body mounts. So we’ve got an android having an Adam experience. Whether or not he experiences “original sin” with Ariel or if he’s “fully functional” is never acknowledged. Although one woman says, “Amanda slept with a robot?!” (who the f**k is Amanda?!) and a man says to another sitting next to him, “I hear they’re rather mechanical in the saddle.”

Byron is less concerned with consummation and more excited about love, sleep, and dreaming. When he is with Ariel he doesn’t quite know how to act in terms of sexual play and then apologizes: “I’m not accustomed to being loved.” We see him closing his eyes when he’s cuddled up with Ariel; the next day he is certainly very pleased that he fell asleep with his eyes closed and had a dream.

In terms of his servitude and autonomy they did not spend an adequate portion of the exposition on it. Matt has a change of heart and says instead of collecting the bounty, he’ll set him free as it’s briefly revealed that Byron killed his “master” upon the man’s request. Naturally, this brings up a lot of confusing feelings for Byron. “Is this what it’s like to be human? I don’t think I’m up to it,” he says. “Can I be trusted with human feelings?” And in a way he cannot. Ariel is brutally shot by Tasker.

Byron is angered over Ariel’s death and follows the bounty hunter to his ship. Instead of taking him in to collect a reward, Tasker tries to run him down with the glider plane. Byron manages to get himself caught in the engine and starts to strangle his assailant. Tasker quotes “touched the face of god” which brings Byron to his senses and he stops killing Luke Skywalker Tasker and tries to save the plane. It looks like he’s going to hot-wire it but then uses the wires like reins (chariot imagery???). They crash into the side of a mountain slope. Tasker dies but Byron survives. Apparently he’s basically indestructible and somewhat godlike. “I’m too dangerous to be human,” Byron tells Matt. In the end, he goes off in search of the place he’d been dreaming about.

Although in terms of physical appearance the two androids are vastly different, they have so much in common. Here are some basic concepts.

Character: Both are stoic, formal, intelligent, honest

Indestructible: Byron is injured with a grappling hook, takes a major fall of about 20 or 30 feet without a scratch: he is somewhat godlike or slave-like, meant to withstand destruction and pain. Elio is less indestructible but easily repaired.

Healer: Byron has the skills to heal people with basic surgery. Elio doesn’t take his own injuries seriously and experiences pain for the first time (Jones, 218-9).

Both think they deserve to be punished: Elio states this quite clearly (Jones, 276) and Byron says the same thing about himself with resigned passivity.

Complex relationship with “human emotions”: Both come to terms with violence, anger, and love.

Autonomy: At the end of the film Byron goes off on his own to look for a promised land. Elio decides his own fate by deciding to accompany the children of the story, stating that Vivian is a “particular favorite” of his (278).

Dreaming and stories: Byron is searching for a place, “where I think I belong,” he says, which is a place he often thinks and dreams about. Dreaming is considered to be a human attribute, a non-essential bi-product to consciousness. Elio enjoys stories and old films (Jones, 180), similarly “human” in nature.

(Peck, seen here waiting for Bill Paxton to learn how to act. Sorry, I’m salty.)

Disclaimer: This is a work in progress! This project is an intersection of niche subjects that interest no one but myself.

Anyway, my point is (yes, I did have a point...or rather several) was that if anyone should adapt A Tale of Time City, Byron from Slipstream is the best example of how Elio should be portrayed in terms of characterization. I feel that Slipstream should have been centered around Byron. The film was kind of like, just about the “we’re both fighting over the bounty of this fugitive” sorta thing. It would have made more sense to focus on Byron as he is arguably the most interesting character and represents many of the conflicts within the story. I would like to combine my research on ATOTC and Slipstream one day. In any case, this is a good start.

Works Cited (WIP)

Jones, Diana W. A Tale of Time City: Knopf, 1987. Print. Perkowitz, Sidney. Digital People: From Bionic Humans to Androids. Washington, D.C: Joseph Henry Press, 2004. Print.

Roettgen, Steffi, and Anton R. Mengs. Anton Raphael Mengs: 1728-1779 Part 2. München: Hirmer, 1999. Print.

Turing, A. M. “Computing Machinery and Intelligence.” Mind, vol. 59, no. 236, 1950, pp. 433–460. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/2251299. Wilson, Eric. The Melancholy Android: On the Psychology of Sacred Machines. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006. Print

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apparitionism · 3 years

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Why 3

Nearer and nearer this story creeps to its conclusion, and thus to that not-so-distant future day when @mysensitiveside will have received a complete present! Previously, in part 1 of this AU, a Myka Bering adopted a dog. That dog, unfortunately or fortunately, in fact already belonged to a Helena Wells. Myka and Helena, initially strangers to each other, have been walking the dog together, growing intermittently closer in the process, and they are at last, following the events of part 2, about to take a step toward something beyond the pedestrian. Let’s see how that goes.

Why 3

Later, in the parking lot, “You’re sure this is okay?” Myka asked as they began exchanging tangible, traceable information: numbers, addresses. They lived closer to each other than Myka had imagined, which made what Sam had done seem even more brazen... even more terrible. “I don’t want to make you feel like you—”

Helena looked up from her phone. “What exactly will convince you?”

“Convince me of what?” A stupid question; she knew it the minute she said the words.

But Helena again took pity on her. She put her phone in her pocket, and she moved close to Myka, then closer. “I’m not confused,” she said. Their coats were touching. “Are you?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

In response to that, Helena just looked. Did she blink? She leaned up still closer, a delicate, careful movement of body, accompanied by a turn of her head not quite against the collar of Myka’s coat.

Not a kiss, but the potential shiver of one... a “lean down and you’ll find out” feeling...

Myka was still high on the first kiss, not quite ready to dilute it with a second. “Tuesday?” she asked, and “Tuesday,” Helena affirmed, remaining near.

“I like this,” Myka said, and it might have been a warning—to herself and to Helena.

“I’m glad,” Helena said, a comfort against the caution.

I will see them three days from now, Myka told herself as Helena drove away, her dog buckled safely into his harness in the back seat. Myka had a similar harness, limp and empty, in the back seat of her own car.

I know what it’s like to see him without a week having passed. I have no idea what it’s like to see her.

How long could three days feel?

Long enough to make her tell herself, on Sunday, “You should cancel.” Because she hadn’t slept. Instead she spent open-eyed hours retreading her limited romantic past: college boyfriend, who lasted all of one semester; grad school girlfriend, who lasted longer, but only because they rarely saw each other, and when they did, they were too exhausted from long, long lab days and nights to do much of anything but share a cheap meal and go to bed. Nevertheless their breakup blindsided Myka, who expected reasons but received nothing more from her suddenly ex-girlfriend than “I was into it; now I’m not.”

Since then, the occasional night with another lonely chemist at a conference had been the extent of it. That was what Myka figured she would always be most comfortable with: no entanglements, no consequences. No nerve-wracking anticipations.

Tuesday was consequential, with accompanying nerve-wracking anticipation. Hence, “You should cancel.”

Entanglements. Leuko had been one, but he at least had been very clear. Food, walks, baths. Obviously Myka’s emotions had been involved, but it wasn’t as if Leuko was going to do anything to blindside her.

Except bark at someone.

In his defense, she conceded, he had a pretty compelling reason.

So what about cancelling? Myka knew why she wanted to. Why didn’t she want to?

I like walking with her in the park.

Everything she says about herself makes me want to know more.

She is physically more attractive than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life.

Kissing her one time made me wish I had keys to a castle, so I could give them to her.

On a parallel track, there was Leuko. Monty. The idea of interacting with him in his real home felt wrong—but the kind of wrong that could one day become right. Like seeing his leash in Helena’s hand.

Would I have been willing to keep walking in the park if she hadn’t been the one walking him?

Impossible to know. Traitorous to consider an answer of no.

And would I have felt that I could walk in a park with her in the absence of him?

Also impossible to know. Not traitorous to consider an answer of no, but surely cowardly.

So in the interest of at least a facsimile of courage, Myka spent some time pondering yet another question: What do you wear to watch a dog show with your ex-dog and his person, who might be your... well, who could say? Certainly not Myka. She landed on “clothes.” Just wear clothes. Because her ex-dog wouldn’t care, and if his person did—well, that would tell her something, wouldn’t it?

Knocking on a door on Tuesday night, clothed in clothes, she was a mixture of trepidation and, yes, hope.

“Come in!” Helena called, so Myka did. To her surprise, she was received into the house by Montgomery Clift. She’d found, over her days of thinking, that it was easier to call him that in her head; its length and formality kept her from slipping and thinking “Leuko.” Mr. Clift then escorted her down a hallway and into a large living space. “Are you a butler now?” she asked him.

He blinked. It meant either “Of course not” or “I am the most perfect butler who ever buttled,” and Myka said, “You’re right,” in answer to both.

Helena appeared a second later, and Myka held out the gifts she’d brought: wine in one hand, a paper bag in the other. They had cost her far less pondering-time than the clothes had, though she hadn’t realized that at the time, and that probably meant something, though Myka could not think it through now, not with Helena standing right there in front of her. Myka could barely think at all. Instead, she tried to explain: “I thought at first I should bring you something related to writing—a pretty pen?—but then I figured a writer wouldn’t be any less picky about equipment than a chemist, and I’d hate it if some well-meaning person gave me for example a pipettor I’d never use. Nobody would do that, because they’re insanely expensive, but that’s why you’re getting a boring bottle of wine. I brought this”—she extended the bag—“for Monty.”

Helena had gazed at her throughout that recitation, and Myka had in turn felt herself prolonging it, to keep those attentive eyes on her. Now Helena said, “You’ve gifted him...” She took the bag, looked in it. “Several corn tortillas?”

“Fresh ones. He likes them.”

“I didn’t know it.”

Which, Myka had to acknowledge, made her happy. But it was a selfish happiness, so she said, “I didn’t intend to know something you don’t. It was an accident: he was hungry, and that was what I had. And then when I bought fresh, they turned out to be his favorite.”

Helena said, to Montgomery Clift, “More favorite than cheese?”

He failed to respond, most likely due to his laser focus on the now-open tortilla bag. Myka offered, “Probably depends on the cheese.”

“It’s true he is discerning.” Helena paused. “So am I.”

Myka’s nerves, which had ebbed, returned—not fully, but as a vague itch of discomfort. “You don’t need to...” she started.

“What don’t I need to?”

“Try? Like that. Like any way at all.” For it was when Helena tried—as she had in the park, with her “so are you” about prettiness—that Myka lost her bearings.

“I don’t know where you are,” Helena said. Such a reasonable justification: of course she would try, if she wanted to move Myka to some particular place, some place she felt Myka was not.

“Here,” Myka said, but it was a yearn—to get closer to where Helena might have imagined she, and they, could be—rather than the truth. She needed to tell the truth, though: “Or at least I’m trying to be.”

“You don’t need to try either,” Helena said, her tone a balm. “Let’s start by getting to know each other better. I hope that’s what this evening is for.”

“I hope too.” Myka had never said anything more true. “I don’t like that I know your dog better than I know you. I regret it.” But, “Sorry,” she said to the soft butler-or-not who looked up at her, blinking wounded eyes. Or more likely, he was blinking tortilla-wanting eyes.

“We need to remedy that. Or rather, I want to remedy that, and I think you do as well. As I said, I’m not confused.”

“As I said, I am.” Important to be clear about that.

“Tell me why.”

Oh, the invitation. How could she respond? Weighing ideas of entanglements, consequences, anticipations...

Helena, blessedly, went on, “Because I feel that if I hadn’t told you I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be.”

That was indeed the entirety of it, so... “I like that you’re smart,” Myka said. “I like it so much.”

“I like that you are as well, chemist. Sit down. I have food to cook. On that topic, I regret I didn’t ask about allergies, so tell me now. I don’t want to inadvertently attempt to murder you.”

“You can’t. I’m basically insensitive.”

“Ridiculous. Monty knows better, and so do I.”

She delivered that perfectly, not trying, but rather as if she had a doctorate in quashing self-deprecation, and it made Myka smile. “If I were allergic to anything, leukotrienes would be involved,” she said.

“Do you want to explain them to me now?” Helena asked.

It was even more perfect, as an invitation, but Myka turned it down: “You’re busy. Food to cook. Can I help?”

“Sit. You look tired. Is that an awful thing to say? I don’t mean that you look in any way bad. You’ve most likely had a long day.” She stopped, her expression devolving into a sheepish wince. “I’m digging a hole.”

“It’s okay,” Myka said to banish that wince, charming as it was. “You’re right about the day.”

She hadn’t improved much on her Saturday sleep in the subsequent nights, but at least last night had been anticipatory rather than self-castigating. During the day, her concentration at work had been... not ideal. She broke some glass—dropped from nervous fingers—and Abigail asked her if she was intending to go on a rampage. She’d had to redo more than one assay. It really was a miracle she’d been able to get here on time.

So she sat, as instructed, and she found herself pondering various miracles: Helena was cooking food, and Myka, on the sofa, had Leuko—no, Montgomery Clift—beside her, as he used to be, and she wished she were a poet, so as to put into words what suffused her heart. “Does he sit like this with you?” she felt compelled to ask.

“He does,” Helena said. Weeks ago, Myka would have felt that as a knife. Now it was confirmation of all-encompassing comfort. “With me,” Helena went on, “and now with you. I’ve never seen him do so with anyone else.”

“Have you, though?” Myka asked him.

Of course he blinked those dark, beautiful, secret eyes. “Did she teach you to do that?” Myka asked him, and she dared a glance at Helena.

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” Helena said. “All I personally taught him was that he should shake hands. And clearly that is not what is occurring.”

“Shake?” Myka suggested to him.

Montgomery Clift sat up immediately and held out his right front paw.

“Impressive,” Myka told him—told Helena—after a convivial shake had occurred. In all her time with him, she hadn’t thought to see whether he would do that. She hadn’t thought about training at all. He was so quiet and sweet. What else would she have wanted him to do? How often would they really have needed to shake hands? “How often?” she asked, softly, and she took his blink to mean “Not very.”

Helena said from the kitchen, “It’s starting in not very long, and I’d like to let Monty out. Will you watch him in the yard?”

“You’re going to watch me watch him, aren’t you?

Helena smiled. “Honestly, yes. But not for the reason you fear.”

“I’m not sure you have a true handle on the extent of my fears.”

“Educate me.”

“What do you write about? Or I guess I mean, what did you write about?” Myka asked. The question had come to her that instant, fully formed—not a fear, not as such, but rather a gray gap in her knowledge.

“Hm,” Helena said. “Let’s talk about that when you come back indoors.”

Montgomery Clift enjoyed his time in the yard. “Sorry we can’t walk,” she told him, but he was cavorting, sniffing, investigating, and didn’t seem to care. It made her sad that she’d had no space for him to do that, untethered.

They came back indoors, so: “So, writing,” Myka said. “I didn’t Google you. So I don’t know.”

“That is both slightly insulting and exceedingly considerate.”

Myka, flustered, said, “Point being I don’t know.”

“It begins with my having been a rather unusual sort of child.”

“That isn’t hard to believe,” Myka said, then cringed. “That’s probably also slightly insulting.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s exceedingly complimentary. Don’t we all want to be unusual? I do now, and did then... I would fix my attention on a thing that struck me as interesting, and I would not rest until I became expert in it. The smaller and stranger the better. An arcane slice of history, some esoteric gadgetry, a figure of obscure influence. As it happened, I could write about such things in a readable way.”

“Showing off what an expert you’d become?” Myka asked. She hoped that wasn’t insulting at all.

Helena smiled in affirmation. “It began like that, yes. One tried to become less insufferable when it was for wider publication. In any case, I sought such topics out for years—the rarities, the curiosities. I made a reasonable amount of money doing so, which is better than many can say.”

“So why stop?”

“I had it in my head to write a novel. Something with that same depth, but also breadth.”

“Do you still have it in your head?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Mainly in my head. Not on paper.”

“Should I not ask why?”

“Monty’s disappearance... derailed me.”

“Are you un-derailed now?”

“Not precisely.”

“Should I not ask why?”

“I’ve found myself distracted.”

“Should I not ask why?”

“You should know why.”

Was that trying again? It felt softer, not quite as discomfiting. “When does this dog show start, anyway?” Myka said.

“Very soon,” Helena said, and the way she spoke those very simple words reminded Myka, viscerally, of why she wanted to be here—Helena’s eyes were bright, her voice low but engaged. An edge of something like hunger crept around the periphery of Myka’s awareness.

The show itself was astounding. Myka had known she had very little knowledge of dogs as animals, certainly prior to her brief ownership experience. But she had not known that she had not known how vast the world of dogs, as rankable, judgeable animals, really was. An entire additional universe was folded into the one Myka thought she knew. The idea of breeds, okay, she got that. But groups? Handlers? Stacking?

“Can he do that?” Myka asked, about the stacking, that stance seemingly required for the judging of... dogness?

“Oh, watch. Monty, sit,” Helena said to the dog who was curled between them. She raised her hand as she said it, and just like that, up he sat. She pulled her hand forward then and said, “Stand.” He stood, his entire self on display, just like the dogs on the television. After a second, Helena said, “I should have cheese in my hand. Or one of your tortillas. He hates when there’s no reward. You see how the handlers hold the treats in their mouths, when they’re in the ring. Often they use liver.”

“In their mouths...” Myka shuddered.

Helena offered a sympathetic echo of the movement. “It’s apparently quite compelling as an incentive, and they can’t hold the brush or the lead that way. But it’s certainly among the many reasons I myself wouldn’t have been able to show him.”

“I don’t understand why being pretty doesn’t count,” Myka said.

“Shapes and sizes matter more than anything, and he’s slightly too small for a male.” Montgomery Clift turned away from her, seemingly intentionally. Helena laughed and told him, “You’re exquisite and you know it.”

“Why did you even want a Mittelspitz anyway?” Myka asked. “No offense, Montgomery Clift.” After trying it out loud, she realized it didn’t work nearly as well that way as it did in her head. “Monty,” she amended, and now he reoriented himself toward Myka, as if he were pleased. She was probably attributing far too much intentionality to him.

Helena said, “I didn’t want one.” Did Montgomery Clift turn even further toward Myka? “As I told you, there was a novel in my head, but I was too busy investigating those curiosities. Then I began to imagine that I might find time for it if I settled into a more routine everyday life.”

“So you got a dog?” Myka asked, recalling her own Leuko-routines.

“Accidentally. While looking into teaching positions, I was finishing up one of my last pieces, on the insular, sectarian cultures around rare breeds of dog. I met Monty’s breeder, and she happened to note that having a dog would certainly create routines... I scoffed, but then I met Monty himself, as a wee puppy, and there was no longer any question.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

Helena showed Myka several photos of that wee puppy.

“Oh my god,” Myka said. It was the only logical response.

“He didn’t seem real,” Helena affirmed.

And yet there the real Montgomery Clift was, clearly the grown-up version of those photos, blinking back and forth at both of them. A curiosity.

“You’re coming back tomorrow night?” Helena asked later, as Myka prepared to leave.

What a confounding question. “I... am I?” Myka staggered out.

“The show. It’s two nights. I thought you knew.”

That had probably been conveyed at some point, but Myka hadn’t paid sufficient attention. She had lost her purchase on the unfamiliar new dog-parade production-number world unfurling itself for her perusal on the television, as she was far more interested in the equally new world composed of one disconcerting woman and one unreal dog. What did it say that the latter outranked the former?

Right... as if that were a mystery. “I think if this evening has demonstrated anything, it’s that I know absolutely nothing,” she lied.

“Not nothing,” Helena said, mindreading. Then she read some more: “Surely you know that I want to kiss you goodnight.”

“I want to know it,” Myka told her.

“Then do.” She moved close to Myka, a sidle not dissimilar to her move in the parking lot, and this time Myka did lean down, did find out. It was not confusing at all, but rather like good clear water, bracing and inundating, roaring, silent, everything. If this was the first night, what would the second entail?

The next day in the lab, Myka allowed to Abigail, “Maybe she’s my girlfriend.” Tempting fate, probably, but fate was certainly doing some tempting of its own...

Abigail crossed her arms. Never a good sign. “Why do you always have to lie first?”

“Why... what?”

“You lie about having a dog,” Abigail said. “You lie about having a girlfriend. What’s next? Your side job for the CIA?”

“Very funny.”

“If you deny it, I’ll know it’s true.”

“Fine. My side job is CIA. What do you know about dog shows?”

“Are you going undercover at one?” Abigail countered.

“My maybe girlfriend knows a lot about them.”

“Then ask her, not me. People like to talk about what they know a lot about. Except you, but you’re weird like that.”

Valid advice, and an accurate description. Myka thanked Abigail for them both.

“And you’d lie anyway,” Abigail continued.

Myka didn’t thank her for that.

As she prepared to leave for Helena’s that evening, she found herself thinking on clarity. That she might at last have some.

Her phone buzzed—a text. She never got texts.

The text was from Helena.

It said: Don’t come.

TBC

P.S. Only a bit left to go, I swear. Poor Myka’s heart can’t take much more, anyway, and my goal in life, or rather in narrative, really isn’t to make her suffer.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Why #part 3 #B&W Holiday Gift Exchange #bering and wells gift exchange #bering and wells exchange #mysensitiveside

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schnoogles · 3 years

Note

For the fluffy holiday fic prompts: Jonsa and #3, secret Santa! 🎁🎅

omg YAY!! thanks so much for the prompt love💕💕

so this kind of got away from me here LMAO but i hope you like it!!

send me a prompt!

“Come on, Jon! Just pull a name out!”

Jon Snow sighed at his friend. The Starks always played Secret Santa every Christmas. And unlike Theon, Jon normally doesn’t stay with them during the holidays, he goes back home to his mother’s. So he’s never played with them before.

Unfortunately, with his starting grad school this year, Jon couldn’t afford the flight home to his mother’s, and Lyanna couldn’t afford the flight to Winterfell. And since he already spends most other holidays and breaks with them, this year, he finally accepted the Starks’ invitation to spend Christmas there.

“Yeah, Jon. You have to, I’ve already put your name in,” Robb’s younger sister, Arya, said smugly, “If you don’t pull a name, it sucks for whoever’s left in the hat.”

Sansa, Robb’s other sister, wiggled the Santa hat with the last slip of paper in front of Jon’s face. She smiled at him. “Give in, Jon. You know you want to.”

“Whoever has my name could always draw again?” he suggested hopefully.

“Nonsense,” Catelyn said, “Jon, you’ve practically been family since Robb brought you home for freshman spring break. Don’t feel awkward about this, it’s all in good fun.”

Other than his own mother, Catelyn Stark was probably the best and kindest mother in the world. Jon couldn’t say no to her.

Jon wished he said no to Catelyn. Of all the names he could have picked. Of all the names! He had to pull Sansa’s. And it wasn’t like there was anything wrong with Sansa. Quite the opposite in fact. She was great. Perfect, actually. And that was the problem. Sansa Stark was perfect and had everything. What could Jon “poor undergrad” Snow possibly get her that she’ll like?

Sansa feels stupid. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out what to get Jon for Christmas. Of course with her shit luck, she’d pull the name of the one person who she’s most nervous about pleasing. But it’s fine. It’s fine. She can just ask Theon to switch with her. He’ll do it, no problem. Besides, he owes her.

“Bro, just get her some jewelry or something. Sansa likes pretty things.”

Jon rubbed his temples. Robb is absolutely no help. But Jon should’ve expected that. “I can’t just get her jewelry, Robb. I don’t think she even wears any. This has to be a good gift!”

“Why?” asked Robb, with a mouthful of butter toffee pretzels.

Before Jon could even think of an answer, a snort came from the hallway. When Jon and Robb looked, they saw a smirking Arya leaning on the doorframe.

“You’re really asking why?” Arya rolled her eyes and then laughed at her brother. “Wow you’re stupid.” She walked away and left an offended Robb and a stressed Jon.

He groaned. “What do you even get someone who already has everything she could possibly want?”

Sansa crossed her arms as she glared at Theon. He hadn’t stopped laughing. “Are you done yet?”

“Sorry, babe. Dunno how to help you here,” he chuckled.

“You could switch with me!”

“Nah, I like who I have.”

“You owe me!”

Theon stopped laughing. “Wh- for what?”

“For saving your ass when-”

“Nuh-uh. Nope!” Theon wagged his finger at her. “You don’t get to keep using that one. I’m sorry we dated the same asshole, but talking the cop out of arresting me for keying that car was forever ago!”

Sansa huffed. “Fine. But can you at least help me? I have no idea what Jon likes! He’s such a… minimalist. What do you get someone who doesn’t want anything?”

“Wow you’re really desperate aren’t you?” Theon looked at her sadly before giving her the biggest shit eating grin. “I mean. Knowing Jon, there’s only one thing he’d like to unwrap for Christmas. You know, tall, red hair, blue eyes, goes by the name Sansa-”

“Theon!”

He laughed. “What? You like him, Sans! Just make your move!”

She sighed. “Please be serious about this?”

“Alright, alright.” Theon thought for a bit. “I heard Tiles are all the rage now. You can get him that?”

“What’s are Tiles?”

“It’s like… like Find My iPhone, but like ‘Find My Whatever it’s Attached To’ instead.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah.” Sansa nodded. “Jon’s pretty forgetful, that should be good, right?”

“Yeah! Like they’re very handy. He can attach it to like -uh- his backpack? Uh… clothes- no. Uh.. a baby…”

Sansa looked at him like he was stupid. Which, fair.

“Oh! Oh, keys! Keys are what people usually attach them to.”

Maybe asking Theon for help was a bad move. Sansa doesn’t understand how she became such close friends with this idiot.

“Oh!”

Jon jumped and turned around. “Sansa? What are you doing up?”

She smiled wryly at him. “I could say the same thing about you.” When he did nothing but smile abashedly at her, she continued into the kitchen and got a mug out of the cupboard. “So,” Sansa said, after realizing Jon wasn’t going to say anything, “What’s someone like you doing up way past his bedtime?” As she continued on making her tea, she looked up to Jon, waiting for an answer.

Jon blinked at her. “Uh…”

Sansa chuckled. “That bad?” She finished making her drink and leaned on the counter, lightly blowing on the cup. “Well, I’m up because I’m a light sleeper. Especially when I’m stressed. Loud noises tend to wake me up.”

Jon suddenly felt incredibly guilty. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize I was being loud-”

“No no,” Sansa cut him off. “Sorry, that was poorly worded. Lady got up and had a late night snack.”

“Ah.” Jon nodded in understanding and took a sip from his own mug. Hmm, she’s a light sleeper. Maybe I can get her a-

“Yeah, and my white noise machine doesn’t help much either.”

Nope. Jon sighed. What could he get for her? He cleared his throat. “So, what’s got you so stressed.?”

Sansa looked down at her mug. “A mix of a lot of things actually. This time of year always makes me feel a little melancholy.”

Jon scrunched his eyebrows.

“The ghosts of boyfriends past,” she explained.

Right. Jon’s known her for four years and she’s had a total of three boyfriends. Each one worse than the last in his humble opinion. And that had nothing to do with his crush on her, no sir.

“Yeah, Theon mentioned one earlier and it just got me thinking, you know?” Jon nodded at her to continue. “I’ve always loved the idea of some pretty prince charming sweeping me off my feet and showering me with gifts. Guess I realized, I don’t want any of that. Gifts are meaningless if there’s no thought or love behind them, you know?” She looked down embarrassedly, suddenly mortified that she just shared so much with him.

Jon gave her an out. “I still can’t believe you and Theon dated the same person.”

Sansa snorted. “Theon will date anything with pretty hair and a heartbeat.”

Jon cracked a smile. “Not ugly hair and a heartbeat?”

“Oh, gods no. He’s shallow like that.”

They both giggled.

“So…?” Sansa raised an eyebrow at him.

Oh, right. My turn. Jon cleared his throat. “Oh, um, yeah. Stress keeping me up too.” And then Jon suddenly had a thought. Is it considered cheating though? Oh well. “I have absolutely no idea what to get my Secret Santa if I’m honest. You -uh- got any ideas on what you’re getting yours?” He took a discreet sip from his mug.

Nope. “Yeah, I have an idea, I think,” she replied vaguely. “Something meaningful, you know? Can’t tell you though, sorry! It’s Secret Santa. But anyways, Jon, don’t sweat about the gift! This is supposed to be fun! Besides, you know us, we don’t need any fancy schmancy gifts.” How about you take your own advice, Sansa. “Now, that can’t be all you’re stressed about.”

Jon laughed in his drink. “Always so perceptive. No, you’re right. I mean- I am stressed about the gift, but I’m also just… I can’t help but think about my Mom, you know? Sure she has friends back home that she could spend Christmas with, but I can’t help but feel guilty for being here, while she’s at home alone right now. And I just really miss her.” He shrugged and took another sip of his drink. “So, whatcha got there? What kind of tea is it?”

“Oh, er, it’s chamomile. It helps me sleep.”

“That sounds nice. Maybe I should try that and see if it’ll help me sleep too.”

Yes! Maybe I can get him a pack of-

“Too bad I’m more of a hot water type of guy.” He smiled at her and took a sip from his mug. “Never really found the need to drink much of anything else at home.”

A fucking minimalist.

“So,” Arya said, “You got anything yet?”

“Nope,” came a muffled reply from Jon.

“Sucks.” He groaned in his hands and Arya felt pity. “Tell you what, I’ll let you in on a big Sansa secret.”

Jon perked up at that. “What?”

“She doesn’t give two fucks about gifts.”

“That… that doesn’t help, Arya.”

“No, I’m serious. Look,” she said forcefully, “Sansa’s had friends and boyfriends who’d always give her the most lovely and expensive gifts, right?”

“... Still not helping.”

Arya sighed. “What I’m trying to say is those boyfriends? Look around Jon, are they in her life anymore?”

It hit her like a shit ton of bricks. Well, actually. It was more of a passing thought as she was watching her third Christmas movie of the day.

So, with her parents’ permission and Theon’s help, she got to work.

Arya groaned. “You know, it’s called ‘1 hour photo.’ Meaning that the photos won’t be ready for one hour.”

“I’m sorry! I’m just anxious and I wanna get started as soon as possible.”

She rolled her eyes at Jon. He enlisted her help to buy all the things he needed for Sansa’s gift. And to provide some photos.

It was Christmas Day. It was Christmas Day and Jon found he was really missing his mother. He tried calling earlier, but she didn’t answer. She was either still sleeping in, as that was their usual routine, or she was at a friend’s. He sighed. He’ll try calling her again later on in the day.

Jon got up and joined the rest of the house downstairs.

It was Christmas Day. It was Christmas Day and Sansa was nowhere to be found. She told everyone they could get started on gifts without her if they wanted to, but of course no one was going to do that. So they planned on opening gifts after breakfast instead.

They were all in the kitchen eating when they heard the front door open and close.

“Sorry I’m late! I’ll join you guys in just a bit!” She shouted from the other room.

Jon eagerly stood up, intent on helping her with whatever last minute thing that she must’ve gone out to buy. But before he could even move, Theon promptly pushed him back down in his seat.

“Where ya going, buddy?”

“Just gonna see if Sansa needs any help.”

“No worries, I got it.” He proceeded to pour Jon a cup of orange juice. Jon confusedly thanked him and raised the glass to drink it. When he gave Theon a questioning look, Theon explained. “To help quench that thirst of yours.” Arya and Bran snorted into their food while Jon choked on his drink. Robb did neither of those things.

“Wow, you’re such a good friend, Theon!”

“Just getting into that Christmas spirit, Robb.”

He walked smugly out of the room to see whatever it was that Sansa had just gone out for. When Jon finally calmed down, he looked up to see Ned and Catelyn Stark staring right back at him. Both had their eyebrows up in amusement. Oh gods. I can never come back here again.

A few minutes later, Sansa and Theon returned. Jon noted there was nothing in either of their hands. He wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Didn’t get what you were looking for?” Bran asked.

“Nope,” Sansa replied nonchalantly, “Must be what I get for trying to go to the store on Christmas Day.”

“So you’re telling me we could’ve opened presents by now?” Rickon was shaking his head at his big sister. Hey may be well into his teens, but Rickon was still excited for Christmas gifts.

“Sorry! Tell you what, is everyone done eating? Let’s get to presents right now!”

Catelyn made a move to start clearing the table, but Sansa waved her off. “I’ll do it after we open presents Mom. Don’t worry about it!”

Everyone grabbed whichever gift had their name on it. To keep things anonymous, every gift was wrapped in the same paper and the names were stuck on with pre-printed stickers. Ned passed out the gifts to be opened one by one. When Sansa opened her gift she let out a soft gasp.

“Oh,” she whispered softly, “This is perfect.” She began flipping over each page of the homemade scrapbook. They were filled with photos from the last few years. A lot of the pictures were ones she didn’t even know were taken of her and her family. Family dinners, camping trips, random moments on campus with her friends and family. It was filled with small moments that she forgot had happened. There was even a wristband from a concert Robb and Jon and Theon had taken her to.

“What is it darling?” Her mother asked.

Sansa closed the book and held it close to her chest. “It’s a scrapbook. Filled with a lot of really good memories.” She smiled. She wondered who got her such a thoughtful gift. Before she could try to figure out who it was, Rickon interrupted her.

“Wait, where’s Jon’s gift?” He and Ned looked around the tree to see if they had missed one.

“Oh, no it’s okay!” Jon started waving his hands. “I don’t need a gift!” He was actually a bit relieved. He was awkward when it came to accepting gifts.

“Oh no!” Theon declared very loudly in a strange, overly dramatic voice. “Jon doesn’t have a gift? That’s awful!” At some point during that announcement, he had slowly tilted his head towards the stairs.

Sansa slapped her forehead in disdain. Theon doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body.

“Wait yeah, that’s not right,” Robb agreed. “Jon’s Secret Santa: what the heck?”

“No, I’m good!” Jon argued. “I don’t need a gift.”

“That’s a shame. Should I just hop on a flight and head home then?”

Jon froze when he heard the voice behind him. His jaw slowly dropped and he turned around.

The woman before him tilted her head and smiled. “Hi baby.”

“Mom?”

“Merry Christmas!” Lyanna laughed as her son rushed to hug her.

“What are you doing here?! How’d you get here? Is this why you didn’t answer your phone earlier? Oh my gods!”

Sansa smiled softly at Jon. She figured it out. The one thing he probably wanted most this year was to be with his mother.

“You’ve got some wonderful friends here, Jon.” Lyanna turned around and gestured to Sansa. “This lovely young woman here booked me a flight and picked me up from the airport this morning. If she’s not your girlfriend, then you better get to it!”

“Mom!”

Lyanna ignored her son then looked at the rest of the Starks and laughed. “You people really go all out for Secret Santa gifts don’t you?”

After the initial embarrassment, Jon looked at Sansa with a mixture of disbelief and awe. And she smiled sheepishly back at him.

“Surprise?”

Jon shook his head and chuckled. “I don’t know what’s more unbelievable. You booking a last minute flight for my mother, or the fact that we both pulled each other’s name for Secret Santa.”

Sansa’s eyebrows rose. “You made this for me?” She asked softly.

It was Jon’s turn to look sheepish. He scratched the back of his head, suddenly feeling bashful. “Uh… yeah. I couldn’t think of what to get you. And then you said how you think gifts are meaningless if there’s no thought for the person receiving it and uh, I know how you love your friends and family and-”

Sansa interrupted him by engulfing him in a hug. “Thank you. I love it.”

“Oh noooo, wouldja look at that?”

Theon had somehow attached a suspicious looking holiday plant to the fishing rod he got from his Secret Santa. And he was now dangling it above Jon and Sansa as he lounged on the couch.

Sansa, too busy glaring at Theon, didn’t notice Jon’s blush. When she turned back to Jon, she opened her mouth to give him an out, but he beat her to it.

“I’m game if you are.”

I am SO game.

Sansa leaned in and Jon met her halfway.

“Wait that’s holly, not mistletoe!”

“Robb, shut up. You’re ruining their moment.”

#jonsa fic #jonsaff #jonsa #actuallyjonsa #idk where i was going with this #brought to you by my friend saying you can attach a tile to a baby #💀💀😂#I HOPE YOU LIKE IT KATHARINE #💞💕❤️#my writing #jonsaaaaaa #dreams-for-spring #writing prompt

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angelsswirl · 3 years

Text

Petrichor

ONE

Summary: You've found yourself in a horrible situation. And there's only one way to get out of it. Choose: Park Chaeyoung or Kim Jisoo.

Notes: i just wanted to get a story out for the other half of the group since what's posted currently is mostly jenlisa centric. Also, the original story took place in new york and i think it's beneficial for it to stay that way.

Requested: sort of

Type: Chaptered

Warnings: jisoo and rosé are both alphas so 😉

...

"Everything, has changed."

New York City is five hundred percent a horrible place to be. There's no question about it. It stinks, it's hot, and there's just so many damn people.

It's one of the reasons you skipped out on going to the gym often. That, and residual laziness really.

The only reason why you were here in the first place was because the gym in your apartment building was being "remodeled". In reality, you think someone finally died in there and they're cleaning up the evidence.

It was, of course, packed. It was toward the middle of the city, but it was the only one you didn't need a one hundred dollar plus membership to workout in.

Your graduate student wallet couldn't take that, but it could take planet fitness' free trial. You weren't going to be in there long anyway.

You were only doing enough exercise to burn off about 500 calories, so you could put them back on at your bestfriend's gathering later that night.

The way you work out this should only take about three miles on the elliptical and 4 reps of the 40 pound bar. You'll be out in like an hour. Which is great, because you didn't know how much more you could take of alphas staring at your ass, and the stench of this place. Oh God, the stench.

The ass ogling may very well be your own fault. These new floral fabletics leggings just fit you too damn perfectly and you definitely should have saved them for when you could afford the expensive gym that could afford scent filters. No seriously, it stunk so bad your eyes were watering.

You aimed to get started on the elliptical, only to be hindered when the damn thing won't turn on. You pressed every single button around and nothing happened.

You must be very obviously struggling because someone walked over and took pity on you. There's a bang of machinery and then suddenly your feet are spiraling.

"Sometimes these things need a good kickstart." A soft, alpha voice says conversationally.

"Uhh, thank you. Do you work here?"

"Me? Oh, no. Just come here often enough to know that it's shit."

The soft voiced alpha woman, is absolutely gorgeous, like so gorgeous you wonder why she would even dare step foot in a place like this.

"I'm Chaeyoung, but you can call me Rosé if you want." She held out her hand.

"Y/N." The handshake is firm. Like Rosé has been doing it frequently for a while now.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N." Rosé decided to get onto the machine right next to you. Something, you're sure, was not going to happen originally. You're flattered to say the least.

"Sorry if this seems too forward, but you're really pretty, and I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime. I don't normally do this type of thing and I feel very weird right now, so please say yes so I can stop talking and embarrassing myself-" Chaeyoung held out a sleek blue business card (someone used vistaprint). You placed it back into her hand with your number scrawled onto the back. Apparently, Chaeyoung is the type that carries business cards and pens in her gym shorts.

"I would like that, Rosé." You smiled, amused at Chaeyoung's sudden change of confidence. She walked over with so much, and then suddenly it was gone. You found that endearing.

"Oh! That's nice. Um, I didn't think this far ahead, okay. Shit." You just lazily stepped/pedaled on the elliptical as you watched Rosé flounder with a raised eyebrow.

"I'll call you later with details?" She got it!

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Great. I'm going to walk away now because my break was up like 15 minutes ago."

You chuckled to yourself as the woman slowly walked away.

~•~

The party was in full swing by the time you got there. You did that purposefully.

Lisa is nowhere to be found so you take that as your opportunity to start stuffing your face with hor d'oeuvres.

Unlike yourself, Lisa had graduated with her bachelor's in education and decided that was enough. Soon after she met her alpha, Jennie, and they settled down in suburbia rather quickly.

You hadn't wanted just a bachelor's in education. You wanted your master's because you're a perfectionist. Always have been. You're in your second year of grad school through NYU.

Lisa had told you it wasn't necessary. It was a waste of time. You exactly wouldn't get paid more or enter in a higher position than she would have with just her bachelor's. And she was right. You were omegas, it would always be diffcult to get your dream job. You knew that. But you didn't listen.

It was hard to keep up your friendship as Lisa got deeper into it with Jennie, and you got deeper into your studies. You haven't talked nearly as much as you would like lately.

That's what you came here tonight to fix. Jennie and Lisa had gathered many of their closest friends for some sort of get together. You weren't asking questions, you were just there for Lisa and the food.

A tap to your shoulder startled you almost enough to drop your crab puff. You turned around to face the perpetrator.

"Having fun there?" Lisa said with a concerned look. In her defense, you're mouth is visibly full and you looked downright capable of murder with the prospect of dropping your snack.

"Lali!" It's a bit muddled, with the full mouth and all, but the point is delivered. You hastily chew and swallow. Somehow without choking to death.

"Hello, beautiful! How have you been?" Lisa looked a bit miffed at the fact that she even had to ask that, but she's still curious.

"I'm good. School is fine. You know me." You just shrug. There was no need to tell her that you sort of felt like your life was coming to a complete standstill. You smiled politely as Jennie approached behind Lisa's shoulder.

"Hello, Jennie."

"Hi, Y/N. Do you mind if I steal this one away for a sec?" Yes. Yes you does. You do mind a whole lot, but it doesn't seem you have much of a choice as Jennie leads her omega away.

"So much for getting your best friend back." You mumbled to yourself. You headed toward one of the beverage collections, grabbing a spring water. You opened it and took a sip.

A few seconds later, there's a tapping of metal against glass and everyone's attention is drawn toward the center of the livingroom.

"Okay, first we would like to thank everyone for coming. You're probably wondering why you're all here." Jennie inquired, and the room nodded along.

"Well, we have an announcement...we're pregnant!"

You're not quite sure why it seems like the room is suddenly closing in on you. Maybe you ate too much too quickly, or maybe that feeling that everyone is moving so quickly without you is finally starting to really penetrate your psyche.

It's not until then that you realize both of the happy couple's parents are here and everyone is congratulating them and you should be too, but you can't. Not right now.

You need some air.

You settled for the kitchen, it would be too hot outside, and someone would surely see you leave. There isn't anyone in there as far as you can see, so you dart into it.

"Some party, isn't it?"

You jumped so harshly, your off the shoulder blouse switched to being off the other shoulder.

The woman, an alpha if the way she's standing is anything to go by, sipped lazily on a beer. She's barely taller than you yourself, and yet vaguely familiar.

"Uh, it's okay." You cower a bit under the woman's gaze. You fumbled with the cap of your water and deftly take another sip.

"Yeah. There's going to be another Jennie running around here. Get right with your God while you can." A smirk slipped out from behind the beer bottle.

You laughed a bit, "Do I know you? You seem familiar."

The woman seemed to hesitate a bit before holding out her hand, "Jisoo. I don't think you do know me." You shook her hand happily.

"Y/N."

Jisoo nodded, "So how do you know Thing 1 and Thing 2 in there?"

"Lisa and I went to college together. I was with her the day she met Jennie actually."

"Was it love at first sight?" Jisoo took another sip of her beer. She grimaced slightly. You get the sense that dhe doesn't like what she's drinking but is torturing herself anyway for some reason.

"Not at all. We both hated her. She said something stupid. For the life of me, I can't remember what it was, but it was very stupid. But, she kept coming back and somehow she got Lali to fall in love with her somewhere in there." You smiled a bit bittersweetly.

"And you?"

"And I what?"

"How do you feel about Jennie?" Jisoo smiled conspiratorially.

"I-it doesn't matter how I feel about Jennie. She treats Lisa right so that's enough for me. Anyway, how do you know them? Are you family?"

Jisoo shrugged one shoulder lazily, "Depends on who you ask."

"Oh."

There's a lull in the conversation, before you spoke up again.

"Do you know what time it is? I have class in the morning."

Jisoo pulled out her phone, she turned the screen on revealing the time (9:48) and her phone wallpaper.

"Who's that?" You asked with a nod toward Jisoo's phone.

Jisoo hesitated again, this time it seems like she's really battling with herself.

"...My daughter. Lia." And there it is. A flash of disappointment fluttered across your face momentarily.

"Oh. You're mated?" It was odd. Normally, you could simply tell by smell if someone was mated. You didn't know how to explain it, but biology was weird. Basically, Jisoo didn't smell mated. You took a step away. If she was mated, you were probably standing a bit too close to be considered kosher.

"No." Jisoo took a step or two closer. Leaving you a bit closer than you were before. It's simple and leaves you with more questions than answers but you doesn't ask any of them.

Eventually, Jisoo took pity on you.

"The result of a one night stand. I thought the hangover I had to deal with the next day was the last thing I had to attribute to her, then 9 months later there's a knock on my door and baby on my doorstep. All pretty dramatic if you ask me."

You listened attentively as Jisoo spoke. You had a feeling she didn't talk about this much to anyone.

"I wouldn't give the kid up for anything, though. She's kind of the reason why we have a roof over our head." Jisoo frowned for a second before taking another sip of her beer.

You studied the alpha for a long moment. Then gasped. "That's where I recognize you from! You have a YouTube channel about parenting. They've shown a couple of your videos in my classes before." You mumbled the last part a bit shyly, realizing you may have been a bit too excited just then.

Jisoo sighed, "Damn. I was hoping I could get away without that coming up."

"Why?"

Jisoo scrunched her nose up and winced. "It's embarrassing."

"I don't think it is. From what I've seen, you're a good mother. And you're helping others. That's nothing to be embarrassed about." You smiled softly and touched a hand to Jisoo's shoulder.

It's then that their isolation is finally broken. Jennie stepped into the kitchen with an odd look on her face. Jisoo shrugged off your hand with a roll of her eyes.

"There you are, Y/N. Lisa was looking for you. What are you doing in here?" Jennie narrowed her eyes at Jisoo slightly, who only shrugged and chugged the rest of her beer.

"I was just cooling down from the rager you're throwing in there." It's slightly sarcastic, and you're not sure where the confidence is coming from, but it's much appreciated. You can practically feel Jisoo's body loosen from its tense state Jennie had caused.

"Ohhkay. Well, don't be a stranger." Jennie walked back into the main room with a confused shake of the head.

"That was weird."

Jisoo only nods slowly, staring down into the empty beer bottle.

"Well, um, I better head out. It was nice meeting you, Jisoo. And thanks for keeping me company."

"Uh, yeah. No problem."

You head for the exit, but stop suddenly, "Oh, and Jisoo?"

Jisoo looked up from the bottle, "Yeah?"

"Lia is beautiful. She looks exactly like you." You turned back around without another glance. You slipped out of the front door and towards your car.

#Petrichor #blackpink fanfic #jesssica's fanfic #blackpink #rose x reader #jisoo x reader #rose fanfic #jisoo fanfic #jenlisa #seulrene #alpha female #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #abo #alpha beta omega #alpha x omega

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khadij-al-kubra · 4 years

Text

Worst Impressions are the First (ch 7)

Main Characters: Logan, Patton, Roman, Virgil (Human AU)

Pairings: Romantic LAMP

Word Count: 5036

AO3

<=PREV

NEXT=>

Author’s (longer than usual but it’s for good reason) Note: *The Apocalypse—2020. Zoom in on a plague rat turned writer. She has survived thesis projects, getting a Master’s degree, burnout, writing and illustrating a children’s book, being a slave for the U.S. census bureau, months of overthinking anxiety spirals, and one or two incidents involving an asshole skunk. But now, battle weary yet unwavering in her love of art and love for her loyal readers, this onesie-clad tea slurping book dragon....has finally arisen from the ashes*

I LIVE BITCHES!!!!!!! And I am SO SORRY for taking so long!!! I’ve been hard at work, been editing like a mad woman, and I even have a beta now! The gorgeous and talented @humbletortoise So I am OFFICIALLY off hiatus!!! *cue confetti canon*

Also, one of the biggest reasons I’ve taken so long to update is because I’ve spent the past month or so essentially retconning the fuck outta this fic. I realized looking back at earlier chapters in this story that, although I was proud of them at the time and greatly appreciate the positive reactions, they were...not my best work. (shitty first drafts if I’m being honest) That’s because, at the time, I was trying to split my attention between writing this fic and working on grad school stuff, which resulted in my writing for this not being as best of quality as it could have been upon first posting. This story deserves my best, and so do all of you. So now I hope to give you that.

I encourage you to go back and re-read the previous chapters up till now (trust me, they’re near unrecognizable to the first drafts, but in the best way). Or if you don’t feel like doing that, you can just continue on from here. totally cool. For the sake of convenience and my own sanity, I’ll attach the AO3 Link to this fic from the start. I may also start just posting chapter updates on tumblr but only have the link to the chapter and add my reader tags. Again, for the sake of my sanity because Tumblr is a bastard when it comes to posting fics. (Also PLEASE let me know if there are any tagging issues if anyone’s on my tags list; yet another reason i’m considering just linking my fics in the future)

Anywho, without further ado, at LOOOOOONG last, here is the next chapter!

Chapter 7 - (POV Roman)

When Roman had offered to walk with Logan to class, it was only partly out of an innate sense of chivalry; a side of himself that he rarely got to show on account of being a socially awkward gay disaster. Though mainly, he saw it as a chance to get to know his second soulmate better.

He certainly hadn’t expected two long minutes of civil but silent walking. Well, as silent as a stroll through their school could be with its usual racket buzzing around them. With a vocabulary as big as the continents of Africa and Eurasia combined, you’d think Logan would be more of a conversationalist. Alas. He merely walked in step with Roman. They glanced over at each other every so often, but Logan stayed tight lipped and seemingly impassive; fiddling with his bumblebee hair pin every now and again. Damn. Looked like he was going to have to make the first move.

Roman was bad at this. How did people usually…Oh yeah, common interest. That’s a thing. He wracked his brain for some sort of ice breaker. One that’d make him look cool and calm or, something, in front of Logan. He was a fairly decent student though not quite mathletes level. He could compliment his outfit maybe? Was that too forward? Too shallow? Maybe he could find common ground? That was as good a place to start as any.

“So! So uhh…What kind of music do you like?” Roman asked. Yeah, that’s good. Everybody likes music.

Logan glanced at him. “Can you be more specific?”

Roman’s brow furrowed. “I mean, like, your favorite genre of music to listen to?”

“Classical,” said Logan in a clipped tone.

“That’s cool. I don’t really listen to classical myself.”

Logan only hummed, his face neutral. Roman was really hoping for more than that. A few awkward seconds passed, then Logan spoke up.

“Are you perhaps a fan of the classic Sherlock Holmes novels?” He inquired.

“Um, I haven’t gotten around to the books yet, actually,” Roman said, scratching his earlobe. “I mean, I’ve heard great things about them. And I’m a big fan of the Robert Downey Jr. movies.”

“Ah. I see.” Logan said, giving him the judgiest side eye.

Come on, Roman thought. Give me something to work with. “Oh! What about theater?”

“What a frustratingly vague inquiry.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to get to know my soulmate a little better.” Ay come jode, work with me here, man!

Logan sighed. “While I understand and appreciate your intention, I believe ‘getting to know someone’ as you put it, requires a certain level of specificity. Anything less indicates a somewhat shallow level of sincere interest, and I greatly despise shallow conversation. That said, if you’re inquiring as to whether or not I enjoy theater, no. I don’t understand the concept of professional make believe, though I appreciate it as an art form. I assume you’re a fan?”

Is he seriously implying I’m shallow? Roman groused, pushing his red frames up the bridge of his nose. Ugh, forget it Roman. He’s throwing you a bone here. Take it.

“Obviously,” said Roman, gesturing dramatically. “I mean I’m no actor—Eesh. No. Yikes—but everything about the artform enthralls me. And I like all kinds of genres and eras of plays, from Shakespear to Ruhl, but musicals are by far my favorite, because like, there’s so much you can do with them design wise. I mean just look at how groundbreaking Hamilton was.”

For a second, Logan’s face actually softened, his eyes lighting up. But just as Roman thought they were finally about to make some progress, his stony companion was back to wearing that platinum puss.

“Ah. How… original.”

Roman blinked. “Are you saying my tastes are basic?”

“Well, yes.”

Augh! Okay. Yep. I don’t like him. Patton was going to be so disappointed, and Roman was too. He’d wanted so badly to get along with all his soulmates, but Logan was a snob! Way less intimidating than Virgil and his ilk, but still a jerk. I wonder if soulmarks can make typos or something? Thank the stars they’d already arrived.

Roman and Logan filed in with the rest of the class for seventh period. Somebody had the liberty of opening a window– the AC was still busted in this classroom– so for once there was actually a decent breeze cutting through the usual mucky Florida humidity. Still smelled like it would probably rain later. Good thing Roman had packed an umbrella just in case, Mom’s orders. His hair looked too good today to be wrecked by frizz.

Roman took a seat at his desk, running distracted fingers over the carved letters in the wood while he mulled over his predicament. Just look at him over there, thought Roman as he glared at Logan, not two rows away from him. Sitting with his hands clasped on the desk all smug—of course he’d be near the front—and with such disturbingly good posture. What is he, a robot? Who is he to call my interests basic, the NERVE! And okay, sure, like Hamilton, sometimes I get over excited and shoot off at the mouth. But great Zeus, does that guy show passion for ANYTHING besides academics? Roman blew a raspberry, plopping his head in his hands.

He always thought soulmates were supposed to get along, even as just friends for life. Balancing each other out, bringing out the best in you and forming a deep connection—that was the whole point. He sighed to himself. Cymbals clashed less than he and Logan did.

He was stirred from his brooding by the bell. Apparently Mr. ‘Call-me-Terrence’ Williams had materialized without him noticing. Okay fine, he should probably pay more attention, but he was having a crisis here.

“Afternoon everyone,” Terrence greeted in that measured, upbeat tone of his.

He draped his navy blue blazer over the back of his desk chair and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows. Roman pitied the poor guy; he had to teach sauna of a classroom all day. He could see the glisten of sweat on his teacher's smooth forehead as he wrote things on the board. Yet he still kept a pleasant attitude towards his students.

“Alright class!” Terrence started, “Today we’re covering the next section on the American Revolution. Specifically, the Battle of Yorktown...”

Roman mentally punched the air. My time has come. He opened his textbook to the right page but didn’t bother looking at it. He already knew most everything about Yorktown. Not just because he’d listened to the Hamilton soundtrack fifteen and a half million times, but also because he’d done actual research on the event and time period that the musical took place; There was always the off chance he’d get to stage crew or, heck, even dramaturg the show. He liked to be prepared.

“So the battle of Yorktown took place in 1781, but a great deal of its success was thanks to the French Allies. Many especially aided in fighting the British Troops surrounding New York. Now who can tell me where the French Soldiers first landed?”

Roman half raised his hand. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Logan.” Terrence called.

Roman turned to Logan desk, where his hand was held high and mighty.

“The French Ally ships first landed in Rhode Island, then made their way to Chesapeake Bay,” said Logan, adjusting his glasses. Not even a hint of second guessing in his voice.

“That’s right!”

He almost missed the quick smirk on Logan’s frustratingly pretty face. Look at that smug—thinks he’s so smart...Okay yes, he is smart, but he doesn’t have to be a show off about it. Terrence continued through the passages, calling on a student every now and again to review. Of course, Logan got called on most and he got every answer right. Roman didn’t feel like raising his hand anymore.

“Of course there were many turning points in the revolution, but Hamilton’s return to the field for Yorktown was a key point.” Terrence continued on. “And keep in mind- this was a man who up till now had never been in a position of command before. Not to mention the mental strains he must’ve been under, especially having had to miss the birth of his son Philip, the first of three children he had.”

Wait a sec. “Well, that’s not right.”

Even though he’d muttered, apparently Mr. Terrence still heard him. “Come again, Roman?”

Shoot. “Um, I said,” Stop sounding timid, you know you’re right. “I said that was, um, wrong.”

The whole class turned to him. Oh great, history class has its eyes on me. Roman cleared his throat and tried to look taller.

“What I mean is: Hamilton had eight kids, not three. And on top of that, Phillip was born a few months after they won the Revolution, not during, so Hamilton didn’t miss the birth of his son. I mean sure, it’s a small thing, but the devil’s in the details as they say. Heh.”

Terrence gave the most insultingly bemused look. And Roman definitely heard a few kids snickering behind him. He glanced quickly at the culprits and felt his ears go hot. This is what he got for putting himself in the spotlight.

“Roman, I applaud you for participating in the class discussion,” Their teacher started gently, “but I’m afraid you’re wrong on this one. If you read your textbook close you’d see in the fifth paragraph where it mentions from one of his later letters—“

“Actually Mr. Williams, if I may, Roman is correct.”

Roman saw Logan at his desk, one hand raised while the other adjusted his neck scarf. Was the teacher’s pet actually… backing him up?

“It is a common misconception that Alexander Hamilton only had two children, even more so modernly, what with the musical having only named two of them. However Roman has clearly done his research on the plays historical accuracies, which is more than I can say for some.”

Logan shot a cool but scathing look at their recently snickering classmates and they withered. Roman fought the urge to point and laugh aloud. He did however stick his tongue out real quick. What? He could be shy and petty at the same time.

“My guess,” Logan continued, “is that this textbook edition is also either misprinted or outdated, judging by the publication date in the copyright section.”

Brows furrowed, Terrence looked at the textbook laid open on his desk. He flipped back to the front, before pulling out his cellphone—“I’m the teacher, I’m allowed to do this. You guys aren’t.”—and after what Roman guessed was a quick Google search, their teacher looked up. His eyebrows drawn in a ‘hm, well damn’ expression.

“Looks like you’re right, Roman. And thank you Logan for bringing to my attention about the textbooks. I’ll have to talk to the principal about hopefully getting some updated materials. But we’ll see how that goes,” Terrence, muttered the last part, though Roman was close enough to catch it. Terrence cleared his throat and moved back to the board. “Maybe if we call on assistance from the inside. Much like how the Sons of Liberty sent in Hercules Mulligan to spy on the British...”

“Perhaps if we knew of an immigrant who was unafraid to step in,” Logan said just under his breath.

No one else seemed to notice the reference, but when Roman did, he felt like a mini volcano about to burst rainbow lava. Apparently there was a lot more to his soulmate than first meets the eye; and now that he knew, Roman was determined to see more of it. The rest of class passed quickly and everyone filed out to the halls as the first bell for the last class period of the day rang. Roman made sure to catch up to Logan on the way out and staccato tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Logan?” He said.

When Logan turned, he swore time slowed down for a moment. The brilliant boy’s skirt flared around his waist, and somehow his skin glowed even under the dull, inconsistent school lights. His posture was erect yet natural, he could have been raised among nobility. Amidst the stench and clamor of loud sweaty students, Logan was as poised and striking as the goddess Athena. Oh...

“Yes, Roman?” Logan asked.

Roman gulped. “I uh, just wanted to thank you for backing me up in there.”

“Thanks are unnecessary,” Logan said. “I detest when someone is shamed by other students for speaking up in class, regardless of whether or not they have the correct information.”

“Well regardless, thanks for coming to my aid in the face of academic danger.”

“Dramatic, but my pleas—oof!”

A hurried passerby bumped into Logan from behind, rushing off with a half-assed ‘sorry’. Logan, caught off guard, stumbled right into Roman’s arms. The two looked at each other, cheeks filling with heat. Roman caught a whiff of something faintly floral on Logan, something natural– a lavender and honeysuckle perfume, perhaps. It was heavenly. They were still in the middle of foot traffic though, so he maneuvered them to the side. Which was tricky since Logan was still so close to him and also a good two inches taller with the heels.

“Well,” Roman flashed his pearly whites. “Seems you’ve fallen for me.”

Logan pulled away, but his lips quirked upwards in a teasing smirk. “Oh please, I merely stumbled into you.”

“Ah, but stumbling is the first step towards being swept off your feet.”

“Bold words from an abashedly charming homunculus in such an… eye catching ensemble.”

Did he call me charming!? He composed himself, “Hey, don’t let the sweater vest fool you. I may be short but I’ve got guns.”

“Aaah. But mind over muscle, as they say. Do you find yourself up to the task?”

“Only if it’s you, my brainy blossom.”

Roman’s class was in the other direction, but Logan didn’t need to know that. They walked through the halls, conversing. class was still in the next ten or so minutes, but Roman was having fun. Banter with Logan felt surprisingly easy. Natural like they’d been at it all their lives.

“By the way, was that a ‘Guns n’ Ships’ reference I overheard, pastel poindexter?” Roman asked.

Logan cleared his throat. “It… may have been, yes. I found myself unable to resist toppling the figurative dominos.”

“In other words, you seized the opportunity you saw,” Roman said, matching his own reference to the source’s cadence, which got a chuckle out of Logan.

“Precisely. Under more casual circumstances, I may have even recited Lafayette’s part.”

“You can rap? You can rap Guns n’ Ships? Like, the whole thing, no tongue twists?”

Logan stopped for a moment, turned to Roman. The taller boy cleared his throat, and after a moment wherein he seemed to mentally restrain himself, he simply adjusted his glasses. “I have an appreciation for poetry.”

Roman blinked rapidly. Holy shit, he’s an even bigger nerd than I am. He definitely needed to see that at some point.

They turned a corner, stopping just outside of the science room. Some students were going in to take their seats, and the teacher was already making notes on the board. Logan pulled an AP Physics book from his backpack, but made no move to leave, much to Roman’s delight.

“So then,” Roman leaned against the eggshell wall, “How come you acted so indifferent earlier and called my tastes basic? Oh, and I think I remember you also implied I was shallow?”

Okay, yeah, he was still kind of salty about that. But then he saw the shamed look on the nerd’s face, and Roman wished he could have taken it back. Logan looked at his shoes then back at him.

“To be candid I was… hesitant to show the full extent of my enthusiasm. In case you thought I’d be—I believe ‘being the most’ is the term— it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caused someone to lose interest in conversing with me due to informational overload. I nearly bored my Aunt Patricia to sleep once talking about a fascinating article on jellyfish. And considering how I blundered our initial meeting—“

“Pfft, ya think?” He mentally slapped himself again when Logan went tight-lipped and turned to go. “No, no, wait. I—I’m sorry. Truly. ...Truth is, I was no gentleman either. I’m not always great at thinking before I speak. It’s why I’m so awkward around people. Takes a while for my true charming nature to shine through.”

“Clearly. Still, you show a level of interpersonal aptitude that I, well, lack.” Logan fiddled with his hair pin again and a stray hair came loose. “Reading people and expressing emotions has never really been—It’s something I struggle with.”

Much as Logan tried to maintain his cool composed posturing, Roman could tell that this was something that really bothered him. He tried so hard to seem put together and confident and serious, but really he was just as awkward and insecure as anyone. Roman smiled softly and stepped closer to Logan, reaching up to tuck the loose ebony strand behind his ear.

“Hey, everyone’s got things about themselves they can work on. Including me,” Roman smiled. “And believe me when I say that I will never judge you for being passionate about something you like. So if you ever want someone to ramble about jellyfish or Sweeney Todd to or—I dunno, calculators or something?—I’m all ears.”

Logan’s cheeks went pink and he gave a hesitant yet sincere smile. “That’s...very kind of you, Roman. And coincidentally, I also greatly enjoy Sweeney Todd. The use of iambic pentameter and alliteration to give a succinct synopsis to the story in just the first sentence alone is pure brilliance.”

“Right!? I mean the man’s a mad genius. I’m dying to design sets for one of his musicals someday. Like last year? I came up with the concept of having the Sweeney Todd sets done in a way that highlights the class differences with the characters.” Roman went into a small three minute ramble regarding the specifics before he cut himself off abruptly. Logan was blinking rapidly, a look of mild shock crossing his feature. Roman nearly started sweating; Had he messed this up again?

“That… that’s ingenious”

Roman’s ears were burning. Ohmygosh!Ohmygosh!Ohmygosh!

“Hey, Logan!” They both startled and turned to an impatient cheerleader with a ginger undercut and they/them pronoun pin shaped like a coffin. “What’re you doing just standing out in the hall, ya dork? Oh, hey Roman.”

“Uh. Hey, October,” Roman said, waving awkwardly to them.

“I told ya, Red, you only get to call me that when we’re working on a show.”

“Wait, October? Red? You two know each other?” Logan asked, brow arching.

“Kind of. They sometimes help out with costumes for the drama club,” said Roman. And they have terrible timing. I mean seriously Tobes, we were having a moment.

“Come on Lo, class is about to start, and you promised to go over my homework with me real quick beforehand. See ya ‘round, Ro.” Toby grabbed Logan’s hand and pulled him into the classroom. “You can fill me in on what you were doing with Red later.”

Logan followed his—apparently—friend into their classroom, but he shot Roman an apologetic look over his shoulder. Roman bounced a bit on the balls of his feet before following halfway into the room. Logan was in his seat with Toby showing him an open notebook. A teacher in a tight grey hair bun was writing on the board. Students at their seats were chatting, and some looked up at the short dork in red who burst in. For once Roman ignored them, his mind set on one last attempt at wooing his green skirted genius while he still had the nerve.

“Hey, Logan,” he said. “I’ve also got some great layout designs for an Into the Woods set. If you’re interested, maybe we can meet up after school and I can show them to you? Maybe we talk a bit more over iced lattes or something?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Prince, seventh period starts in five minutes,” said the teacher. “Unless you’ve suddenly transferred to my class, I suggest you stop distracting my favorite student and get going.”

“I’ll be gone in just a second,” he said. “Well?”

Logan smoothed the silky fabric of his pink scarf and said, “That sounds optimal, Roman. I’ll meet with you. By the first floor water fountain perhaps?”

Roman grinned. “I shall be counting the minutes.”

“Mr. Prince,” said the teacher with a warning glare.

Roman blew a kiss at Logan and then ducked out of the doorway. Was he embarrassed of himself? Oh definitely. Did he regret it? Absolutely not. He felt ten inches tall.

Now to complete the quest of making it to class in time. He slid off a shoulder strap to unzip his classic Mickey backpack, getting out the notebook and the relevant homework. He found them amidst the mess of spiral notebooks, granola bar wrappers, two textbooks and rainbow sticky notes. But something was missing from his folder.

“Where are those– it should be here.” He could’ve sworn he had his stapled the blocking notes in his folder. No, wait, the last place he saw them was— “Ah shoot! I left them in the tech closet again.”

Under normal circumstances, Roman would’ve grabbed them after school, but the auditorium was locked on weekends. He’d have to wait till Monday to get them and that just wouldn't do! he wanted to show Logan his notes today! I’ll bet David Korins never has these kinds of problems. Okay, okay. Still got four minutes. He could rush to the auditorium, grab the notes, and then head straight to class. I should have enough time, right? Right. Besides it was only Spanish Class, he was already pretty fluent after all those summers visiting his grandparent in Nicaragua. He spent most of class time dreaming up blocking notes anyway.

Despite not being totally convinced by his own argument, Roman immediately turned on his heel and started running in the opposite direction. After a teacher told him no running in the halls, Roman power walked through the halls with a skip in his step and a song in his heart, feeling absolutely gay in both senses of the word. Logan had actually called his idea ingenious! And the way those sharp eyes softened just for him- he would squeal if not for the fact that it would draw too many eyes to him. The halls were still filled with a few stragglers rushing to the last class of the day, and he was already trying not to get caught being late for class.

Now he knew how Maria felt in West Side Story. Y’know, before Act 2. Oh sure, they’d gotten off to a shaky start, but as the Bard’s adage on the course of true love said; and Roman felt it in his gut that this was certainly the start of true love. Not just with brilliant Logan but also with soulful Patton as well. He didn’t know how an awkward geek like him ever got so lucky in the soulmate department…Then again, there was still the matter of Virgil. So maybe not so lucky.

Roman touched his arm, remembered flustered yet flattering purple words. I know they both said Virgil is secretly sweet and I can sympathize with the terrors of closet town, but COME ON! Virgil? Really? That gloomy gladiator? There had to be a mistake in that. After all, Patton liked to see the good in everyone. Logan was much more of a skeptic, but he does seem to have a blind spot with sarcasm. Maybe Virgil was messing with them somehow. Even if he’s not a jerk jock, the guy’s still kind of a creepazoid; with his dark eyes and cheeta-esq gait and those probably huge muscles hidden under that bulky jacket and big hands...

His gay disaster train of thought came to a merciful halt as he reached the auditorium. Roman pushed open the doors, took a pause to breathe in the quiet comfort of this chapel of the arts. Okay yeah, chapel was maybe a little kind for the school’s auditorium which doubled as the drama Club’s rehearsal space/prop closet backstage/Mx Joan’s unofficial office because the school didn’t fund the arts programs enough. Even so this space was Roman’s sanctuary. The place where he could help create magic from the shadows, bring stories of those gone and living to life. Here, Roman found something of a community with his fellow backstagers, glee club losers, and budding thespians (the nice ones). So he loved every squeaky stage plank, every duck taped seat cushion and every speck of dust that floated in the spot lit air like fairies.

Mx. Joan wasn’t around for once, thankfully. Probably in the teacher’s lounge or rendezvousing with the school nurse or something. They were pretty chill and Roman knew he was their favorite student, but the choir director/drama club moderator/music teacher (this school really needs to fix its funding habits) wouldn’t have been too keen on Roman being deliberately late for class.

Roman walked down the aisle and to the side room by the stage. It was originally a janitor’s closet, but their club moderator transformed it into a ‘Crew Only’ Storage Unit… Okay it was still a closet, but with less bleach and more coils. This was where they kept important equipment for semester shows, like the lighting and sound boards, along with other supplies. Roman made a quick mental note to get more gaffer tape later, seeing their supply was low.

He looked through the small pile of scribbled and highlighted sheets with the lighting cues for the spring show. I’ve really gotta get a binder for these…Ah-Ha! Here you are! Roman pulled out the stapled sheets titled ‘Into the Woods Dream Set’ and carefully shoved them into his bag. Perfect timing too. He might just be able to make it to class after—

RIIIIIIIIIIING

“GAH!”

What the heck? He could’ve sworn he was alone in there, but that yelp just now said otherwise. Up close, Roman saw that the curtains were rustling, accompanied by sounds of heavy breathing and moaning, yet not a footstep to be seen or heard.

Holy SHIT, this place IS haunted! I KNEW that backdrop fiasco last semester wasn’t caused by cheap slit plywood. My supplies are the best quality allowance money can buy. Great Macbeth’s bloody knife, I TOLD Kai we should've sprung for a ghost light! Remus always teased him for being superstitious but look who’s laughing now.

He dashed back into the crew closet and grabbed the heavy push broom leaning in the corner. Roman Prince was NOT about to be caught unawares and possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled student without a fight. He would defend his domain of imagination!

Roman slowly climbed the stage steps, wielding his broom like a bow staff, turned the curtain corner where the noises were coming from and was about to release a war cry on the—

“Virgil?”

Roman nearly dropped his weapon at the sight of Virgil Alighieri—star athlete, object of his fears and supposed soulmate—curled in on himself trembling and crying.

His jacket was pulled over his head like a hood, yet Roman could see the tear stained face peeking out from underneath. Virgil’s eyes were squeezed tight, making the dark circles he’d never noticed before more prominent. There was no denying the athlete had muscle but he was more lithe—thin enough for Roman to wonder if the guy ate enough. Virgil’s trembling could rival a chihuahua, shaky hands clutching his knees, and he was clearly in the midst of a bad panic attack.

Roman had built Virgil up in his mind as being like some odd combination of Hades and Ares. The strong silent wolf within his pack of jocks, a surging thunderstorm just waiting for the right nerd to come along and piss him off enough to strike down like the bolt of Zeus.

Someone to be afraid of.

But now? Seeing him in this state, all alone and whimpering like a wounded animal...it broke Roman’s heart.

He set the broom down gently and carefully crouched down in front of Virgil. “Virgil,” he said softly. “Virgil, can you hear me?”

Virgil let out a breathy sob but otherwise didn’t seem to register him. Just how long had he been sitting here like this?

Roman was at a loss for what to do. Sure he knew plenty of people with anxiety but never saw someone having an actual panic attack before. He did know that if he didn’t help the other calm down soon, Virgil was liable to pass out. He’d never wanted to hug someone so badly in his life. Roman tentatively reached out a hand but stopped. What if touching him makes it worse? What if I startle him so badly he actually has a heart attack!? Maybe I should get the nurse. But I can’t just leave him like this.

He caught sight of the colorful soulmarks written on Virgil’s arm. Saw his own harsh thoughts: ’Dios mio, he’s staring right at me—like he wants to punch my face!’

Roman took his shame and forged it into steel. I won’t abandon you...my soulmate.

Virgirl’s let out a hiccuped cry, and this gave Roman an idea. Something from back when he was a child. It was probably stupid and a long stretch, but it was all he could think of. He readjusted himself so that he was now sitting right next to Virgil, making sure not to startle him. Roman cleared his throat, then as softly as he could, he began to sing.

“Come stop your crying, it’ll be alright.

Just take my hand, hold it tight.”

Roman one and carefully gentled his hand over Virgil’s. After a moment, he felt a light squeeze, and that encouraged him to keep going.

“I will protect you from all around you.

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

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thebibliomancer · 3 years

Text

Essential Avengers: Avengers #236: “I Want to Be an Avenger!”

October, 1983

Spider-Man -- An Avenger -- ?

Y’know, march of time and all that but this doesn’t seem as surprising as it once did.

Not much to say about this cover. It doesn’t have a lot to say about the issue other than ‘SPIDER-MAN INSIDE’ but boy does it say it.

But, oh, the logo changed and its snazzy! I quite like it!

So recent going-onses for the Avengers. Thor and Iron Man quit the team for personal business. Hawkeye broke his leg and is on medical forced-to-leave. Scarlet Witch and Vision were called in as reservists and Vision immediately got damaged by a crossover and has been in a robot-coma ever since. Starfox joined the team.

But in more positive news, they totally kicked the Wizard’s ass last issue and it cheered everyone up.

So the issue starts on a lazy summer day.

Scarlet Witch is on monitor duty, scanning for any ‘this looks like a job for the Avengers’ type calls. And multi-tasking by also thinking of her tubed husband.

Captain America takes his turn standing watch over the comatose synthezoid.

And for some reason, Cap leaning on the tube like that cracks me up.

Starfox spends his downtime trying to hit on Wasp.

His pickup line is so bad.

Wasp finds it charming in its misapprehension although it could also be the sexy beams Starfox emits from his brain.

And She-Hulk is taking a bath in a large barrel in the Avengers’ rec center, which they have. Maybe its the super hot bath?

She(-Hulk)’s also multi-tasking by looking up apartment listings while she soaks but finds that everything on the NY listings is either too small or too ritzy.

It be like that sometimes.

Jarvis comes into the rec center barrel bath area with iced tea for She-Hulk, trying to politely avert his eyes. But the intruder alarm goes off and she(-Hulk) tells Jarvis to hand her a towel and runs off to his flusterment.

Between Tigra and She-Hulk, I think poor Jarvis is getting overwhelmed with rad ladies on the Avengers.

The Avengers assemble in the main foyer and found that someone just barged in the front door and disabled the security tentacles with some sort of odd, artificial webbing.

Who could it be?

Who could possibly break into Avengers Mansion under the mistaken impression that its actually a cool way to impress them while asking for a job, showing that he’s learned nothing in years?

Could it be the person who expressed interest in joining in the previous issue? And who is also on the cover of this issue??

Yes.

Honestly, though, what an amazing splash page!

Also, spectacular and no-adjective.

Spider-Man knows how to make an impression.

Not a good one, certainly. But the Avengers aren’t going to forget the time he was casually chilling above the dining table.

And Pete isn’t going to forget it either. He’s going to wake up in a cold sweat years later still mortified at himself.

I also love it when the title of the issue is something someone said but since it has to be emphasized to make it clear its the title, they suddenly start yelling in the middle of a conversation.

She-Hulk has no patience for Spider-Man’s nonsense and grabs him off his web hammock to yell at him for barging in.

Spider-Man: “Well, I’m not exactly uninvited! Your buddy Thor asked me to join the club just a few months ago. Sure, I’m a little slow in replying, but I’ve had a busy season!”

And then he snarks about She-Hulk just wearing a towel because Spider-Man loves low hanging fruit.

SURELY, Spidey knows that offers usually expire, right? A few months ago is forever in comic time and Thor himself isn’t even on the Avengers right now.

I guess, in fairness, he has his reasons.

Besides his usual perpetual poverty liking the sound of a thousand bucks a week.

As he later muses to himself, Black Cat has been hospitalized because she tried to help him and he feels obligated to pay for her not-cheap medical bills. And he’s already quit grad school to spend more time earning but his freelance paychecks are nothing compared to an Avengers salary.

He’s being an incredibly presumptuous dick... but for a good cause.

And its just like Spidey that he has a good reason for being a jerk that he’d never mention leaving everyone to think he’s just a rude goofus.

What a shame.

Anyway, back at the present, Spider-Man asks where he enlists but Cap tells them that unfortunately their roster is full up. The sixth spot is being held open for Hawkeye when his leg stops being broken (and you think he was moany about being sidelined while his leg was broken, imagine him learning that he was replaced, eesh).

Cap does suggest that Spider-Man could join Starfox in the trainee program but Spidey throws a fit.

Spider-Man: “Trainee program?!? Hey, I’m Spider-Man, remember? I was sticking to walls when you guys were still looking for a clubhouse. I’m no green rookie!”

Starfox: “Green -- ? I take offense at your tone, Spider-Man!”

She-Hulk: “There’s nothing wrong with being green.”

Pffft.

As an actual rookie who is physically green, She-Hulk doesn’t care for that phrase, maybe.

She-Hulk and Starfox possibly beating up or more likely being embarrassed by Spider “will punk the entire X-Men in the not too distant future” Man is interrupted by a priority alert that goes ARROOOOOOOO

... Is it the Nixon alarm?

Why haven’t the Avengers fought Nixon’s head on a war mech yet??

Spider-Man offers to give them a hand if their priorities are being alerted but with this particular alarm, Wasp decides its best if they stick to the rules.

And then She-Hulk chases Spidey out by throwing a chair at him.

Spider-Man: Well, that was certainly a wash-out! Maybe I shouldn’t have come on as such a wise guy... Maybe I should have come to the door all humble and contrite. Nah, they wouldn’t have believed it was me!

.... Hah.

But he sees the third-floor of Avenger’s mansion opening up to launch the Quinjet and fount of good decision making that he is, he decides to jump onto the Quinjet as it launches.

Spider-Man: Whew! This baby is really starting to pick up speed! I feel like I’m in a wind tunnel. My sticky fingers can hold onto just about anything under normal circumstances... boy, I wish these were normal circumstances! I wonder if this was such a good idea.

No, Pete, it wasn’t.

But your inner monologues do add a bit more joy to this issue so I forgive you.

Inside the Quinjet, She-Hulk notes that the controls handled a bit sluggish right after take-off but eh whatever the problem disappeared after they went supersonic.

Huh. I wonder if Pete is ok.

Anyway, Captain America, She-Hulk, and Starfox are headed towards Project Pegasus.

Since it hasn’t come up in Avengers yet, Project Pegasus is a government research facility that seeks out new types and sources of energy. And Cap helped organize their security force back in Marvel Two-in-One #42.

The priority alert wasn’t the highest priority. Just a code-five, indicating a low-grade emergency. But it didn’t come with any details so Cap is vexed.

Three Avengers should be enough for a code-five but problems at Project Pegasus tend to balloon into worse problems.

You wouldn’t think a research facility would attract so much negative attention but as Cap points out, there’s a lot of people who have a vested interested in making sure energy stays scarce, expensive, and presumably non-renewable.

And considering that the oil companies like Roxxon are EVEN MORE BLATANTLY EVIL in the Marvel U, yeah, uh, bad shit is going to occur.

Also, Project Pegasus doubles as a place to jail supervillains so their powers can be studied.

So, yeah, Pegasus having a priority alert probably means a headache.

So these three Avengers are going in but Wasp and Scarlet Witch are on stand-by just in case.

The visit to the super secure research station goes off to a bad start when guards rush the Quinjet when it lands because a foreign object was detected on the undercarriage.

Of course it’s Spider-Man.

But before he can be arrested for breaking into a secure facility, his spider-sense buzzed.

It’d be a bit confusing if it wasn’t buzzing before though. He has a bunch of rattled guards pointing guns at him right after some unexplained emergency has happened.

That doesn’t set off the Peter Tingle at all??

Anyway, since the buzz is pretty intense, he figures that its warning him of something “a lot more dangerous than the lecture Cap’s going to give me!”

Hah!

He doesn’t manage to warn anyone before a tremor knocks (almost) everyone off their feet with a THROOM

Spider-Man is still standing because he loves Elton John forewarned is forewarned and he can stick to things. And to his surprise, Cap manages to stay on his feet.

Cap: “It’s just a matter of knowing how to react and how to brace yourself, Spider-Man.”

Hah!

That’s So Cap.

Spider-Man asks if he realio trulio can’t give Cap a hand with this situation. Y’know, since his spider-sense probably will come in handy. Cap isn’t sure because of the question of security but Spider-Man has an idea there.

See, he’s been here before!

In Marvel Team-Up Annual #5 he helped save the dang place! They can ask chief of security Wendell Vaughn (who is also known as Quasar but probably not to all the people in this scene?).

Unfortunately, Vaughn quit a couple months back. Oops.

But since Cap vouches for him the guard driving them to the lower levels is like ‘eh whatever.’

The power of a Cap vouch is not to be underestimate and never to be used for evil.

They’re headed to the thermal research dome because its the last known location of new security chief O’Brien. And where he sent the alert from. AND where the recent quake came from.

That’s good multitasking.

They reach the blast doors sealing off the entire level.

Because yes, not only did O’Brien send an alert, he also sealed off the entire level and now something’s jammed the lock.

They have no idea what could be locked behind there but they do have a Spider-Man and Starfox asks him if he’s getting a bad feeling about anything.

Spider-Man isn’t getting any bad vibes, deeming it safe to go inside.

Y’know, this is an amazing way to use Spider-Sense that they could do more with. I always love it when Spidey basically exploits the sense for things other than combat dodging.

Like when trying to figure out how to turn off a device he didn’t understand in Avengers EMH, he just went around almost yanking wires until he found one that didn’t set off the ‘OH MY GOD YOU’LL DEFINITELY EXPLODE IF YOU DO THAT’ buzz.

Anyway, it being probably safe, Cap tells She-Hulk and Starfox to open the door.

Which they do, with gusto.

And a GRU-U-UNNG

Inside the ruins of the thermal research dome, a bunch of semi-conscious technicians lie about in heaps.

Some Project Pegasus security personnel fan out to do administer first aid while the Avengers look for O’Brien.

Makes sense. The nameless extras help the nameless extras so we don’t go ‘hey are the Avengers dicks for only talking to people with names?’

O’Brien is pinned under an arc of steaming rock which Cap starts chipping in half with his shield while She-Hulk, Spider-Man, and Starfox - all people who could lift that rock - just stand and watch.

Or heck, maybe its not supposed to be a random rock arc. Maybe its attached to the floor. Still though, She-Hulk, Spider-Man, and Starfox could probably break it more easily than Cap does.

Teamwork makes the dream work, guys and She-Hulk.

Spider-Man recognizes O’Brien’s green and also green Not-Iron Man armor from newspapers and realizes that he’s the Guardsman.

That just makes O’Brien sad.

Guardsman: “Aye, I am... or I was. The state this armor’s in, no one’ll ever be callin’ himself the Guardsman again! As of now, I’m just plain Michael O’Brien.”

The Michael Formerly Known as Guardsman starts to Explain It All.

He had come down to the thermal dome to watch the thermal dome researchers sink a new magma tap.

But molten rock came shooting up from the tap hole, which is a thing that’s definitely not supposed to happen.

Oh, and some molten men (but not Molten Man) climbed out of the hole and started trashing the joint.

Plain Michael O’Brien realized pretty quickly that he was the only one who could stand up to these hot men so he signaled for help, hit the evacuation alarm, and sealed off the level from the rest of the project so the problem was contained.

And then he got mobbed by the hot men and got his ass kicked. Turns out that his armor was pretty useless against lava men.

Oh, yeah, Cap recognizes them as lava men from his description.

Spider-Man: “Lava men? You have to be kidding, Cap! Lava men? I don’t believe in lava men!”

Cap: “Belay that, mister! I’ve been up against lava men -- and they’re nothing to joke about! You’d better thank your stars that they left -- !”

You might also remember that Cap has been up against lava men allllllll the way back in Avengers #5. Technically the first adventure he had with the Avengers after officially joining them.

It was also the issue where Thor stoically sank into lava without changing his expression from his default vaguely annoyed one.

Anyway, O’Brien tells the Avengers that the lava men battered their way into the maintenance section since they couldn’t escape to the rest of the facility.

It’s a real good news bad news situation because there’s no one for them to hurt in there and also its a straight shot into the nuclear research dome.

And we don’t want any kind of meltdown there.

Cap decides that this looks like a job for AVENGERS to ASSEMBLE towards. And more than the three plus special guest star they already have.

MEANWHILE, over in New Orleans at an important meeting that definitely would be bad to interrupt, Monica Rambeau (secretly the Avenger known as Captain Marvel but not the dead guy version, true believers) is applying for a small business loan.

And then she gets a bzzt on her radio watch for an Avengers emergency.

Oh no, what of her small business loan!

And also: what small business is she starting? I think I heard at one point that she ran a fishing business with her father?

But what of her small business loan!

Well, Monica agrees with her bank guy Mr. Hillbee that its an alarm watch and that its reminding her of another pressing engagement so hey is there a lot more that they have to do here?

Luckily, all that’s left is for her to sign the documents.

Phew, I’m very used to superhero stuff interrupting a superhero’s civilian life and then them angsting about it. It’s actually a relief that Monica was able to finish up at the bank before dashing off to a phone booth to take a radio watch call with Scarlet Witch.

Wanda tells Monica that they just received a call from Cap(tain America) telling them to get to Project Pegasus. Wanda tells Monica that they’re in transit now and asks if she can join them.

And then the line goes dead before Wanda can give coordinates.

Because Monica just followed the radio signal back to the Quinjet.

She apologizes that it took her so long (!!) because she had to stop at home first to pick up her costume.

Wanda marvels captainly “And I thought my brother, Pietro, was fast!”

Ha ha amazing.

I love Captain Monica Marvel’s ridiculous powerset.

She’s even talking right into their radio so she can communicate from outside the Quinjet.

Wasp, Scarlet Witch, and Captain Marvel arrive at Project Pegasus where they’re briefed of the lava men situation by some of the security staff.

Captain Marvel nyooms ahead lightspeed dash style while Wasp and Scarlet Witch lag behind by taking a high-speed railcar.

Dang, Project Pegasus is big.

I just flipped ahead pages to see how long it takes Captain Marvel to join Cap(tain America)’s group and its a bit.

I guess maybe there’s some overlapped time going on though.

Meanwhile, two technicians in research dome D-2 (called the Compound for some dang reason) ignore all the various alarms and such that have been happening because they’re super into their project. And are possibly mad scientists.

They have the intensity.

But they’re working on... Dr. Croit’s stabilizer? And apparently its vibratory pitch was changed by the tremor that happened? Unbeknowst to them, Captain Marvel just nyoomed by outside and the proximity of her energy form activates the device and the silhouette of some guy leaps out proclaiming FREE!!

Back at the Avengers side of the plot, Cap(tain America)’s group has encountered some lava men.

Spider-Man: “Hey, Cap... I take it all back! I do believe in lava men! I really do!”

Hah.

The lava men are between the Avengers and the nuclear dome so Cap starts thinking of ways to flank them so they can keep them away from it.

She-Hulk starts trying to plow a hole through their forces and... uh.... ok. Cap has Starfox just fly around and annoy the lava men because they’ve never seen a flying man before and its just freaking them out.

Really.

Cap asks Spider-Man to use his webbing to throw up some barriers in the lava men’s path.

Spider-Man: “Heck, I can do better than that, Cappy! Just a couple spritzes of webbing, and these little hotheads won’t be going anywhere for hours!”

Cap: “No, you young fool! Don’t you see what you’ve done!”

Throwing web on the lava men makes them panic because it seems like there’s a lot of stuff that they’re not familiar with and all of it alarms them. When they’re alarmed, their body temperature raises and can get up thousands of degrees.

So they just melt loose of the webbing and now they’ve learned not to be afraid of the webbing at all and they can’t use it to corral them.

Spider-Man: “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

Cap: “It would help if you’d follow orders! The Avengers is a team! If you want to be part of the team, act like it! Otherwise, stay out of our way!”

Yeahhhhh. I mean, most of the time. You have your fair share of idiots doing their own thing in the Avengers because all of these guys have egos you wouldn’t believe. But generally they can agree to work as a team.

And Spider-Man, of this era, isn’t much of a team player. Not like Wolverine or Batman ‘i work best alone, bub’ type of not a team player where they’re lying about not being good at teamwork because they like being surly and dour because they think it makes them more interesting. But Spider-Man mostly works alone and is used to just doing whatever he thinks the best idea is. And he has the proportionate speed and reflexes of a spider so he can do whatever he thinks the best idea is way before you can tell him its a bad idea.

That’s why Spider-Man makes so many bad decisions, because he can make them faster than good sense can catch up [citation needed].

Anyway, as he is NOW, he’s not a good fit for the Avengers.

Then again, neither was Hawkeye and they let him join. Makes ya think.

Back over at surprise man out of a box lab, the surprise man was Blackout.

He looks like he’d be an electricity themed villain but apparently his element is darkness. Annd he debuted in Nova annnd this is his second appearance?

At the end of his debut story Nova #19, Blackout was apparently sucked into the Darkforce dimension, a fate that Dr. Croit’s stabilizer had been invented to prevent.

So I guesss.... the stabilizer’s settings were altered by an earthquake and then it was powered by ambient energy from Captain Marvel zipping past and it managed to stabilize Blackout, yanking him free of the Darkforce dimension?

I guess??

As far as villain returns go, its not the most ridiculous but it is a bit contrived.

Blackout has no idea where he is and rants about how he’ll level the place if that’s what it takes to find his way out and in a more acceptable contrivance, he happens to be passing Moonstone’s cell when he says this out loud to nobody in particular and she likes the cut of his jib.

Moonstone: “Sounds like you’re a man after my own heart!”

Moonstone tells Blackout that she’s been locked up here so Project Pegasus could study her powers and that they want to use her the way they would have used Blackout but hey what if they join forces and get some comeuppance.

Blackout: I don’t know if I should trust her... But something about her voice is so reassuring.

Yeah, that’s what we call a red flag, you dingus.

Are we back to the days where some dudes will just villain because a lady bats her eyes?

Anyway, the locking mechanism is too complicated to figure out so Blackout just squeezes it until it explodes.

Um. Okay.

-checks wiki-

The wiki says he’s only supposed to have normal human strength but Blackout himself claims that his body is a living generator of black star energies.

Which apparently means he can squeeze an electronic lock to death. I dunno.

Freed from her cell, Moonstone leads Blackout to what they can do next.

Meanwhile, the Avengers are still struggling with the lava men two levels below. And the fracas has reached the corridor to the nuclear dome. Its now or never but the numbers are too overwhelming even for She-Hulk.

Spider-Man manages to leap above the fray and get forgotten in the confusion but doesn’t find that he can do much. He tries webbing the door to the nuclear dome shut but the lava men don’t even bother opening it when they can melt through.

Hmmmmm not a good showing for a guest starring so far...

When the lava men succeed in melting through the door, a blinding light shines through and the lava men kneel down and start bowing to it.

Ohhhhhh, I get it! They’re not trying to cause a meltdown! They just want to worship nuclear light!

... No? I don’t got it? Okay.

The bright light is actually Captain Marvel who took a shortcut to the nuclear dome to reach the Avengers.

And the lava men are really enamored with her, proclaiming her the lady of light foretold in legends.

Captain Marvel just kinda rolls with this and asks them whats the deal with all the rampaging and destroying.

Lava man: “We did but strike back, radiant one! Our village, deep beneath the Earth, knew peace -- until the surface men bored into our midst with their machines. We could not allow this attack to go unanswered. We only used our powers to stop the invasion!”

Wait, isn’t this the plot of the Jetsons movie?

Cap(tain America) smoothly slides in, diplomatically, to announce that then the surface people beg forgiveness and that this has all been an unfortunate misunderstanding that he pledges shall be put right.

And like how Cap’s clout got Spider-Man into this story, Cap borrows Captain Marvel’s clout to back up his diplomacy roll, saying “The Lady-of-Light will tell you that I speak the truth!”

It’s a good thing that Monica wouldn’t go mad with power.

Also, Scarlet Witch and Wasp show up, while Spider-Man snarks that they “missed the end of the movie.”

But since we can’t have pat resolutions given the subplot that was happening while the Avengers were distracted elsewhere, in the Compound, it turns out that Blackout and Moonstone have freed Electro and Rhino. And Moonstone has a Big Evil Plan.

Blackout: “Pay them back? Yes... yes, we must. But how?”

Moonstone: “In the best way possible! We’re going to bring this place to its knees -- by seizing the nuclear research dome!”

But that’s where the Avengers are! Silly villains, you’ve double booked!

Also, I wonder if the universe cosmically influenced Moonstone to get two Spider-villains involved on the one day that Spider-Man was tagging along.

I also wonder what Moonstone is thinking. She’s the ‘know when to fold ‘em’ villain.

Hmmm... Putting Electro and Blackout side by side makes Blackout look like Electro’s grumpy younger brother.

All kinds of good decisions have been made!

Follow @essential-avengers for more thoughts on villain couture. Also like and reblog so I can feel like I did a good job.

#avengers #lava men #Spider Man #Captain America #She Hulk #Starfox #the Wasp #Scarlet Witch #Captain Marvel #Monica Rambeau #essential avengers #essential marvel liveblogging

18 notes · View notes

parvuls · 4 years

Text

fic: in the space between (2/2)

word count: 6.6k

rating: teen

tags: space, science fiction, enemies to friends to lovers, pre-relationship

notes: due to length and tumblr's formatting, reading on ao3 is recommended

(part 1 | part 2 | read on ao3)

“Just a month till we’re home, boys,” Holster announces as he climbs into the bottom bunk across from Eric, addressing the dark room at large. Eric can hear him shift around in his bed, sheets rustling with his movements. “Can I get a hallelujah?”

“You can get pizza,” Ransom replies dreamily from the top bunk above him. “Because Holtzy -- The Real fucking Pep God. You and me, Matty Matheson pepperoni. One month.”

There’s one month left until landing back in Houston and disbanding for three weeks of leave. It’s been creeping up in conversations for weeks now, nestling itself in crew breakfasts and mission briefs and downtime. Shitty waxes poetry about things like dipping his toes into the ocean and breathing that sweet Terra air as often as he talks about smoking three joints at once the moment they set foot on the ground. Holster and Ransom talk about the heaps of food they’ll be shoveling to compensate for a year of outer space cuisine. Jack doesn’t talk about much other than the missions, and Eric thinks about organic chemistry and molecular modeling on good days, thinks about crying on bad ones. He talks about almost anything else to distract himself and hopes to Jesus that no one can tell.

The picture frame on the shelf by his bunk wobbles on its back stand as the ship tips into Krer orbit for the night. Krer itself is dim and murky, obscuring the shining lights of its neighboring planets and cloaking the crew quarters’ portal window in darkness. Jack said that the last mission of this tour should be coming in from Flight Director Hall sometime during the night.

Eric sighs quietly, turns onto his side, and stares blindly at the blank white of the wall as he mentally runs through the primary structure of proteins once more. Holster and Ransom are arguing about the best Toronto pizza in the background, the sound of their voices weaving in with the beeps of the ship’s machinery and the creaking noises of it when in motion.

“You gotta come too, Bittle,” Holster says, drawing Eric’s attention. He rolls his head to the other side, watches Holster’s blurred figure move in the dark to lean over the edge of his bunk. Eric must’ve missed a change of conversation. “Getting together over leave? We spend the last day before launch together, all of us. Y’know, hitting some bar, maybe watching a game, then catching the plane to Texas in the morning. Last time we went to Shitty’s -- man, that was fucking wild sauce.”

“And you gotta meet Lardo,” Ransom adds. “Crew bylaws. Sorry, rookie, everyone’s in.”

There are ten densely-printed pages about prokaryotes crumpled in the back of Eric’s personal locker, that he’s riffled through maybe twice. Eric chews his lip raw, tries to think of a carefully-masqueraded way of brushing the invitation off, but Holster grumbles lowly before he can. “Well, not everyone.”

“Right,” Ransom says, his enthusiastic tone turning slightly hesitant. “But. Us and Shitty and Lardo and probably her trainee Ford. It’s almost everyone.”

It’s almost everyone, plus ground team. “But not Jack,” Eric concludes, unintentionally dismayed. He should know better by now than to be disappointed, probably. He should, but doesn’t.

Holster sighs and throws himself back onto the mattress, bed springs groaning loudly. “Jack doesn’t really do social things. He’s too cool for them. Which -- whatever, man, who cares, it’s probably more fun for us that way. So you in?”

What Eric’s in for is a world of trouble. Eric’s in for the sweltering heat of the Texan desert, he’s in for submerging in textbooks all the way up to his ears, he’s in for never being quite enough for this world. He turns his head back to the other side, facing the wall, and stifles a sigh.

“I’ll think about it,” he promises, and knows that he will, also knows he’d never be able to say yes. He doesn’t leave them enough time to round up on him before he adds, “Now shut your pieholes, gentlemen, some people need their beauty sleep. And by some people I do mean y’all.”

“Really, he means you,” Ransom tells Holster, and there’s the distinct sound of Holster reaching up and whacking the top bunk with a pillow. Eric buries his face in his sheets and tries to think distracting thoughts loudly enough to drown out the constant screeching noise of his worries. That, at least, is something he’s an expert at.

Eric wishes he could say that he spent his entire life looking up to the stars. That would be a lie.

He spent most of his childhood looking at the ground, instead. At the toe picks beneath his feet; at the dough rising in the oven; at the floor of his school’s hallways, trying to avoid eye contact. The sky in Georgia was ordinarily clear, stars blinking in and out of view, but they’d never held much of Eric’s interest. He wouldn’t have known what to search for even if he’d tried.

Eric, aged eighteen, went to college mostly for the going and less for college. New England was as much an escape as it was a destination. He liked some of his classes, didn’t like others -- remained undeclared for most of junior year, bouncing around between classes about food and culture. He put off doing his work for too long and preferred baking to writing essays too often, but it was fine, most of the time. His days were filled with more people than papers and he found that it was exactly the way he liked it.

College was the point Eric realized that, once he’d stopped being too afraid to try, he was really good with people.

“You could charm mountains into moving for you,” his sophomore year roommate told him, not without a hint of exasperation, when Eric fretted about meeting his first boyfriend’s parents. “Literally everybody likes you.”

And Eric laughed nervously, said, “Come on now, that is certainly not true,” because he couldn’t charm thirteen year old bullies out of forcing him across the state, couldn’t make small-town Georgia like him for who he really was. Those seemed a lot like immovable mountains to him.

But people flocked to his vlog, kept telling him he was so charismatic, and his hockey team kept turning to him for advice with their problems, and in November of junior year he reviewed his credits, expecting to see every food class his college had to offer, but found Populism and Norms and Deviance and Inequality and Social Change, instead.

He got his B.A. Got his master’s, too, not particularly fond of academia but not too keen on leaving the shelter it provided, either. He accepted an offer to work as a consultant for a big company right after grad school, spent a year expertly tailoring trade relations and marketing techniques to partners and customers from foreign cultures. He understood people, liked people, and people, apparently, liked him. It wasn’t the job of his dreams but it was a decent start, and once the one year mark came and went he began considering PR work, maybe putting his people skills to a smaller-scale use. He was twenty-five and definitely not unhappy and his eyes were, always, firmly on the ground.

And then -- well. Then, one day, NASA called.

Jack gathers the four of them outside the flight deck to inform them that their crew has been tasked with the last Human-Islik Intergalactic Treaty info exchange of the quarter, in time for the summit meeting at the end of August. He tells them Flight Director Hall is counting on them, tells them to wear clean suits, and when Holster and Ransom begin chanting last mission, last mission, last mission, he sternly reminds them that being assigned to the Treaty IE is an honor. Still, when they all scatter and the two of them practically skip down the bridge, Eric thinks he sees the corners of Jack’s mouth twitch.

The mission takes four days, requires a series of security checks before entering each room and short transmissions to Houston for green lights at every step. Islikaru has the largest concentration of humans outside of Earth, but protocol must be followed nevertheless. Eric shakes hands, shakes paws, shakes tentacles, makes pleasant small talk and smiles brightly and lets Ransom ramble about science and Jack deal with bureaucracy. It feels at last like a familiar dance, and Eric tries not to think about how much he doesn’t ever want to stop dancing.

By dusk of the fourth day Shitty convinces Jack to wrap it up at a local eatery, the crew crowded around a small table in a pressurized O2 pod with their helmets thrown on the seats by their thighs. Eric finds himself squeezed between Jack on one side and Shitty on the other, a cool syrupy drink emitting translucent wisps of steam in his hand. Holster orders for all of them in rusty Isli that may or may not actually result in food, but they’re all just too jubilant to care.

“Alright boys,” Shitty hollers, banging his coaster on the table several times for effect. The glass containers holding all of their drinks jiggle with its force, creating a cheerful ringing sound. “A toast to this fucking beaut of a year. Being stuck in a cramped metal case floating in nothing for three hundred sixty-five days has been a great pleasure with your rockin’ bods for company. Fucking cheers!”

Ransom whoops, Shitty pretends to wipe a tear, Holster belts out the chorus of Cheers’ theme song passionately. Eric watches them, helplessly indulgent, and thinks: he’s actually making a home here.

On his other side, Jack shoves one of the food baskets towards Eric with his knuckles and says, “You should try the octo-bacon, if you haven’t.” His eyes meet Eric’s for a brief moment, make Eric’s lungs expand in his chest. He can’t remember the last time Jack spoke to him for no good reason.

Jack’s face is uniquely relaxed, his jaw convulsing as he fruitlessly tries not to laugh at something Shitty says, and Eric’s former thought continues, completely unbidden: gracious, I’m going to miss these boys so much. Their bickering and their worst habits and their dumbest moments. Holster’s booming voice, Ransom’s midnight thesis writing, Shitty’s insistence on nudity, Jack’s continual ability to confuse him.

“Holy shit, man,” Ransom says, slamming his emptied drink onto the table and staring at its last drops in awe. “What the fuck is this shit. I need another one ASAP.”

“Not it!” Holster calls, and then stretches his arm across the table, fingertip of his index finger pointed mere inches from Jack’s face. “But I just know our commander would love to buy his best crew another round. Right, Zimmermann?”

“You’re my only crew, Birkholtz,” Jack rolls his eyes, mostly good-natured. Holster’s wiggling finger and Shitty’s foot kicking at his shin beneath the table must goad him into action anyway, because he puts his helmet back on, disappears out of the pod and towards the service counter without further protest.

While Eric watches him go, Shitty slides closer in the booth and flings his arm around Eric, tugs him right into the crook of Shitty’s body.

“This is it, Bittle,” he sighs, eyes closing dramatically. “Once this tour ends, you will no longer hold the title of rookie. Finally, you will graduate to the same titles everybody else gets -- mainly bro, or fucker, or, if I’m spectacularly schwasted, yo, what’syourname. This is a monumental day for all. You might even get a nickname. Are you appropriately emotional?”

Eric is emotional about many things. He can't stop thinking about this crew and what they've come to mean to him, can't stop hating keeping secrets, can't stop dreading the moment they cross back into Earth. Eric is emotional about the possibility of seeing his mama again, and what it'll mean if he does; Eric is emotional about life in general, right now, so he says, “Sure thing, Shitty,” and shoves a ring of octo-bacon into his mouth. It seems, for lack of a better option, like the smartest response.

From above Ransom’s head, Eric spots Jack reappearing just beyond the glassy walls of the pod, carrying a tray with four containers between both hands. He then keeps watching, helpless and open-mouthed, as another astronaut rises from a nearby booth and slams into Jack shoulder-first, tipping the entire tray sideways and nearly knocking its contents over and to the floor.

“Oh shit, sorry mate!” the man exclaims, immediately reaching out to catch Jack’s hands and help stable the tray. His Australian accent is thick, the ASA pin decorating the shoulder that knocked into Jack glinting under artificial lights. The two of them grab the tray with three hands, containers sliding back into place still intact, before the man’s eyes flick up and catch on Jack’s face. He then jerks back, his eyes widening and his hands yanked away from Jack like he’s afraid to catch on fire. “Fuck, Zimmermann! I didn’t see it was you! Fuck my life, uh -- here, I’ll pay for the drinks --”

Eric watches, crestfallen, as Jack’s previously relaxed expression gradually darkens back into his usual scowl, lips disappearing between his teeth. “It’s fine, don’t --”

The other astronaut shakes his head vehemently, shoving his gloved hand into his utility pocket and fishing out some local coins that he then throws onto the tray haphazardly.

“Fuck no, mate, I’m not taking risks with you,” he hurries backwards, flat palms raised up, like he’s under some kind of threat Eric can’t read in Jack’s distressed body language. “For real, it was an accident, don’t get your dad to kick me off the program, yeah?”

The man backs off, scurrying back to his pod and to his whispering crewmates. Jack remains standing, shoulders rigid and tray held in clenched white knuckles, vacant stare fixed on the floor. Eric glances away from Jack for the first time since he saw him approach and notices that his whole table is silent and tense. He catches Shitty’s furrowed eyebrows and Ransom’s worried look, and becomes slowly conscious of the fact that unlike him, everybody else already know what just went on in front of them.

Jack’s mood seems to fracture, then. He steps through the pod’s sliding sealing and sets the tray down on the table too forcibly, glass containers knocking together. He doesn’t sit back down. Shitty parts his mouth to say something, but Jack latches his helmet closed before he can, muttering, “I’m done for tonight. I’ll see you guys back on the ship.”

His face is almost blank, valiantly trying for imperviousness, but Eric has never seen him look so decidedly miserable before. Instinctively, he reaches out to grab Jack’s wrist; he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what just happened, but he does know that Jack shouldn’t leave like that. He manages to stammer out, “...Jack --” before Jack tears his hand away from Eric’s grip with the same excessive aggression that rattled the drinks, and says curtly, “Excuse me.”

Eric stares at his back stalking off until he's entirely out of view, feels unjustly hurt and primarily very confused.

Jack Zimmermann is --

Jack Zimmermann is one of NASA’s Arctic Project’s best pilots and ship commanders, Eric learned his first year in the program. He’s exceptionally committed to his job, loyal to his crew, unwaveringly focused on the mission. He’s direct, sometimes brutally so. He’s good at following orders, makes tough decisions under pressure, and never takes the opportunity to rub elbows with the higher ups. He just loves what he does, and does it notably well.

The name and the legend is a lot to live up to, but when Eric met Jack he realized that the man is exactly as he’s advertised. Jack, in the role of Jack Zimmermann, is straightforwardly that: an amazing astronaut, an amazing ship commander, an amazing pilot.

It’s unfortunate, then, that Jack in the role of a human being is sometimes an enormous asshole.

The ship’s lights are all off when the boys straggle themselves back on board later in the evening, their boots dragging sluggishly against gravity. When Jack left, the celebratory mood followed his footsteps out the door; no one seemed the least bit inclined to talk about it, so Eric didn’t ask. Though the four of them did their best to recover, cracking halfhearted jokes and staying for another couple of rounds, even Shitty’s mustache seems to droop lower than normal by the time they finally find their way back to the ship.

Shitty passes airlock and walks straight towards the pilots’ quarters without saying a thing, so Eric wordlessly follows Holster and Ransom into their own quarters, brow still creased with puzzlement. He watches as Holster starts stripping by the door and Ransom sits down on the bottom bunk to take off his gear, and waits, and waits, until the silence is just too strange to handle.

“Alright, can anyone tell me what in the deep-fried hell was that?”

Holster glowers, rips off his support strap with gusto. He doesn’t answer, so Eric turns his frown at Ransom, who sighs as he removes the tough overshoe off his boots. “Ignore him, Bittle. Jack just gets real bitchy when people mention his dad. Which happens pretty often because, you now, his dad.”

“His dad…?” Eric prompts, desperate, because it seems like he should know something that he doesn’t. It’s not in the least a foreign feeling these days, when concerning space and science and always, always Jack.

Ransom looks up at him, one boot dangling from his left hand. “Yeah, you know, his dad. It’s a lot of pressure, living up to that. It’s probably most of why Jack is how Jack is.”

Eric doesn’t believe daddy issues are any excuse to be so surly, and he thinks, rather bitterly, that he would know something about the matter. But he pushes, still, because it’s always one step forward and three steps back with Jack, and any scrap of information making his commander seem a little more human could go a long way right now. Or even not human; Lord knows Eric can figure out nonhums just fine. “What does he have to live up to?”

Holster pauses peeling off the suit’s hard upper torso to squint incredulously at Eric. The lower torso assembly of the suit pools around his thighs. “You don’t know who Mad Bob is?”

“Uh,” Eric deflates, taking a tentative step back, the crown of his head hitting the frame of the top bunk. The tone of conversation begins to sound a lot like the time he disclosed that he doesn’t really know the periodic table or has, at any point of time, known it at all. “No. I don’t.”

Ransom throws his other boot to the side and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and face contorting into an expression that closely mirrors Holster’s; surprised, scandalized, disbelieving. “He’s like -- Mad Bob. He was the first commander in the original Avalanche Project. He was the first pilot to leave the Solar System and come back alive?”

“They say he was the first to meet extraterrestrial life!” Holster gestures grandly with his hand, yanking off the EV glove to have free use of the other hand as well.

“That’s actually not true,” Ransom clarifies, “No nonhum races were recorded until almost a decade later --”

“Not the point, dude,” Holster waves him off. “The point is, Mad Bob is a legend. His ship nearly burned on the way back to Earth and he totally saved everyone on board. Made the first round trip, you know? He’s a big fucking deal. Can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

Eric blanches, digs his nails into his skin to hold his instinctual reaction at bay. Eric spent the first twenty-five years of his life with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes never straying upwards. Later, Eric spent every moment of his time at Houston scrambling to prove his worth in an environment so wholly alien to him that the irony in the metaphor was no longer funny. Eric wouldn’t be able to tell Neil Armstrong from Adam, just like Eric can never really remember the difference between Newton’s and Einstein's theories, doesn't know the primary structure of proteins even now. Eric doesn’t belong here, and he’s quickly running out of time to pretend like he does.

“Oh,” he says finally, weakly. Holster and Ransom haven’t looked away from him yet, so he averts his eyes, turns to face his bunk. “Must’ve just missed it somehow.”

He can almost hear Holster and Ransom hem and haw for a few long, silent moments, before the sound of nylon rustling resumes. Eric takes a deep breath, and does his very best not to regret ever asking. It’s made worse by the fact that this hasn't really helped him understand Jack any better than before.

So Jack had spent most of Eric’s first few months on the ship treating Eric like an inconvenience. That was okay -- it hadn’t been the first time he’d been perceived like that, and it wouldn’t be the last. He hadn’t been a fresh-faced teenager from the South in a long while; he’d been older, tougher. He’d been places and had met people, nicer people and smarter people and even meaner people than Jack Zimmermann. He hadn’t really needed a pat on the shoulder or an encouraging smile, just the opportunity to do his job, and do it well.

The real problem was that Eric had always been good at his job because he understood people. And Eric, despite his best begrudging efforts, cannot make sense of Jack.

Jack, who clearly had not understood Eric’s job at all until, suddenly and out of nowhere, there was Evor. Jack who, after Evor, told Eric good work and sounded like maybe he even meant it. Jack who, after Evor, was sat by Eric when Lardo radioed to tell them that Jack’s report had made the deputy administrator call to congratulate Eric specifically.

Jack who, also after Evor, stopped meeting Eric’s eyes unless absolutely necessary. Jack, who Eric sometimes caught staring from the corner of his eye, looking lost in thoughts. Jack, who roughhoused with Shitty in the flight deck, and arranged Holster a private DSN connection for his mom’s birthday, and listened to Charlie Rich on late night piloting shifts -- but whose glimpses of personality disappeared the moment Eric tried to study them for too long.

Missions transformed into something different in the aftermath of Evor. A month after the crew’s return to action they were sent to do testing on the magnetic field of Pladora, and Jack put Eric in charge of communication with the local scientists without preambles. Eric choked, floundered, but grabbed the opportunity with both hands; he still couldn’t shake the weight of Jack’s gaze on his shoulders whenever he spoke with the Pladoran team.

Later, Jack pulled him aside and asked, “Are you capable of confidently explaining to me the exact kind of testing we’re doing here?”, stared at Eric until he was fidgeting uncomfortably in place. “It’s important that you can do that,” he added, like Eric didn’t already know, like Eric didn’t think about it every night before he fell asleep, like he needed Jack’s eyes on him for that, making the nape of his neck burn and his palms tingle with sweat. But Jack frowned at him, then, took a step back, like he didn’t understand why Eric was flushed with embarrassment. It almost seemed for a moment like he wasn’t actively gunning for humiliation.

And then it happened again. Two weeks after that they were helping ESA fix a satellite on a German space station, and Jack left Eric to discuss mission parameters unattended, but also ordered him to watch Shitty install a new GPS chip for three hours. During the strategy session for a recon mission in the Austra System, Jack insisted on hearing Eric’s opinion, but also accosted him after it to demand that Eric read about the complication with the wavelength disturbance. In a charged encounter with destitute merchants from a dead galaxy, Jack remained two steps behind Eric’s right shoulder and let him conciliate them, but when Eric later babbled about the civil turmoil caused by the demise of the galaxy, Jack asserted that he should understand the astrophysical process leading to such death.

So Eric generously thought: maybe Jack was trying, poorly. But three months after Evor the two of them returned to the ship frazzled and peeved, had spent most of the day wrangling with diplomats on Uzeru, and Eric scrubbed a hand over his face, resolved to try one more time. He offered Jack a friendly, tired smile, and said, “Wanna share bad coffee in the kitchen to drown our sorrows?”, but Jack only shook his head once, sharply, before immediately walking away.

The inability to make any sense of it consumes Eric's thoughts for much longer than he's comfortable with. Jack pushes and then pulls, hovers over Eric professionally but disappears the moment it’s interpersonal. A week before they're off for leave Eric looks up from his plate to see Jack taking his dinner into the flight deck, ignoring Shitty’s offer to join him, and thinks that maybe he can never peek past Jack's mask because Jack makes sure to turn away whenever it comes off. He thinks that maybe this is what loneliness looks like, thinks that he should still know better than to care, thinks for the first time that maybe Jack’s silent treatment is nothing more than not knowing what to say to Eric after Evor. Thinks that maybe Jack’s inept solution to not knowing what to say is to just say nothing at all.

The impact crater chipping Vylos’ surface is visible from two-hundred thousand miles out. It’s the nearest planet to the jumping point back to Earth, and its crater serves as a parking lot for all ships on their way to or from there. Its chaotic layout strongly reminds Eric of the QuikTrip station just north of Atlanta, but he bites his tongue and keeps that to himself. Jack and Shitty have probably never seen a QuikTrip, anyway.

Jack grumbles about finding a parking space on the night before leave, body curved over the control wheel and eyes squinted at the windowpane. Shitty leaves him to it, drapes his legs sideways on his armrest to tell Eric about the long claws of capitalism stretching into the cosmos, and how this has resulted in Vylosian beer being the best there is this side of the Milky Way, “Even though it’s like, totally not a real beer, dude, but -- marketing ploy!”, and how its atmosphere was chemically engineered, “To be breathable for all us Earthly suckers passing by ‘cause of the jump point. Filthy fucking marketing plot, I tell ya -- and the beer costs like my goddamn kidney.”

“Your goddamn kidney’s not worth much with the amount of Vylosian beer you regularly consume,” Jack interjects, lowering the ship into a vacant spot skillfully. Vylos’ terrain, reflected at Eric from the three surrounding windows in the flight deck, is grainy and blue.

The Vylosian bar Shitty buoyantly pushes them into is decorated in mismatched memorabilia, posters of Uma Thurman and Justin Bieber and a life-size stormtrooper suit personally signed by George Lucas looming by the wall. The AI pouring the drinks is a hologram in the shape of a Western saloon bartender, the beer is thick and neon green. Eric’s been outside the Kármán line for nearly a year and feels caught by surprise, still, almost daily; but tonight he gets to wear denim shorts instead of nylon spacesuits, gets to clink his glass against Ransom’s, gets to pretend that tomorrow isn’t possibly the end of it all. It has to be enough, he thinks, and takes a determined drink.

Their group starts out leaning against the wooden countertop, skin sticking to its surface. Later, Holster and Ransom chat their way into the table of two local girls, and Jack disappears from view. Eventually, their group winds up scattered across different corners of the bar, red-faced and loose. Eric catches himself repeatedly looking up from the bottom of his glass to the open door, at the pale glint of the sky just outside it, and after a thorough sweep around he takes his drink, gets up, and starts walking.

The bar overlooks the vast expanses of the crater sprawling beneath it, and Eric finds himself sitting outside at the edge of the cliff, thighs bare over the rough azure dirt and beer glass tilting in his hand. Vylos’ three moons are out of sync, rising and peaking and setting in a simultaneous cycle, and Eric is busy watching them when he hears heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

He’s surprised to find Jack standing there, suspended in motion with his hands deep in his pockets and his hair windswept, figure backlit by the lights of the bar twinkling behind him. He seems just as startled to see Eric; his expression wavers out of its usual stoic façade to betray some semblance of emoting.

“Oh, Bittle, I -- I thought you’re inside with the boys,” Jack blinks, a hint of a frown wrinkling his forehead.

“No,” Eric blinks in turn, unsettled by this strange creature wearing the face of his commander. He looks so different in jeans and an AsCans training program t-shirt, out of the bulky spacesuits they spend most days in. “Uh -- no. I’m not.”

“Right.” Jack nods stiffly, glances at the ground and then at a spot somewhere over Eric’s shoulder. His body language is guarded, and he looks misplaced, painfully awkward. They still haven’t exchanged more than two or three sentences in private since Evor and Eric, typically the chatterbox, wouldn’t even know where to begin. “Well, uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll go.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Eric says, before he can think too carefully about why the heck he’d say such a thing. Before he can recall the snapshot memory of Jack turning to eat dinner in the flight deck, alone. “I mean. I’m just sitting here. Drinking alien beer,” he raises his glass, the bright green liquid sloshing around, leaving traces of neon on its rim. The ridiculousness of the situation may be slightly lost on Jack, but not on him. Space still is, and probably always will be, kind of weird.

“Right,” Jack repeats, the line of his back tightening and his eyes narrowing at Eric. “Be careful with that. Don’t want you to throw up during descent tomorrow.”

Dear Lord. One step forward and three steps back. “Yes, Commander,” Eric sighs, swallowing the chagrin out of his voice. His shoulders sag as his body curls towards the view, away from Jack. God forbid Jack Zimmermann think about anything other than the mission for a single flippin' moment. Eric should know better than to be disappointed, but the sour churn of his stomach is unmistakable. Eric should, but doesn’t.

The footsteps behind him pick up again, and he expects to hear Jack walking farther and farther away. Instead, he’s shocked into silence by Jack sliding into his peripheral view, sitting down beside him on the cliff. His shoulders are rigid, his mouth pressed thin. His expression looks like he’s as bewildered as Eric by his own actions.

“Are you excited to go back?” Jack asks after a long, uncomfortable minute, during which they both sit mutely and watch the pits of Vylos before them. Its second moon has finished a full rotation and is now shining down in soft lilac beams. Jack’s voice is tense, flat; this boy, Eric thinks almost pityingly, really is terrible at small talk.

He’s been asked this question a dozen times that month, but mustering his practiced fake enthusiasm now seems hard. Maybe it’s the alien alcohol; maybe it’s that Jack could regress into not speaking to him again at any moment. “I guess so. Home sweet home, ‘m I right?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder, a short and angular movement. “It doesn't feel like going home to me,” he says, honest and plain. “I spend most of my time out here. It’s more like -- a summer vacation. Some people go to the Caribbean and we go visit Earth.”

Eric nods, absently, unsure of how to respond. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a long swig of it, tastes green all the way to the back of his throat. It’s almost impossible to imagine that in twenty-four hours he could be drinking locally-produced white wine in the Washington Corridor. Earth feels so darn far away.

“What’ll you do on your vacation, then?” Eric asks after another long stretch of silence, mostly out of politeness that his mother persistently lectured into him over years.

Jack’s attention is fixed on the moons, his profile sculpted by the sharp lines of his nose and cheekbones and chin. His eyes are so pale under the lilac moon -- big, slanted, annoyingly beautiful. He remains quiet for a moment, leans his weight on his palms and considers Eric’s question. His gaze is still flickering over the view when he says, finally, “I usually go see my parents. Read. Buy groceries.”

Eric snorts inelegantly. If he didn’t know any better, didn’t know Jack any better, that could almost be mistaken for a joke. “Buy groceries?”

“Yes,” Jack says, perfectly serious. His eyes flit over to meet Eric’s, and Eric holds them for only a moment before quickly looking away. His cheeks grow inexplicably warm. “I don’t really miss anything when I’m up here -- I mean, not really -- but I guess sometimes it’s nice to remember people. Stupid human stuff, eh? Supermarkets. Banks. I always think I'd catch a movie in the theatre but somehow I never do.”

He appears to be uncomfortable with his admission, face closing off once the words are out of his mouth. The sharp lines of his features twist back into a familiar scowl, but Eric watches them, him, thoroughly transfixed. The authentic snippet of personality cannot disappear under the reapplied mask this time; Jack has put something truthful on the table, a hint of something charmingly sentimental. A mundane humanity space can't recreate, newspapers and laundromats and coffee stands and taxes. Grocery shopping. Eric doesn’t know if the fast, erratic beating in his chest is at the sweet tinge of it, or the mere thought of Jack paying attention to such things.

“You should,” Eric finally finds his words somewhere in his strangled windpipe, slowly facing forward. Jack, and his continual ability to confuse. He can see Jack from the corner of his eye, turning his head to subtly raise both eyebrows at Eric. “Go to the movies. You should do it this time.”

“Yeah. Maybe I will,” Jack says after a long pause. “I'll tell you how it went when we’re back here.”

“If I come back,” Eric sighs before he can catch himself, and then freezes, fingers clenching around his glass. Dang it. Dang it all to hell.

“What?” Jack asks, confused, and when Eric refuses to meet his eyes, shoulders squaring and chin dropping to his chest, Jack’s voice sharpens and he repeats, “What? What do you mean? Bittle. What do you mean.”

Eric exhales unsteadily, rubbing his forehead with the back of his free hand. He thought he'd have more time. He thought -- like he always does, and is always wrong -- that he’d successfully outrun his problems by denying their existence. He could try shoving those four incriminating words back into his mouth, but Eric can feel Jack’s intense attention focused on the side of his face. Once Jack stepped back into the professional boots of Commander Zimmermann, no denial will make him let this go.

“I’m spending all of my leave in Texas. I gotta pass evaluation for the clearance to come back here with y’all. These past six months were my test run -- I’ve never passed the written exam.” Eric drags his shoe through the sandy ground, watches as the grooves he makes are swept away. “Y’all know I’m no good at the sciency stuff, Jack, alright. I don't need to hear it from you as well. If I don't get an adequate score I'm off the program for good.”

Eric chews the inside of his cheek and chances a side glance. Jack looks outraged, his thick brows drawn down and his entire face devoid of color. Eric’s immediate reflex is to flinch away, but Jack speaks before he can make a move. “What subjects?”

“What?” Eric asks, thrown completely off-balance. He was expecting a thundering reprimand at worst, an indifferent dismissal at best. He doesn’t know what the quiet, heated response he's gotten even is.

"What subjects are they testing you on?”

Eric hesitates, body still braced for the blow that isn't coming. “Uh. All of the introductory subjects. Basic physics, geobiology... mostly modern astronomy. But I swear --”

“Alright,” Jack cuts him off with a single sharp nod, his chin sticking out slightly, like Eric has somehow pushed him to make up his mind. His expression, typically impassive, is now staggeringly transparent. “I’ll help you study for the written exam.”

“What?" Eric blinks several times, glances down to see if he's had more to drink than he thought, but the glass is still half-full and Jack's figure is still corporeal by his side, intense expression still in place. He doesn't fade away like the hallucination Eric is so sure he must be. "Jack -- what --?”

Jack doesn't seem to pick up on the astonishment that has Eric stumbling over his words. “We’ve got two and a half weeks, right? You need entry level stuff to pass that exam. If we study hard, you can do it.”

Eric thinks he might be gaping, his mouth hanging open and growing dry in the arid air, but he apparently isn't capable of collecting his jaw off of Vylos’ ground. “But… what… but you’ll be in Canada…?”

“I’ll stay in Huston,” Jack looks determined. “Bittle, we're a team. You should’ve told us before and we would’ve helped you. You’re a strong crew member, you’re smart, you’ve got an edge that none of us has got. If that’s the only thing holding you back we’re going to get you over it. Study clinic, day and night.” He pauses, the self-assurances faltering for only a moment, and the lines of his mouth soften somewhat. “Just trust me, okay?”

Eric is absolutely floored. The only foolish thing that manages to leave his mouth is, “What about going to the movies?”

Jack almost smiles. Eric has spied that expression on rare occasions before, but never directed at him, and never from up close. It does something to Jack's face that Eric can't put in words. “I’ll catch one on the next leave. Which you’ll be taking as well, ‘cause you’re not leaving the program. We've got each other's backs, Bittle.”

Under the moonlight, purple shadows carving his face from marble and a mellow half-smile twisting the corners of his mouth upwards, Eric could almost let himself admit how handsome Jack is. Jack rubs the dirt off of one palm and slowly curls his fingers, holds them up in a silent offer. Eric can see the thin veins beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at the hand, looks up at Jack, and lets a tentative smile blossom on his face. He brings his clenched hand up to meet Jack’s, and bumps his fist.

#zimbits #omgcp #omgcheckplease #zimbits fic #it is the space fic! they are in space!#i cleaned up the first chapter if anyone wants to reread or catch up #check please!#jack x bitty #pavfics #okay great this is a series now. i'm SORRY

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myheartrevealedocs · 4 years

Text

Untouchable Ch 15- Help

Warnings: swearing, drugs

Ch 14 | Ch 16

~ ~ ~

Another few weeks of silence. Lydia got a few calls from the team during the first week, but slowly they thinned out and disappeared.

She dropped herself onto the couch after her shift at a nearby coffee shop. It wasn’t the ideal job, but she needed some form of income to pay rent until she was out of school.

Her professor and her were discussing getting her teaching credentials and getting experience as a student teacher before she retired. The plan was to have her prepared by the upcoming spring semester, still 10 months away.

That was it. She was going to be a teacher. It was a fine career path, especially for someone of her age. And she had time to do something else if it truly didn’t suit her.

Lydia’s eyes grew heavy and she was just thinking about leaving her grad school work for another day, when someone knocked on her door.

Huffing, she picked herself up once more and checked the peephole. Gideon was hovering outside.

“Did Garcia give you my address?” Lydia asked bluntly, not even fully opening up the door,

“Yes.” He looked relieved to see her and Lydia wondered for a moment if Hotch had actually told the team she died. “May I come in?”

She rolled her eyes, but swung the door open, walking back to her couch. “Feel free to sit. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“Thank you.”

There was a chair beside the couch, which he quickly took advantage of. And then he watched her, closely. He watched her close up her computer, pull her legs underneath her, and wait patiently for him to say something. He watched her for some sort of sign that she was happy, upset, or confused to see him there. But she just looked bored.

“You didn’t tell me that you were leaving,” he began, his voice soft.

Lydia shrugged. “You weren’t my boss. Hotch was.”

“That’s not why I care.” He leaned forward resting his forearms on his knees. “Did you think I was going to try to convince you to stay?”

“Were you?”

“Would you have stayed if I had?”

She looked away, shutting her eyes briefly. “I should hope I know what’s better for me than you do.”

“People love things that aren’t good for them,” he argued. “No one at the BAU enjoys their job. There’s… something else about it that keeps us there.”

“There’s nothing to keep me there anymore. Enough said.”

He paused again, watching her posture. It had tightened, but still she gave up nothing.

“You’re such a good actress. If I didn’t know you so well, I wouldn’t be able to tell that you were scared.”

“Scared?” she demanded, biting back a chuckle. Normally Jason frightened her with how well he did his job. But saying she was scared? No way.

“Of course.” His responses were so nonchalant, that she couldn’t bring herself to argue until she knew what had him so convinced. “Hotch told me that something happened between you and Reid. I’m sorry. I know you two were close. But I also know that the only time you back away from something is when you know you aren’t emotionally ready for it. Not because you’re afraid of anyone else, but because you are scared of yourself. You think you’re a naturally violent person, Lydia. When you and Reid had a fight, you thought you might go too far and someone would get hurt.”

“Amazing job,” she said sarcastically. “Stellar profile. Except that if I was going to quit anyway, why hold back?”

“There’s something more to it. You're not worried about those consequences. There must be other consequences. Does he have something on you?”

Did he? He knew more about her than anyone on the team. Was she actually afraid of anything she told him?

“Sure. He has my trust and I don’t have his. I thought I did, but he made it abundantly clear that I mean nothing to him. So yes... sure… I left because Reid made me feel unwelcome. And yes, I’m afraid that if I become too involved in the team again, he might threaten me or ruin my relationship with the other agents. But maybe, in the end, I quit because I realized that there might be better things out there. Better people.”

“Reid cares about you so much. You probably are the person he trusts the most on the team… That’s why I need your help.”

Help? Was he joking?

Lydia laughed though she was in no way amused by the prospect. “With him? Why? Is he being an asshole to you, too? Maybe everyone on the team should consider leaving him to his own devices. You did say once that if we compared our skills to Reid, he’d run the team on his own. Why not let him?”

“Lydia, Reid’s not an asshole. He’s a genuinely good person. But he’s acting out emotionally because he feels abandoned by the team. Tell me that you can’t understand that.”

Shit. He was right about that. That sounded just like her when her father got arrested. Lashing out, driving others away, demanding justice. Maybe she was the asshole here… But there was no way she could bring herself to admit that.

“I’m not seeking out someone who’s only going to hurt me. Maybe he does need help. But I’m not his mother. I have my own life to lead.”

He sighed, audibly. Knowing him, it was probably all part of his act. Gideon taught her well to manipulate suspects. “I just came here because I thought… I wanted you to understand him a bit better.”

“Well, thanks.” Lydia stood up from her couch, headed towards the door to not-so-subtly tell him to leave. “Now I can know that he hates my guts and feel like an asshole for not being the first person to try and make up. Goodbye, Gideon.”

When he got up, he just stared at her for a moment, not wanting to leave on such a bad note. “Please… please talk to me soon, okay?”

Not wanting to look like he’d caused her to feel as conflicted as she did, she rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah… Sure I’ll do that,” before walking him out.

~ ~ ~

“-and Beck claims she’s close to committing a murder.”

“She used to find it endearing,” Lydia replied, laughing with Sonia. “Lydie and Becky. She thought the rhyming was cute.”

“That’s because they always said it together. Now they run around the house yelling ‘Becky! Becky!’ and she screams ‘Don’t call me that!’”

Lydia could hear her sister complaining from across the country. She never liked being called Becky until the twins came along. To everyone else it was Beck or Rebecca. That was how Lydia and Sonia knew she liked them. She put up with it for them.

And then, they turned eight.

“She insists they’re doing it on purpose. She says she can just tell by their tone of voice that they’re mocking her.”

“To be honest, who’s to say they’re not?”

Sonia chuckled. “Yeah, they’re kind of a lot. Why did I agree to take in twins?”

“Because you’re a good person,” Lydia said.

It was true. The foster care system wasn’t kind to siblings. Especially older siblings, who struggled to get adopted. Sonia took in her and Rebecca knowing that they would be separated otherwise. And then, she was told about the twins, two toddlers, and her heart just couldn’t let them lose one another.

There was a soft knocking at Lydia’s door. She figured it was Gideon again, here to check up on her, so she decided to say her goodbyes.

“Make sure they know that their gifts are on the way! Sorry I fell so far behind!”

“Take care of yourself, honey. They aren’t even worried about the gifts they were so excited to get to talk to you on the phone.”

“Miss you all loads!”

As she put her phone down, there was another knock, this time, somehow, even more timid.

Standing, she peaked out the peephole and almost shrieked in surprise, throwing the door open before she could think better of it.

“Spencer…?” Lydia did a quick sweep of the hallway for anyone else. “Can I help you?”

His head was hung low, occasionally glancing up at her before dropping it again. “Yeah, I… May I come in?”

That’s what set off the alarms in her mind. His voice was a hoarse mirror of it’s usual self and the fact that he wouldn’t look at her made her think he’d been crying. Whatever caused him to show up here, it wasn’t about their relationship. This was about him.

He needed someone. And although, after everything, she wasn’t sure why he’d come here, she stepped out of the way and let him in.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

She saw him shuffle over to the couch, then made over to her kitchen to get him some water. She didn’t know what was wrong with him. She doubted he’d be so inclined to tell her. But obviously he’d been through a lot and she knew the basics of how to handle someone in this state: water, blanket, patience, distraction.

He didn’t speak as she handed the glass to him. His mouth moved as if to thank her, but if he did, it wasn’t audible. He was frightened, it seemed.

Maybe something had happened on a case. Someone had gotten hurt. Maybe it was just nightmares from the kidnapping over a month ago. She didn’t even consider the thing he might be scared of was her. Speaking to her.

“Spencer, if you need me to talk you off some ledge, I’ll do it,” she started. “I’ll stand there and hold you up before you step away from the drop willingly. But I’m not sure what to say.”

His eyes were wet. Not full tears yet, but it terrified Lydia to know what he wanted to tell her.

“I’m- I’m not… Lydia, I’ve done-“ He fumbled desperately for the right way to say this to Lydia, but came up empty. There was no way to say this. Frustrated, he reached for his sleeve and ripped it up at high as it would go.

Lydia felt sick as she recognized what was afflicting him. There were red needle markings and bruises inside his elbow.

“Oh my god, Spencer. What is it?”

“You know that I wouldn’t have-“

“No! God no, Spencer! You don’t have to defend yourself!” she cried. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m here to help you, not judge you. But you have to tell me what it is.”

Her fingers ghosted over the abused skin. He wanted more than anything for there to be another reason he was here. With her. He wished he’d had some other excuse to come see her. For her to hold him.

But he’s gotten himself into this whole fucking mess and there wasn’t another reason. He was here because he needed help and she was only agreeing because that’s the kind of person she was.

“Dilaudid.”

She bit down on her bottom lip. Fuck. “Okay. And Spencer? Are you here to get help or because you need to get it off your chest? I’m glad you told me, I really am, but if you aren’t planning to stop, I think you should find comfort elsewhere.”

It felt so harsh that she regretted it the instant the words left her mouth. But it was true. If Spencer wasn’t committed to getting clean, he wouldn’t be able to. And she wasn’t going to waste her energy on someone who wasn’t trying to be better.

“I need help. I thought I could figure this out by myself, but I… I don’t know anymore. I lose my will and I feel helpless and I thought you might… I thought you might understand. I know that’s horrible to assume, but with your family history I thought-”

“You aren’t assuming anything, Spencer,” she informed him. “You’re right. I know a lot about addiction and drugs and your brain chemistry right now. So, I’m going to be completely honest with you. I will help you, no questions asked. I won’t tell anyone unless absolutely necessary. And you don’t need to apologize or explain yourself. But if I feel you stop caring about getting clean or if I find out you’re using me for sympathy, that all goes away. I can’t help someone without… determination.”

He grabbed her hand suddenly. “I promise I’m determined. So determined. Please… Please fix me.”

Her heart tore to shreds. He was begging. Desperate. He truly felt alone.

But at least she was sure he’d get through this.

“You’re going to stay here for the next few days, at least,” she ordered. “The nights are going to be the most difficult right after going sober. If you can call in sick with Hotch, do that. Because the next few days are going to be hell if you don’t have any time to yourself.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll, uh… I’ll tell Hotch that I can’t come in for the next few days.”

“Good.” She sighed. “Once you’re sober, we can work through how to deal with the cravings. But for now, I want you to keep track of your symptoms and let me know what’s going on so I can help. Even if it’s just a hot flash in the middle of the night, I want you to tell me immediately.”

“Lydia, I…”

She paused her rambling, waiting for him to tell her she was overwhelming him. She felt overwhelmed herself, but then again, this was not how she expected her night to go.

“...thank you.”

Her heart missed a beat, but she pulled herself back onto track, rolling her eyes. “What did you think? I was going to send you away because you were mean to me? We aren’t children, Reid. I’m willing to-”

“I was on it then, too,” he whispered. “The dilaudid. Tobias gave it to me to help me deal with the torture. That’s why I got mad at you… It wasn’t because I thought you had abandoned me. Or because I thought you didn’t care. I was just… I knew I was messed up. That I wasn’t going to get over this. And I wanted to keep it away from you. I know that it doesn’t work like that, but I wanted you to know now that none of that anger stemmed from something you had done. It was on me. All me.”

“It wasn’t… totally your fault.” Lydia started to categorize her thoughts. What had really happened that night?

She had felt guilty for leaving him and going back to California. She was terrified after hearing he’d been taken hostage by a dangerous unsub. And the stress of leaving Sonia, if only for a few days, had her stomach in knots.

And from Spencer’s perspective, he was overcome by guilt. He’d felt indebted to Tobias, who went against his father (or the version of his father that he inhabited)’s wishes in order to save his life. And in return, Spencer had to kill him. Throw into the mix an intense craving for heroin and he wasn’t exactly in the mood for calm debate.

“I’m so sorry that I was insensitive to your feelings,” Lydia apologized. “At the time I wasn’t prepared to hear what you had to say and I reacted harshly… We’re too stubborn, you and I.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, more than said. “Either way, I can’t believe what I said to you. And I don’t deserve your forgiveness or help. I just… I couldn’t tell the team and you were the only other person I trusted with this stuff.”

“You’re already forgiven, Spencer. Don’t worry. I know what these… things do to people. I’ve said worse to my sister and my father and my foster mom. Believe me, you get a pass for this one.”

She smiled at him and he hesitantly returned it.

“So… I think we should start by having you grab some stuff from your place, because I wasn’t kidding. While we get you sober, I want you to stay here.”

“Okay… Yeah, let’s do that.”

“And you’re going to call Hotch?’

“Yeah. I’ll tell him I’ve got the flu.”

The trip was quick and before she knew it, Lydia was back in her own apartment. Her and Spencer spent the rest of the evening talking about the cases he worked while she was gone and what she was up to in California. Lydia was glad they could fall back into being comfortable with one another. Friendly, even.

She still avoided her conversation with her father, not sure how to bring up his imprisonment to Spencer, especially now that Spencer had his own problems.

It was growing later, the two of them having drifted off into their own minds on the couch.

“You were too good for me, Lydia,” he said out of the blue. “I couldn’t stand not feeling worthy of you anymore.”

“‘We accept the love we think we deserve,’” she quoted.

“That was profound,” he muttered.

“It’s Stephen Chbosky,” she explained. “The Perks of Being a Wallflower.”

“I don’t know it.”

She gasped loudly. “You don’t know The Perks of Being a Wallflower? But Reid, it’s a classic!” She held up a hand quickly. “-And I don’t want to argue about the definition of ‘classic’ right now. Just trust me, it’s good… I think I brought my copy with me.”

Lydia got up, wandering into her room to look for the small novel. It sat in the middle of a stack of books on her bedside table. Smiling, she slipped it out, flipping through the pages fondly.

A thought struck her and she walked back to the door of her room to speak with him again.

“Get in the bed.”

Spencer blinked up at her, looking shocked. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“No,” she chuckled. “I’m going to read you to sleep, doctor. Get into bed.”

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his cheeks tinted pink. “I was going to sleep on the couch…”

“Have you seen your legs?” she demanded. “You wouldn’t fit on the couch with your knees touching your chin. Just sleep in my bed and stop whining. You asked for my help and now you can’t escape me.”

“Clearly,” he replied, but there was amusement in his eyes.

He grabbed his things and went to get changed into something more comfortable for sleep. Then, he slowly crawled underneath the covers beside her.

At first, he sat up against the headboard with her, but Lydia shook her head. “You aren’t going to sleep like that.”

“This feels wrong, Lydia. We aren’t dating.”

“Do you think I’m going to take advantage of you,” she joked. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll sleep on the couch, but you are sleeping here, and that’s final. Now then, lay down.”

He did as she asked, sliding down so that he was fully horizontal. “I won’t be able to sleep,” he complained. “When I’m listening to something I give it all of my focus. I’ve never been able to sleep when my mom read to me.”

“Alright. We’ll read a little bit. A few pages, that’s all. And then we can both try to get some sleep. Will you finally stop your whining so I can begin?”

He looked a little startled by her insistence, but finally nodded for her to continue.

“‘August 25, 1991,’” she read. “‘Dear friend, I am writing to you because she said you listen and understand and didn’t try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have. Please don’t try and figure out who she is because then you might figure out who I am, and I really don’t want you to do that…’”

~ ~ ~

The first two days were the hardest. Spencer didn’t get any sleep the first night, shaking and sweating fitfully. It had just hit the afternoon the next day when the nausea started. He stayed in the bathroom for most of the day. Lydia wrapped a blanket around him and brought him cold glasses of water and warm tea to help relax him.

At one point, she found him crying from the stomach cramps, his arms wrapped around himself protectively.

But after another day, his withdrawal symptoms had peaked and the rest was just cravings and an underlying uncomfortable feeling. Every night, she read him a few of the letters in The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

He didn’t understand it. Not really. The main character, Charlie, contradicted himself a lot and danced around explaining hard topics, but Spencer still listened to her intently. She read it the same way she talked about her family. Her eyes glazed over slightly, her voice hesitant, fitting for the character.

After the first two days, he had to go back into work. Lydia sent him with a ton of painkillers to get him through the day without his brain exploding. And once he was done for the day, he’d end up right back at her door.

“Now that you’re sober,” Lydia had told him, “the biggest challenge will be the cravings. It’s really common for people to relapse. If you feel like relapsing, no matter the place or time, I want you to call me. And even if you do relapse, don’t be afraid to tell me. I’m here to help, remember?”

And she was. She was helping so much.

...and he was starting to reach a point where he wished she wasn’t.

He missed her. He missed her like hell. He missed walking around the park with her. He missed her ordering ice cream for them so that he didn’t have to interact with the cashiers. He missed the way she tousled his hair after kissing him. He even missed working with her.

“I didn’t just leave for you,” she had tried to assure him. “When I went back home, I realized that working for the FBI caused me to miss a lot. I didn’t mind at the time, missing a Christmas or birthday with them. But they deserve more from me.”

“I wish you would come back,” he admitted.

She just laughed. “You told me to pursue this opportunity to become a professor. It’s a good job. I’m excited for it.”

Every moment he was with her, he missed her more.

Asking her out now wasn’t fair to her. She might feel compelled to agree because of the fragile state he was in.

After coming back from his first case since getting sober, he went to stay with her again, excusing it as the stress of the job making him want company just in case. But he was simply in denial about the fact that he still loved her.

Or perhaps denial wasn’t the right word.

Lydia was reading to him that evening, the two of them almost done with the novel, when she realized how tired he was. She wanted to finish up on some grad school work before she went to sleep, so she told him to get some rest and started to go when he called her back.

“Yes?”

“I just… I love you, Lydia,” he mumbled sleepily.

Her whole body froze, her stomach tightening uncomfortably. “Spencer?”

He smiled, his eyes still shut. “Yeah?”

Maybe she’d misheard him? He was far too tired to be thinking sensibly. She shook her head and started to leave, but he peeked an eye open.

“Aren’t you going to say it back?” he asked.

Fuck… was he actually on something? He was acting drunk, but she didn’t think so. He hadn’t been acting weird when he got there so he’d probably just gotten… really, really tired.

“Say what?”

“That you love me? Don’t you… love me?”

It was actually sort of pathetic to hear from him in his distant state. But something possessed her to respond honestly.

“Spencer, I love you so much,” she told him, walking over to where he lay and kneeling beside him. “But you aren’t thinking straight and I don’t want you to say something you regret.”

He shook his head childishly. “I could never regret telling you how I feel unless you don’t love me back.”

Lydia gave him her softest smile and kissed him on the forehead. “We can talk about your feelings tomorrow, all right? Go to bed.”

He hadn’t meant to do it. His exhaustion had won over his common sense. And there was no way to take it back.

But did she mean it?

~ ~ ~

Lydia smiled, hearing Spencer leave the bedroom the next morning. She’d been anxious all night about having this conversation with him, but now that the time was there, a part of her felt relieved to be able to put it all out on the table.

“Do you ever feel like we got together too fast?” she inquired, not looking at him, instead relaxing on the couch.

She could hear him clear his throat awkwardly, probably far more afraid to speak with her than she was.

“No…?” he responded, shyly. “We’d known each other for almost a year when I asked you out. I’ve known people to get married in less time.”

“Not what I meant… Also, can we really call what you did ‘asking me out’?”

“I was the one to ask if you wanted food,” he argued.

“Yeah, and when I asked if it was a date, you got all awkward and said no. I think I asked you, more than you asked me.”

“That’s not fair!” he cried, walking around the couch to face her. “All you did was insist that it was a date!”

She laughed, seeing him all flustered. “Alright, alright. I call it a team effort. How about you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever.”

“Anyways, I don’t mean that we didn’t know each other long enough. I just… were we ready? You spent the whole time fretting about me being in the field and I was so worried about keeping your secret that I didn’t tell my family-- who live in California-- about you! A healthy relationship isn’t built on fear and that’s all we made ours. Fear.”

“I didn’t mean to make you scared,” he worried. “I just couldn’t stand the whole… the whole conversation. The whole ‘we’re dating: Here’s a look into our personal lives’ thing.”

“I respect that!” she said, quickly. “I didn’t need the team to know. But after we broke up, all I could think about was how much wanting to make you happy affected me. I know better now. If you weren’t happy around me being myself, it wouldn’t be a good relationship. Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Don’t yell at your girlfriend?” he tried. “Don’t tell me that worrying about you was wrong, because I’m always going to worry. It’s who I am.”

“I guess my point is, if we were together, would you let me keep working in the field? Would you be comfortable with that? Because when we got together, I thought that was part of the deal. I wouldn’t expect you to risk or stop yourself from doing your job for me and I expected the same. And yet, every time I got back from something dangerous, you would act as if I was being stupid and I should never do it again-”

“No! No, no.” He began repeating himself, his fingers tugging at his hair by the roots. “I never wanted you to- It’s just that this job is… I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

She smiled at him, standing up to meet him at… well almost at eye level.

“That’s all I want, Spencer. I want us to be happy. Not afraid of our relationship. I want to be me and not worry about how to make you happy, because you already are. I mean, I’m so happy with you. You just being you.”

“Does this mean… you’re serious? You actually want to get back together?”

“Unless you have a compelling reason not to,” she teased.

Lydia was so distracted by the look of excitement in his eyes, she barely even noticed him getting closer until his lips were pressed against hers.

“Woah,” she mumbled, barely pulling away an inch. “Right to it, then?”

“I’ve wanted to do that for two months,” he admitted. “I really missed you.”

She gave him another peck. “I missed you, too, dumbass.”

~ ~ ~

Tags: @kris-stuff, @wooya1224, @spencerelds, @anotherr-fine-mess

#criminal minds #cm #Spencer reid #Spencer reid x oc #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds oc #cm fanfiction #cm fanfic #cm oc #Spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #oc #Jason gideon #untouchable #untouchable ch15 #Lydia ambers

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sweetiejunie · 4 years

Text

Who’s There?

Summary: it was early in the morning yet someone was in the library with you

Genre: smut

Yeonjun x reader

Noted: to the anon that requested this. So this turned out to be more of shy boy!yeonjun rather than sub!yeonjun so ill probably attempt to write another sub concept for him :’)

=====================================

It was a quiet day in the library. Well, it was 9am on a school day so what did you expect? Everone had already gone for their lessons.

In case you hadn’t figured it out, you were skipping your class.

You always despised your lecturer for that class. He was rude and insulting towards his student, you could list more things but i dont have all day to type all of it out.

All in all, that’s how you ended up in the deafening silent library on a monday morning, smell of old books surrounding you. Dressed in a cute floral wrap dress as you aiminglessly roamed the shelves, hands grazing across the books, waiting for a title to catch your interest.

You didn’t want to address it but, as you had been walking around you felt a pair of eyes on you, which felt strange since you figured no one else would be here.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. Thinking it was just your imagination, you chose to ignore it and continued on your quest.

After some time of wandering around, you wanted to give up on finding something to read when you came across the title ‘the map of time’. A thrilling melodrama of a man who could travel back in time.

Picking the book from the shelf, you found a nice, cozy couch next to a row of windows, claimed it and started reading. As if there was anyone else there to fight for it with you.

It was quite an interesting book if you had to admit. You would have been completely engrossed in it if it weren’t for that strange sensation of the same pair of eyes from before still watching you. Wanting to catch the culprit you jerked your head up, catching a glimpse of someone’s hair before it disappeared behind a shelf. The biggest clue you got was that the hair was blue, and immediately you knew who it belonged to. Of course it could only have been that boy, choi yeonjun.

You found out about his little crush on you from your tattletale of a friend Beomgyu. You never thought much of it but after that you started to pay more attention to yeonjun. You didn’t have a chance to see him very often but you had started to realise that he may have caught your interest too.

Yeonjun was a carefree boy that everyone thought to be full of confidence but never dared say two words to you and that you admittedly said to be cute. You never really confronted or teased yeonjun about this before so you figured, why not today?

You put your book down, you walked towards the shelf you last saw him at. Looking at his reflection in the window, you saw how he was leaning against the shelf, hands to heart, eyes wide, catching his breath as if he was just caugh red handed, which he was. You silently chuckled at his reaction and continued walking towards him.

Poking your head around the corner, you greeted him, “hello.”

Yeonjun jumped, making you laugh as you walked forward so you were in full view in front of him.

“Sorry, i didnt mean to scare you.”

He nodded, not saying anything as he tried to compose himself after the shock.

“So what are you doing here? Don’t you have class?” You asked, not wanting to immediately point out the fact you caught him creeping on you.

“Oh- i er... my class was cancelled,” he answered simply.

Humming a response you continued, “so care to explain why you were watching me?”

You already knew the answer but yeonjun’s face turn a bright pink as he avoided eye contact was something worth seeing. You smirked as you watched him struggle for an answer.

“I... I... I’m sorry, i didnt mean to. I was just-” he stumbled out.

You kept quiet for a while, loving the sight of the embarassed boy that everyone thought to be ‘mr. Confident’. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“It’s okay. But you know, i heard from someone that you have a crush on me. Is that true?”

Yeonjun chocked at your sudden question. Mouth hung open at a lose for words.

“Cause you know,” you took a step close to him, grabbing his hands placing them around your waist, keeping your hands on his.

Watching how yeonjun physically looked like he was about to break down, leaning in closer before continuing, “if it was true, i would admit that I’m interested in you too.”

Yeonjun’s eyes were blown wide open at your sudden confession, face and ears a bright shade of red. You took a half step back, smirking at him before held the back of his neck, lips landing on his.

It was a gentle kiss at first. But that only lasted until yeonjun had left his dazed, flustered state and processed what was happening. His grip around your waist tightened while one of his hands wandered to your cheek, holding your face in place. You took this as a sign to deepen the kiss.

Your hands glided down to his chest, his stomach, and back up, admiring his toned figure through his shirt. Whimpering slightly when you felt him flex under your touch as one of your hands travelled further down.

You broke the kiss to speak, earning a whine from the boy.

“Does baby boy like it when i touch him?” A devilish smirk plastered actoss your face, you hand ghosting over the slight bulge in his jeans.

“Do you want me, yeonjun? You still havent answered if the rumour is true that you like me. I need an answer before i can do anything,” your eyes fluttering down to your hand then back up to his face suggestively as you bit your lip.

Once again, your actions left yeonjun a flustered mess and all he managed to choke out was a measly, “yes.”

“Yes to which question baby?”

“Yes to everything. I like you and i want yo- no, i need you,” he let out in one breathe.

That was all the confirmation you needed for hand to start massaging him through his tight jeans, that you could only imagining getting more uncomfortable by the second.

Yeonjun moaned at the contact, causing you to tsk.

“You have to be quiet my baby. There’s no one here but we’re still in a library afterall, the librarian’s still here and there are still rules. Can you do that for me?” you whispered into his ear, breath tickling his skin.

Mouth shut in a straight line, yeonjun frantically nodded at your request, desperate for more.

“Good boy,” you praised as you leaned in to kiss him again, hands working on his belt, unzipping his jeans and bringing his hard member out from his briefs.

This time the kiss was needy and hungry as you felt his member press against your lower stomach. You felt yeonjun’s hands move down your waist, to your hips, stopping at your bottom. Squeezing lightly, cueing you to wrap your arms around his neck and jump, straddling his waist.

He walked you forward until your back hit the opposite shelf, not breaking the kiss a single time. And just your luck, it had to be the literature shelf.

You thanked whatever braincell of yours decided to put on a dress that morning and preyed Shakespeare will never see your crude behaviour disrespecting his books. But then again he did write Romeo and Juliet.

One of your hands slipped down between your bodies, taking yeonjun’s throbbing cock in your hands as you started pumping him, spreading his precum, using it as lubricant. He moaned into the kiss causing your core ached from need.

“Yeonjun,” you whined.

And as if through telepathy, he knew exactly what you wanted. Hooking his arm under your tigh, he moved your panties to the side as you guided him inside you.

You both let out soft moans at the sensation as yeonjun slid further in you, his length stretching you out deliciously.

“Move baby boy.”

His thrusts were slow at first, being mindful of the amount of noise you were making. The possibility of the librarian discovering the two of you just added to the thrill.

“Fuck yeonjun, you can go faster than that,” you moaned, planting kisses down his neck, holding on to him for dear life.

That was the first time yeonjun heard you say his name that way and he had to admit- he loved the way it rolled off your tongue. His thrusts got faster and harder, letting out a low groan every now and then at the way you tigthened around him.

With each snap of his hip, he hit that sweet spot inside you. With each thrust, you felt your lower back hit the shelf behind you and you knew that if anyone were near enough, there was no way you would have got away with this.

As you approached your high, you he was as well as his actions got sloppier.

“Jun-i i want you to cum inside me,” you managed to let let out between moans.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s alright. I can take the pill,” burrying your face in the crook of his neck as this thursts got harder, chasing his high.

With a few more thurst he came undone. The feeling of his warm seed in you trigerring your own high. You both stayed like that for a while as you caught your breath.

“I really like you y/n,” he suddenly admitted.

His confession caused you to giggle, “well, i would hope so. Considering the fact you’re still in me right now.” Nodding your head, gesturing to the srea where you were still connected.

“Ri- right, sorry,” he apologised, face red as he slid his softened member out.

He put you down gently, holding on to you until he was sure you wouldn’t fall. After you both had made yourselves presentable again, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Shall we get to class? For once I’m glad we’re in the same lecture hall,” he whispered before gradding your hand, leading the way.

=====================================

So not rly a sub!yeonjun so ill be writing another one soon. If u have other requests, send them in and ill see what i come up with 😚 hope you liked this!

Masterlist

#txt yeonjun #txt #txt ff #txt fanfic #txt smut #txt au #txt imagines #txt post #yeonjun scenarios #yeonjun fanfic #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun ff #yeonjun smut #choi yeonjun

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thedormdietitian · 4 years

Text

Why I’m Leaving the Field

Hi everyone!

It’s been quiiiiiiite a while since I’ve posted on here, and I’m really sorry about that! One perk of quarantine is that I’ve had a whole lot of extra free time, so here we are.

In my last post (done almost 2 years ago....how?!), I shared my thoughts on the lack of jobs for dietitians. Well, shortly after posting that, I was fortunate to land a job in the world of inpatient dietetics. It was in my dream area and I was thrilled to a) have a full time job and b) have it be in the area I have my degrees in. In today’s rather pathetic millennial society, I recognize how lucky I am to have a job that fits both of those categories. But anyways, as you can tell by the title of this post, I will (hopefully) be leaving this job, and this field, soon.

I’ll try to keep this post short and sweet, but I have to admit that I never thought I would actually be writing this. I was a young, spry 18 year old when I decided on this career. I was slightly obnoxious over how proud I was for never changing my major and I always knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. Maybe this is payback? I truly thought this was the career for me and I didn’t let anything get in the way of that. There were many times during both undergrad and grad school that I wanted to quit, but I did not let anything get in my way. I was so beyond determined to hurry up and graduate and start my dream career, and I was ecstatic to land the job that I did.

Now that I’m looking back, I realized this career wasn’t for me during my internship. On my second day of my clinical rotations, I cried on my whole drive home. After a whole two days at my rotation site, I knew didn’t chose the right career. I’ve never told ANYONE this because I was so embarrassed that it took me years of schooling to realize that; and here I am, in a coveted and competitive internship, realizing that this wasn’t what I wanted. So, I sucked it up and just told myself I was overreacting, and that there was no way in hell I would quit the internship because I was lucky to be there. It took me quite a while to grapple that idea.

Now, to get to the why am I leaving the field? I’ve been at my job for a while now. Again, I realize, especially now, how fortunate I am to even have a job, let alone contemplate a career change. But, if this helps anyone thinking of becoming a dietitian, then I’m glad I put this out here. Here are the reasons why I am leaving the field:

-We have to get permission for EVERYTHING. This is possibly what bothers me the most. Everyone I work with has advanced degrees, tons of experience, and credentials, yet we have to ask permission to do the very things that we’ve been trained to do. Want to order a vitamin level? Call the doctor. Want to change tube feeds because the patient is off the ventilator? Call the doctor. Want to correct your patient’s diet order? Call the doctor. At my hospital, we are the only group of providers that has to get permission to do anything. I see MDs order speech evals, or PT/OT evals, and they just say “evaluate and treat”. No physical therapist is calling the doctor to see if it’s ok to do this certain exercise on a patient. Even if we get an order for tube feeds, we have to call the doctor (who ordered the consult) to see if, yes, they truly want tube feeds. Doctors don’t have a clue what exercises should be done, just like they don’t know what tube feeds a patient should be on. I’m not slamming doctors at all; that’s why different specialties and careers exist. But why can’t dietitians be treated like other professions? It’s ridiculous to call to get permission to DO OUR JOBS.

-The pay. I knew I wouldn’t be a millionaire as a dietitian, but I didn’t think the pay would be that dismal. Sitting in the office everyday, at least one person complains about not having enough money. Our raises are very small and are automatic; we get them each year whether we are good at our job or not. There are no incentives to perform better. I’m a strong believer in working hard because that’s what you should do, but it gets pretty dang annoying to see people in other careers who get lucrative bonuses for simply doing things required for their jobs. At my workplace, you don’t get extra pay if you get your CNSC/CDE/etc, see extra patients, come in early, or anything else. Your pay doesn’t change except for your yearly raise. Hearing my coworkers complain about money on the daily really starts to get to me, especially after working so hard to get here. A few of my coworkers have worked at my workplace for 30+ years and don’t even come close to making $70k. Hearing that they can’t afford to do needed house repairs, or fix their cars, or even go on vacation with their kids gets really depressing. I even have a coworker who has to give up her shift if her mom can’t watch her kids because she can’t afford to pay for childcare. You wouldn’t think any of those things would be a concern working in healthcare! Dietitians work insanely hard to even become a dietitian, and our jobs are demanding. Our pay needs to reflect that. See my previous post for salary comparisons in healthcare careers. I had a professor in undergrad who said dietitians will only be successful financially if their spouses are the breadwinners. I brushed her comment off at first, but after working in the field, SHE WAS RIGHT. I have a lot of coworkers, and the ones who are truly happy in this field are the ones that have spouses who are breadwinners. Because money DOES matter. I want to be able to take care of myself, buy things I need, fix things that break, and yes, go on vacation. I don’t even have kids yet, but the number of times I’ve already thought about not being able to afford things for them freaks me out. I’ve known dietitians who work for WIC who are on WIC themselves.That is not even slightly ok. I am not shaming those who use WIC; but to be a dietitian and meet the salary requirements for WIC is mind-boggling. Your education is an investment; you want a solid return on that investment. If you’ve ever paid for a dietetic internship, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

-Lack of leadership. Sorry, but I can’t stand the Academy. Using my example of physical therapists again, their “academy” fought for them to raise their pay and to improve the field, and they did. The only advancement in our field is the new “RDN” credential, which, frankly, just brings more confusion on who we are and tacks on the word “nutritionist”, something that 99.9% of dietitians hate being called. The Academy is also requiring all RD’s to have Masters degrees by 2024. I interviewed for quite a few jobs, and having a Masters does nothing for your duties/responsibilities, and results in a very minimal salary adjustment. We can do better. Making it even harder to enter into this field or slightly changing our name won’t help anyone.

-Lack of support for the field. Excluding FNCE, have you ever been to a dietitian conference? They’re usually in a random hall at hospital. Have you ever seen a conference for other health professions? They’re usually at a gorgeous resort on an island. Because of our poor pay, very few dietitians are actually able to support their profession financially. This results in lackadaisical events that are frankly depressing to be at. It’s not about the glitz and glamour; its about supporting the profession and being enthusiastic about it. These events that are held should make people want to join our profession, not run the other way.

-Job outlook. As a clinical inpatient dietitian, I don’t see my exact position being around for much longer. Especially with losses in revenue amongst hospitals due to COVID, I truly (and unfortunately) think this position will eventually be phased out. In my city, a lot of hospitals have already started cutting their clinical inpatient diet techs, and I think dietitians are next. And it kills me to say that, because our job is needed. But since nurses can (and have) been doing our educations, pharmacy can order TPNs, and residents can stumble through ordering tube feeds, I think our job has shifted into the “not really necessary but nice to have” category. Which really, really sucks. But even in the few years I’ve been a dietitian, I’ve seen the shift. I think outpatient and community RD jobs will always be there, but I think inpatient dietitians are going to be a thing of the past very soon. Starting your own business has become more popular. If you can make it work, go for it. There is a dietitian “business coach” who started her own Instagram business after realizing clinical just isn’t where it’s at, and that new clinical jobs are becoming few and far between. And honestly, she’s right. Post-pandemic, look at the number of job opportunities in your area. It’s a shrinking number.

So that’s that. I’m sure this came off as negative, but someone needs to be telling others this. As much as I love nutrition and am passionate about helping those improve their health with nutrition, this career just isn’t worth it. I hope to always use my RD roots in my next career and I don’t regret the years of schooling I’ve done. But if you’re considering this route, I want you to recognize that this career isn’t even close to what your professors have chalked it up to be. If anything, if you are in college right now, GO SHADOW. Shadow inpatient, shadow outpatient, go see what the job is like. See how happy they are in their jobs, learn their salaries, learn what they love, what they don’t love, and truly see if you can see yourself in this job. That’s what I would tell my 18 year old self, and it’s what I’m telling you as well.

xoxo,

The Dorm Dietitian

#dietitian #registered dietitian #rd #rdn #nutrition #dietetics #college

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lilsherlockian1975 · 4 years

Text

The Nose Knows

A little soulmates AU, mostly fluff. Here’s part one. This is NOT beta’d, sorry for any mistakes. Huge thanks to @mel-loves-all for helping out with editing the images since I’m an ignorant goose penis when it comes to all that business. Blame me for the quality of the pics... it’s what I picked out for her. ~LiL~

-o-o-o-o-

He catches it on a breeze. It hits him like a physical blow and he instantly knows what he’s smelling, if not... who.

He and his cousin Daven are sitting on one of the few available benches on the Quad. Addam, his best friend since childhood, is talking about some girl he’d met at a sorority mixer the night before but as soon as the scent drifts his way, Jaime pretty much tunes out the sordid tale of sloppy, near-anonymous sex. It’s a gorgeous Spring day, not a cloud in the sky and no hint of rain for the first time in at least two weeks. This fact alone has driven most of the student population out of doors, making it almost impossible for him to quickly assign the scent to its owner.

Jaime is instantly ill at ease, which is unfortunate as moments ago he’d felt entirely in his element. He and his twin sister had celebrated their twenty-second name day the weekend before and prior to the scent, he’d been feeling at the very top of his game. Now he’s... confused and excited and anxious all at once.

Less than two months and he will be finished with this gods’ forsaken town and its massive university. He’s already been accepted at Crakehall School of Art & Design for his post-grad, which is, incidentally, where he originally had planned to study. His father’d had different ideas, forcing Jaime into the business programme at KLU. Thankfully, he had managed to slip a minor in Architecture into his degree by selling Tywin a load of shit about wanting to ‘propel Castlery Corp. into the modern era’. The minor had added a full year to Jaime’s studies and without a major in his chosen field, he will have to take supplementary classes at CSAD but he’s certain it will be worth it in the end.

None of that matters now. Tywin Lannister had died of a massive stroke seven months ago. Jaime supposes he should feel worse about that; should feel some kind of loss or sadness, and maybe he does, though not for the reasons most sons would for the death of a parent. But the old man was never a real father. He’d been indifferent toward Tyrion, dismissive toward Cersei - though he could occasionally be somewhat warmer to his only female child - and constantly demanding that Jaime ‘live up to the Lannister name’. Jaime can feel sympathy for their mother, of course, she did love the old bastard, but neither he nor his sister are overly damaged by the old man’s death. Oddly enough, their father’s death seems to be affecting his little brother the most.

The scent assails him again and this time he stands, walking towards it, leaving Addam sputtering objections and calling him names. Jaime doesn’t care. The only thing he cares about is the originator of that smell.

He passes small groups of fellow students, all equally excited about the respite from the spring rains. The Quad is packed, of course, so it’s no easy task. Not to mention that he probably looks like some kind of weirdo, walking around, nose first and… sniffing. But he’s being driven by something entirely out of his control.

Though he’s never really given much thought to the idea of soulmates, he knows they exist - his Uncle Gerion and Aunt Briony are soulmates, for instance, but it’s rarely talked about within the family, almost as if it is some dirty secret. Actually, for some unknown reason, talking about soulmates seems to be taboo in ‘polite society’. Uncle Gerion - his favourite uncle - however, is quite outspoken against Lannister Family tradition and societal norms. The phenomenon, as far as he knows, is very rare these days and Jaime has never once even considered the possibility for himself.

Now… Now there's no doubt. He can smell her - them? - whoever! Jaime’s never been attracted to men, but somehow he knows that if the gods have seen it fit to match him with a man… so be it!

Shaking himself, he chuckles as he moves to another group of students. It won’t be a man, he thinks. Surely the gods would have given him some kind of inclination towards his own sex if… Suddenly, he’s engulfed with the scent. They’re close, they must be! He turns, following his nose like a damn toucan.

The crowd thins a bit; it’s the top of the hour and people are rushing off to class. Jaime’s eyes and, yes, his nose, zero in on his target. Shit! It is a dude! He’s taller than Jaime by maybe an inch or so with short, straw-like blond hair, broad shoulders and… He’s just about to resign himself to a future that he’d never even considered (okay, so he’s maybe had the odd thought here and there about other guys - everyone has, right?! Right?) when they turn around and…

“You’re a girl,” he says without thinking.

She (oh, thank the gods she’s a she!) narrows her eyes, straightens her spine and glares. “Yes, I am. And you’re not very original, I’m afraid,” she says coldly before stalking past him.

What?! No! She’s… she’s supposed to know. She’s supposed to smell him too. What in the seven hells is going on?! “Wait!” Jaime calls out but she doesn’t stop. He can’t give up, he just can’t. Sprinting to catch up, he reaches out for her, wanting to stop her, to talk to her. He doesn’t make it that far, though. Just before he touches her arm, she jerks back - maybe she saw him in her peripheral vision, maybe it’s some strange side effect of their connection, he doesn’t know - but when he sees the look in her unbelievably blue eyes, he’s the one flinching away.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” she practically growls, “but you can’t just go around insulting people, chasing after them then touching them as if it’s your right!”

“But it is,” he replies lamely because... how doesn’t she know?

Her responding laugh is mocking and he can’t deny that it hurts him in a way he never imagined being hurt. Shaking her head, she sneers as she looks him up and down. “Guys like you are all the same…”

There are no guys like me, he thinks but luckily, this time he holds his tongue.

“I know I’m an easy target - hard to miss, low hanging fruit and whatnot - I’m just not in the mood for this nonsense today.”

Jaime knows he should give up, regroup and try again later, but patience has never been his strong suit. “I wasn’t… It wasn’t an insult. I was…” ‘Surprised’ sounds insulting and really, how does she still not know? His mind scrambles for a word to properly describe his condition. Finally, he settles on, “Confused?” though it unintentionally comes out as a question.

This seems to only further enrage the girl. She takes a step back, draws a deep breath and, once again, shakes her head. “Find someone else to help you figure out your sexuality!”

Okay, there’s a story there, Jaime’s sure of it but he doesn’t have time to ask. “No-no, you’re misunderstanding me. I know I’m not gay.” Although the fact that he considered it for thirty seconds or so is something he’ll deal with later! “I’m saying that…”

“I really don’t care what you’re saying.” Again, her eyes travel over him and Jaime has never felt so judged in his entire life. “It’s nothing new, it’s nothing I’ve not heard before. Do you really think you’re the first prick to want to screw with me? I’m guessing it’s another bet. Who put you up to this? Red? Bushy? If it was Hyle, I swear to the Seven...”

“None of them! I don’t even know who you’re talking about!” When he thinks about her words, an intense feeling of protectiveness overcomes him. “What bet? What did they do?”

Her pale, freckle-covered cheeks turn an interesting shade of pink as she hitches her messenger bag higher on her shoulder before crossing her arms over her chest. “Nothing. Never mind. Just… Just leave me alone. Please.” The last word comes out softly, pleadingly and it just about breaks Jaime’s heart. Turning, she starts to go.

“I’m not a creep!” he calls out, managing to stop her escape. Looking around, he notices that, miraculously, the Quad has pretty much cleared out. If their fellow students hadn’t been in such a rush to return to class he and the angry girl would have surely drawn a crowd. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself before continuing, “And I’m not a prick. I am sort of an arsehole, but not - I think, not like those guys you mentioned. Whatever they did... hurt you enough to make you make that face…”

She whips around. “What about my face?”

With a sigh, he says, “It looks sad. Too sad. It’s not supposed to.” And what does that even mean? he wonders as the words leave his mouth.

She’s surprised for a split second, then all emotion seems to drain from her features. “I don’t know why you’re doing this but please just… leave me alone.”

So he does. For now.

-o-o-o-o-

There is a very good reason that Brienne doesn’t know ‘who’ Jaime is. This is just the first part, I’m working on the next bit. Please let me know what you think. Thanks ~Lil~

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #uni AU #modern AU #game of thrones

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