#i am rotating this little frog man in my mind!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marlahey · 3 years

Photo

under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.) utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020)

––

• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s’not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. • wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” “Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #utsr redux

248 notes · View notes

anonthenullifier · 3 years

Note

Fic request for touristy Maximoff family? (bc Vision's 'drunk' awkwardness in Wandavision ep 2 where he apologised to a handrail, is something that I as a Brit intensely and deeply relate to, and it reminded me of them hiding out in the UK in IW which also made me v emotional- they deserved better!)

Thanks for the ask! They really did deserve better and hopefully might get some happiness at some point. I hope you enjoy their family day trip!

***

“Where are the witches?”

Vision folds the map into a square and slides it back into his fanny pack, nonchalance embedded in the action “Oh, there are no witches.”

This isn’t what Billy wants to hear, “You said this is Witch House.”

“I did, yes.”

The conversation circles back around, “Then where are the witches?”

“Well technically there were never any true witches here in the first place.” Billy stares at Vision, betrayal drooping his mouth down into a deep and unforgiving frown. A history lesson isn’t going to save the moment, and yet her husband tries, determined to share the two weeks worth of research he’s conducted since they decided on the trip. “It is called Witch House because it was owned by Judge Jonathon Corwin who presided over some of the witch trials. Now, though some like to say witchcraft was rampant at the time, it in fact was -”

“But I wanted witches.” This is true, it was Billy’s only request—spooky witches to be precise. “You said there’d be witches.”

Tommy isn’t fully invested in the trip, having voted to go to an amusement park for their fall get-away, but he never passes up an opportunity to pile onto a complaint. “Yeah, where are the witches, dad?”

“Salem has far greater historical value than just the witch trials.” Not a smart tactic, which Vision realizes as soon as he says it, face scrunching up at the misstep while the gears in his eyes rotate furiously to the left signifying he’s attempting to figure out how to regain their confidence. “Um, from my understanding there may be some modern day witches in the village who provide tours and demonstrations. We can stop by once we have seen everything.”

This earns some consideration from their ten year olds. “Real witches or like herbal tea witches?”

Tommy piggybacks on his brother’s question, “Will they turn Billy into a frog?”

“No one is being transformed into an amphibian,” Vision reassures them.

“Lame.” Only a half hour in and the L word is out in the open, a new record for the Maximoffs.

Wanda rolls her eyes at the rebuttal and studies the building in front of them, a foreboding tiered facade with black wood trim that would fit right into a horror movie. Briefly she wonders if it was always black or if that was added to enhance the supernatural identity the town developed once they realized the tourism potential of their sordid past. If ominousness is what sells here, she knows how to reclaim their trip. “Vizh,” her husband meets her gaze,the exasperation of parenthood making him seem particularly desperate for her thoughts, “There was at least one witch you can tell them about.” Confusion crinkles his brow, “Agatha.”

Realization dawns, as if he had blocked out all memories of dear old Agatha. “Ah yes Agatha Harkness.” The name falters on his lips, uncertainty making residence in his body with the wringing of his hands. “I am not sure they are old enough to hear about-“

“You owe us a witch, dad.” Tommy is very dedicated now, a grave frown on his face and an arm wrapped tenderly around his twin’s shoulders. “Billy deserves a witch.”

Vision folds, shoulders inching down in submission of their desires. “Agatha Harkness,” it is not that they have had bad experiences, per se, with Agatha, but she always intersects with their lives at moments of both wonderful highs and crippling lows, which is why Vision seems to weigh her name so heavily. “You will not see the name Agatha Harkness in any of the books about Salem.” Wanda can feel Vision mentally shut the books of information he’d acquired for the day. “She was a witch, a real one and very powerful as well as very old.”

“How old?” Billy’s eyes are shining at the change in tone for the trip. “Like ancient?”

“Positively ancient.” An enormous grin erupts on Billy’s face, while Tommy stands unusually rapt. “There are accounts of her presence all the way back to 10,500 BC, there are even rumors she was involved in the lost city of Atl-”

A cloyingly sweet and chipper “Excuse me,” breaks the story and the atmosphere. The voice belongs to a short, blonde haired woman in a puffy vest and flannel shirt, “I couldn’t help but overhear your tour and was hoping we could join.” The we is a man a few years older than the woman, his gray mustache thick enough to hide whatever his feelings are about the request.

Vision’s lips part and then close a few times, hand half raised as he processes the intrusion. “Oh um, this is a uh private tour,” a nervous, placating smile tries to shoo away the couple. It doesn’t work, neither does his, “Terribly sorry for the confusion.”

Typically on their trips people come up to them because they are Avengers, but Wanda doesn’t detect the same motivation from the couple, neither seeming to actually recognize them. The husband appears a bit concerned about Vision’s appearance while the wife assumes it is for show, “Oh well, you just seem dressed the part, you little devil,” Wanda tries not to laugh, something Tommy fails at, chuckling at the way the comment wilts his father further. Whoever this woman is ignores the reaction, soldiering on ahead as if it is her job to get what she wants. “And you are giving this beautiful family such a lovely tour. We’d love to join in.”

Vision weighs his response, eyes first surveying the very clearly matching sweatshirts they are wearing, this year’s travel theme the Maximoff Bunch. Each of them has a navy sweatshirt with Cambria font declaring their role-- Vision’s sweatshirt (that is real clothing, not molecularly manipulated so that he has a keepsake from their trip) is emblazoned with Papa-ya, their less than thrilled 10 year olds are sporting ones labeled Bil(ly)berry and Tommy-rillo, and Wanda’s deviates a bit with Mom-osa, Vision crushed to not find a fruit close enough to mom to complete the bunch. This should be enough to convince this woman that they are all a family and not a tour group...and yet she just keeps smiling sweetly at Vision until he gives in. “We’re happy to pay.”

Now Vision turns towards Wanda, searching for a response or a rescue. She doesn’t get a chance to help, Tommy speaking up first, “Fifty a person fair?”

“Thomas I do not-”

“Completely fair.”

The glare from Vision assures their son that they are going to talk about this on the ride home, Tommy’s impulsivity almost always at odds with Vision’s desire for control and planning.

Vision turns towards the couple, hands clasped tightly in a sign that another apology is on it’s way but it is stopped by Billy recentering their attention to what is most important. “How can Agatha be so old?”

Faced with numerous smiling and eager faces, Vision seems to accept his newfound role with a deep, soundless sigh, “Well, she is a very powerful witch, one who even survived the Salem Witch Trials.”

“No way!”

“Very much so. Let us return to 10,500 BC first.” Now that he is free to regale them with history, albeit seasoned with a heaping amount of occult, Vision finds his element. They learn about how Agatha came to be in Salem, about the Witch House and the judge who dwelled there, of the frenzy that occurred in people pointing fingers at anyone who was suspicious or merely disliked. The boys are enraptured listening to the tales of injustice and prejudice and, as they move from the Witch House to the hill on which many witches were burned at the stake, their little tour group increases in size, a trail of eight people joining on.

Surprisingly her husband takes it all in stride, welcoming each new person and asking their name. What really seems to excite Vision is when their crew asks questions. One of the newbies stops him during his soliloquy on what behaviors were deemed witchy. “Is it true that witches danced naked?”

Vision’s charm is on full display, lips cocked to the side as he shakes his head at the idiocy of the past, “Merely a salacious rumor because titillation is more convincing than honesty.”

A voice from the back of the group declares, “That’s because history is written by lonely men.”

Without missing a beat, her husband nods appreciatively at the running commentary from this particular guest, “A very astute observation, Taiyah, yet again. Now let’s turn our attention back to the Court of Oyer and Terminer.”

As the tour keeps moving through the harrowed landmarks, Billy is at the front, always just to the side of Vision, soaking in every word of information. Tommy, on the other hand, oscillates between the front and the back, eventually deciding to stick with Wanda. “This is starting to get a bit lame.”

“Your father and brother are having fun.”

His annoyed sigh seeks companionship, which she won’t give because she’s enjoying herself as well. “It’s just so much talking.” It is more than Tommy is ever willing to listen to, his mind and body always seconds, if not hours, ahead of them all. “Where’s the excitement?”

Sweeping the environment is a key aspect of missions and right now Wanda has assessed that the majority of the group are crowded around a tree, listening to the story of how Agatha supported parts of the trials out of a need to cull the weaker witches and remove her competition, it is a dark aspect of the tour, barely a sound existing to interfere with Vision’s explanation of the witch’s intentions. “Watch this.” Tommy stares at Wanda as she lifts her hand, scarlet undulating around her fingers, and then she flicks a finger, the tree trembling mightily despite no breeze to speak of. Several people gasp, one woman screams, and instantly Vision locks eyes with her, not one to ever be deceived by her influence. She expects irritation at disrupting his story, but instead there’s a little spark of mischief in his swirling irises, an almost imperceptible uptick to the left corner of his mouth that takes all her energy not to go and enjoy.

“Don’t you all tell us not to do that?” Tommy’s voice is bated, eager to figure out if their limits on use of powers in public is about to be lessened.

“No one goes on a witch tour without hoping for a little bit of magic.” The shit eating grin on his face is almost a perfect replica of Pietro’s and one she can’t help but mirror. “Just watch and learn.”

***

By the time they reach the Witch Village, the agreed upon conclusion of their tour, Vision can’t get a word in edgewise, the entire group riled up, swapping observations of the branches that moved without wind, the sense of dread that engulfed their minds at the guilty verdict of Agatha, or the heat they felt when the pyre was verbally lit. It’s this sense of awe that makes not a single person listen to Vision’s insistent, “Sorry, please, I do not want your money. Please, keep it for yourselves.” Instead of listening to him, everyone shoves their payment into the cup that Tommy so helpfully procured from the concession stand nearby.

Once all the people are gone, it is just the Maximoffs once again. “Was that sufficient in witches?”

Billy’s enthusiastic nods sends his hair bobbing with glee. “So awesome.”

“I have a question,” this comes from Tommy, who has already bought an ice cream cone with their earnings, the swirl of chocolate and vanilla towering up from his fist, “would we have been considered witches back then?”

“Well,” Vision’s arm snakes around her waist, pulling her until their hips are touching, the pride in his voice wrapping her even more snugly with his affection, “your mother already is a stunning one.”

“Gross.”

“And I no doubt would be viewed as inherently supernatural and thus evil,” something that is said with levity instead of the usual depths of despair that accompanies Vision’s grapple with humanity. “The two of you would also be suspect, simply from your parentage but also, well-”

“So the answer is yes?” Vision concedes with a nod. “Great, wanna go take a picture in the arm thingies over there?” They follow the ice cream cone as it points them towards a small square where people are taking turns putting their heads and hands through the holes.

“That would be a pillory,” Vision helpfully defines, but neither of their sons are listening, having already taken off to join the line for the photo op.

Wanda takes their brief solitude to encircle his waist with her arm, squeezing him tight and kissing his shoulder. “You have fun?”

His arm moves to rest along her shoulders, “Surprisingly yes, it was a bit exhilarating to have a truly captive audience.”

Wanda hugs him tighter, “Good.” Billy and Tommy wave them over, only ten people now ahead of them in line. They look so carefree, jostling each other with whatever it is they are bickering about now, their happiness with the day unashamedly stitched into every movement. Given who they are, Wanda is glad they are alive now and not during a time of greater hatred. Which brings her mind back to the woman who made the tripa success. “Vizh?”

“Hmm?”

“When do you think we should let them meet Agatha?”

They stop, Vision sometimes unable to think and walk at the same time, and the toil in his mind is palpable even without her powers. “I believe,” he too takes in their sons, a fluttering smile on his lips the longer he stares, “it might be best she remains a story for a little bit longer.”

#vision #wanda maximoff #scarlet vision #wandavision #billy kaplan #tommy shepherd #the maximoffs #ask anon #replies #mine

34 notes · View notes

greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

Text

Happy Little Stars

Hello Lovelies! I’m back with more of the Alien au! If you missed the previous parts you can find them [Here] on Ao3!

Previous: [Stars Die (But We Don’t)]

Start: [The Space Between Us]

Summary: Virgil is Happy. Logan helps him realize how much. (ft: Anxceit, gays in space, and good feelings)

Words: 6885

Quick Taglist:@alias290 @chelsvans @coyboi300 @dante-reblogs @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @mrbubbajones @musical-nerd18 @nonasficcollection @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @themultishipperchild @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws @welovelogansanders

Read on Ao3 || General Writing Masterlist

Virgil stretched out his shoulders as he walked into the kitchen area. It was somewhere between too-late and why-the-fuck-was-he-awake-this-early o’clock and his body was bemoaning it. But Space revolutions and rotations had long since thrown off his circadian rhythm. He wasn’t sure how much he was sleeping compared to how much he’d been sleeping on Earth: he hadn’t exactly been abducted with a watch and different planets regulated time by different intervals.

Logically Virgil knew that one rotation of a planet was one day, and one revolution was a year, but aliens used the word “Qisannu” to describe minutes, but their minutes were something like 84 seconds and their hours (“Phisannu”) were about 42 quisannu each and Virgil had decided that he was perfectly happy not knowing what time it was, ever. Logan had been very interested in how humans told time but had gotten distracted by the finger multiplication Virgil had been doing while trying to explain it all and they had never gotten back on track.

The point was that Virgil had slept and that even in the expanse of Space, the Final Frontier(™) he was still not a morning person. Janus and Logan were already up though: the former sipping tea from Patton’s secret stash and the latter reading off one of the Interspace Nook-like devices that usually brought news of the important type to them while sitting at the table quietly.

Virgil gave a blurry, still sleepy nod in the direction of the living beings and shuffled over to the cabinet where food was stored. He poked around for a moment before picking out some weird substance that Roman had specifically told him not to eat. It had reminded him of Jello, but the flavor was more towards cough syrups than fruit. They had picked it up off a distant planet and Roman had nearly paid thrice the amount of griot for it. Virgil didn't see what the hype was, but it was substance and he was hungry and really Roman had practically invited him to take it when he said don’t even look at it, you Deathworlder!

“I was thinking,” Janus started. “Rozario.”

“Rozario?” Virgil echoed.

“Spanish origins to remind us of Spanish class where you repeated embarrassed yourself every single day--”

“Seriously,” Virgil said, “Can’t you wait until I wake up to insult me?”

“--And it's elegant. Listen to it: Virgil Rozario, Janus Rozario.” He paused for emphasis as Virgil blinked at him slowly, “Really it's my favorite so far--”

"FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS SCIENCE!" Logan yelled, "I CONCEDE! I GIVE UP!"

At any other moment this would be a momentous occasion. Logan, the smartest of the Tenekarie, the most feared alien on this side of the cosmos, the relentless scientist, finally admitting defeat. Virgil hadn’t thought that Logan even knew the Common words for "give up" much less how to use them in a sentence. He was passionate and determined and once he set his mind to something there was a better chance of stopping a black hole’s gravitational pull than getting him to back down.

And yet, at stupid-early o'clock on their mostly silent spaceship in the middle of completely silent Space, hearing Logan scream at the top of his lungs was not what Virgil was expecting nor was he prepared for.

"What the fuck!" The human growled from on the floor surrounded by the remains of his breakfast, whatever alien food it was. “Actual fucking Hell! Logan!”

Janus looked down at him from his delicate perch on the table, humming into his cup of tea like he hadn't also startled at the sound of Logan's exclamation and poured half his drink on the ground. "Oh dear," he said innocently, intentionally, asshole-ishly. "That's quite a mess there, Virgil. You should really be more careful."

Virgil flipped him the bird, which of course only made him laugh. He ignored it in favor of turning back toward Logan. The alien was dancing with lights all singing so brightly it was near hard to look at and with so many colors Virgil's empty stomach attempted to rebel.

"What the Hell, man?” Virgil squinted and raised a hand to blot out the sight, while his heart was fluttering like a butterfly over a fucking venus fly trap. “What's wrong?"

Logan's lights briefly concluded, shutting off like he was taking a deep breath and then flickering back on at a less intense, less violent pace. His lower arms crossed themselves while his upper arms kneaded the table.

"You!" Logan snarled, "You two are my problem!"

Virgil's shoulders tensed and his back straightened and every single thought of his when careening out the goddamn airlock in the void. Because, yeah, this was it! This was the start to every single nightmare Virgil had ever had since joining the crew: Logan the only one who had wanted him around, the one who brought him here and gave him a place to stay, the one was now fed up with him for something he didn't realize he was doing wrong and now going to kick him off into space or sell him back to the Welsors or something equally terrible that Virgil can't even imagine because he's not entirely space savvy yet. And the worst part would be that Virgil didn't even know what he was doing wrong! And he dragged Janus into it by default which meant Janus was getting the same punishment and then Janus would hate him for getting them into the same mess all over again and Virgil can withstand a lot but the mere idea of Janus sneering at him and pushing him away had hislungs shrinking right there in his chest, shriveling up as a way to make it easy for him to just die--

Janus slipped off the table in a fluid motion and landed softly next to Virgil. He placed a hand on Virgil's shoulder blade but used the other to help clean up some of his dropped breakfast and the slipped tea with a towel he materialized out of who knows where. "Breathe," Janus's words ghosted into Virgil's brain without him actually having to say them. "Breathe and relax."

Logan let out a frustrated screech again, "I do not understand! You both are confusing me!" His lights flicked again harshly around his neck notches, "Please just tell me: what is the human greeting custom?"

"The what now?" Virgil asked all eloquently out of breath and strained and near dying. His heartbeat was thumping in his throat, like a frog and no amount of breathing could get the foggy panic to subside.

Logan, though, appeared to be oblivious to his plight. He pulled out a pocket notebook, and flipped through it angrily. "Roman reported that when you two saw each other you had- and I quote-- "open mouth kissed in the grossest display of love I have ever seen, you should have been there Lo it was terrifying seeing Virgil looking so emotional" end quote. However!! I have been documenting your interactions on the ship and out of seventeen times that you two have greeted each other, only six times have those been with kissing and only twice has it been with tongue--"

"OKAY!" Virgil screeched, cutting him off. “That’s enough Science for today and probably tomorrow, too!”

Logan plowed on like he hadn’t even spoken, “--On the days that you two do not greet each other with a kiss, your interactions range from a nod, to actually speaking words, to brushing a hand over one or the other or to becoming hostile-- although Patton has informed me that those last interactions may be considered as “play fighting” or “flirting”. As you can see there is a large amount of inconsistency--”

“Oh my god, Logan,” Virgil begged, “How long have you been watching us?”

“Eighteen days, six phisannu, and eleven qisannu.” Logan recited.

“Jesus…” Virgil dug his chin into his chest and forced himself to exhale long and slow. Eighteen days? That was just about when Janus and Remus had first come aboard. Now that he was thinking about it….yeah Logan had been watching them closer than normal. Virgil had been so distracted by Janus being alive and breathing and not dead, that he had written off most everything else.

Speaking of, he peaked up at Janus, at Janus’s stupid smirk and his shaking shoulders and realized, the jerk was laughing.

“You knew about this?” Virgil accused, launching a hand in the distressed Logan’s direction.

Janus held up a jiggly cube of alien food and ever so sweetly winked at him. “I had my suspicions. He is hardly subtle when it comes to taking notes.”

“And you let him?!”

“Who am I to get in the middle of a scientist’s project?”

Logan gave another frustrated screech and tossed his upper arms into the air. “So you’ve been intentionally messing with my observations instead? You have been manipulating my data! No wonder I cannot get a significant answer!”

“You could have just asked us,” Virgil groaned. He grabbed another Jello-like cube and put it in his empty bowl. His stomach growled faintly at the smell of them, because while they tasted like cough syrup they gave off the aroma of fresh strawberries. Was it wrong to want to eat them off the floor? Surely Patton had just cleaned the kitchen and really Virgil had eaten worse back on Earth and hadn’t died. Could he die of alien germs?

Janus plucked the next Jello cube from his hand and put it in the bowl as if he knew exactly what Virgil was thinking and taking action against it like the killjoy he was.

It was hard to make out Logan’s exact expression because of the thick light blocking glasses he was wearing, but Virgil thought he could guess. Tenekarie expressions were similar enough to humans that he could see the “I’m regretting everything” look from galaxies away.

“Roman told me that it was rude to ask a human about their customs,” Logan said.

“And you listened to him?” Janus asked, not at all delicately. Logan made a series of noises in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like an engine dropping out of warp drive.

“Roman literally calls us Deathworlders,” Virgil pointed out.

“Roman is also more experienced in the customs of other species than I am,” Logan said, stubbornly. “I am perhaps one of the only ones of my kind to venture off world. Social niceties of other species do not make sense to me.”

“Logan, you literally taught me how to speak,” Virgil said. “All you had to do was ask. I would tell you anything.” And it wasn’t even a lie. If Logan asked him to explain the governing system from back on Earth, Virgil would begrudgingly rack his brain for all he knew about the Electoral College from eighth grade Government class.

“But you greatly dislike talking about humans!” Logan snapped his pocket notebook closed, his upper hands twisted in the air like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with them. “I do not know much of anything about human expressions and culture, but your mood greatly decreases when Earth is mentioned and you are caused great distress when any one of us attempt to uncover knowledge of your childhood.”

Virgil was well aware of the eyes on him: both Logan’s hidden light sensitive ones and Janus’s curious heterochromic ones. He plopped another cube in the bowl and stood up, measuring out his breaths as evenly as he could.

“I mean, I guess--” Virgil tried to play it off like his mind wasn’t furiously fighting off unwelcome memories, like he was perfectly fine and there was nothing wrong with where this conversation was going at all, period. “You could have still asked.”

Logan’s face pinched. “What sort of friend would I be if I caused you intentional distress?”

Janus didn’t say anything, just sat back on his hunches and watched Virgil with that critical gaze of his. Virgil could barely even remember the last time Janus had to analyse him for information. Was it before the Robotics Show from Hell or later when they were lying on the floor of Janus’s room for the first time so sleep deprived that they were enjoying each other's company? It was the look he used when he was picking apart words and tone and emphasis and intention, the look he used when he was weedling his way into someone’s mind and figuring out how they thought, the look he used when he was filling in gaps of information without needing to ask.

Virgil didn’t necessarily hate when Janus did it to him, but it made his body go rigid and his eyes stiffly avoid contact and connection and all the things that amateur profilists used to determine when one was lying and telling the truth.

Virgil sighed out another breath, “Alright, alright.” He left the bowl on the counter and sat down in one of the chairs at the table, opening his palms to Logan. “Ask your questions.”

Logan’s lights slowed, flooding purple and green with dashes of red in between, Northern Lights style. He tapped two of his four fingers on the table across from Virgil as if he wasn’t satisfied with Virgil suddenly opening up.

“I do not want to bring harm to your emotional status,” the alien said.

“Whatever he doesn’t want to answer, I will,” Janus offered, pulling himself up off the ground and brushing imaginary space dirt off his pants (which were actually Virgil’s, because they still hadn’t stopped somewhere to pick up supplies. Not that Virgil was complaining. Janus calves really stood out in the slim fit). Janus smiled without teeth and Virgil saw Logan doing an extensive overthinking process before finally nodding.

“Okay,” Logan said. “What is the normal way for humans to greet each other?”

“Depends,” Virgil said.

There was a beat of silence, before Janus huffed and sat himself on Virgil’s lap. “What he means, Logan, is that humans have a lot of ways to greet each other based on their relationship to one another. The closer the relationship the more personal the greetings tend to be. I might greet a new acquaintance with a handshake, but hug a close friend or ruffle the hair of a younger cousin.”

Logan scribbled something in his notebook, which Virgil knew from experience was in ancient Tenekarie language as well as in a code that only Logan knew the key of. Supposedly it helped keep all his information organized and prevented theft but they had yet to encounter someone willing to fight Logan for his information.

“These things change between humans,” Virgil added, “In some families it might be normal to kiss a relative on the cheek, and in others that can be weird or uncomfortable. Between cultures too.”

“Cultures?” Logan repeated, “How many cultures are on your planet?”

“Please don’t make me count them,” Virgil said.

Janus shuffled so he was better seated in between Virgil’s thighs. “Perhaps it's easier to explain like this: if there is something for humans to disagree over, there is a different culture for it.”

Logan stopped writing to look up at them. When neither of them corrected each other he hummed. “That sounds truly chaotic and ill designed.”

Virgil shrugged, “Its not all that bad.” He carefully carted his fingers through Janus’s hair. It was soft, a little greasy because it had been a day and a half since he showered and he smelled like the healing aloe even though the scars on his face were as healed as they were getting. Still he was warm to the touch and Virgil felt himself practically melting into him.

“Sometimes it's really cool,” Virgil said. “You meet people from an entirely different way of life and if everyone doesn’t suck, you get to learn something new.”

“Suck?” Logan echoed confusedly, but Janus warded it off with a wave of his hand and a sip of his tea.

“Many cultures,” Janus summarized, “Many ways to greet each other. Next question.”

Logan accepted the answer with all the grace of the Tenekarie. “From my observations, kissing is a very personal act. This means that you two have a very personal relationship, correct?”

“Yes,” They answered together.

Logan nodded. “So what is your relationship?”

Virgil’s fingers froze midway through their path in Janus’s hair. “Uhhh…”

Janus frowned, and looked back at Virgil. Even now their faces were less than a couple inches apart and his breath smelled pretty awful, but Virgil didn’t think he could push him away even if all life in the cosmos depended on it. It was something about his eyes-- always about his eyes. Virgil had probably made a million metaphors and similes about his eyes before and he could probably make a million more and still not manage to capture his quintessential essence of him.

It was nearly embarrassing as all hell. Middle School Virgil who righteously suffered through all English classes would be completely mortified to know that he had turned into a poetic sap who liked to make love songs out of the way that Janus’s lips taste and the rhythm of his heartbeat. All those times he had ripped up his own emo writing and now he was trying to figure out if “vivacious” rhymed with “Janus” because there was no other way to describe how his heart was acting any time the other boy fluttered his eyelashes.

Maybe words weren’t enough, maybe they would never be enough. Janus would probably know better anyway, because he knew so many different words in different languages, but Virgil would rather eject himself into space than admit all those very real, very mushy, very gushy emotions in his head.

Maybe that was the reason why Virgil was breathlessly staring into Janus’s eyes scrambling for an answer he wasn’t sure even existed.

Poor little Virgil, who never got a chance to tell Janus how he felt three years ago and now chased him down in Space and still couldn’t get the words “I’m super fucking gay for you” out unironically. It wasn’t like Janus didn’t know. Virgil knew he knew already. The words weren’t necessary between them, when they could look at each other and recognize that they’d do anything for each other.

How can he put a name to that? Virgil didn’t think there was a name.

The emotion in his chest, the burning desire in his heart, the hum in his soul that finally settled when Janus was next to him-- those weren’t things that Virgil thought had a name. It wasn’t simple to explain, not like sadness, or anger, or fear.

It was dangerous, Virgil knew. Because it was the emotion, the feeling, the urge that made him want to bend over backwards for Janus’s smile, that made him bullheaded enough to sneak over the mansion walls into the Ekans Estate and climb the trellis to the Janus’s bedroom window, that made him want to pick out Prom Tuxes and dream of a perfect world where Janus’s parents didn’t hate the mere idea of Virgil. Virgil had done stupid things for the sake of Janus’s real smile already; what was stopping him from doing more? What was stopping him from doing stupider things? Virgil would fight the whole world, dozens of worlds, thousands for the sake of Janus.

And Logan wants him to define a dedication like that in a simple relationship status?

“Oh my god,” Janus said, staring at Virgil, “You are way over thinking this.”

He rotated on Virgil’s lap and faced Logan with a look of determination that Virgil was honestly a little terrified of. “Our relationship is Fuckbuddies, okay? Fuckbuddies with emotions.”

“EXCUSE ME,” Virgil yelped, “What?!”

“Fuck.” Janus said, “Buddies.” Deliberately. Slowly. Cheekily. “Am I wrong, Virgil?”

And oh.

Virgil was right there, right next to Janus’s lips, right next to his wide eyes and soft, very kissable lips, right next to--

And then suddenly he was closer.

Kissing Janus was like setting himself on fire, but in a good way or whatever. Virgil didn’t know. In a single breath Janus managed to make him stupid, caused him lose focus of everything around him, drew him in and held him tight in his clutches until Virgil honestly forgot what his own name was. All that matter was Janus, Janus’s hands cupping Virgil's face, and Janus’s sneaky clever little tongue was darting between Virgil’s lips, searching for a gap between his teeth--

“Pardon my interruption,” Logan said. Like a beacon of light in the middle of a rainstorm, like the fire alarm in the middle of the night, like Janus’s mother knocking on the door to ask why he’s still awake when Virgil is not welcomed in her home and he’s currently lounging on the bed next to Janus.

Virgil yanked back on instinct and Janus gave him a toothy, smug grin in return. The boy in his lap patted Virgil’s cheeks, and licked his lips again because he was an asshole and Virgil was very much blushing across his entire face.

“But what exactly is a-- What did you say?” Logan tapped his pen, “A Fuckboodie?”

“A fuckbuddy,” Janus repeated the English word which he did not bother to try and convert to any sort of alien language.

“Yes,” Logan said. “That. What is that?��

Virgil was so lost in the sensation of Janus running his thumb over Virgil’s lips, of the sight of Janus looking all coy on Virgil’s lap, twisting just ever so much….he totally completely missed what Janus said next.

The next thing he knew Janus was plucking himself out of Virgil’s lap drawing his fingers across the underside of Virgil’s chin and walking away with a sway in his hips that definitely wasn’t there before and definitely impossible to look away from. He was hypnotizing all the way out the door and out of sight.

“--Virgil?” Logan said.

Virgil blinked twice. “What the fuck just happened?”

Logan adjusted his glasses, “Janus said that you would be better suited for answering what a fuckboodie was… are you okay?”

Virgil couldn’t help but laugh, “Asshole.” He shook his head slightly, but he couldn’t keep that stupid smile off his face. Absently he wondered if his cheeks should be hurting this much from smiling. When was the last time he smiled this much? Had he ever?

“Virgil, I will admit, you are starting to scare me,” Logan said. “It is very unlike you to act so…aloof and whimsical. Ever since I have known you, you have been very direct and, well, possibly paranoid. Is there perhaps a pheromone that Janus is giving off that is making you like this?”

“Pheromone?” Virgil repeated to make sure he heard that right, “Pheromone? Humans don’t give off like pheromones-- at least I don’t think they do? At least not pheromones that other humans can really pick up on. I think I read a Wikipedia article about some basic stuff that suggested early humans did but Janus can’t and doesn’t-- I’m not acting weird.”

Logan didn’t say anything and Virgil felt the weight of his own words come careening back down on him. Like a guillotine.

“Okay, maybe I’m acting a little weird,” Virgil allowed, with a sigh. He gently touched the underside of his chin where Janus had drawn his fingers. The ghost imprint of his fingertips made him shiver and maybe hold that stupid fond smile longer than he meant to.

Logan wrote something in his notebook with the fluidity that made Virgil certain he was writing down possible pheromones types.

“Janus and I are not fuckbuddies,” Virgil blurted out, if only to distract him. “We’re uh...what’s the word…” Boyfriends. Lovers. Stupid Idiots. Best Friends. Don’t they all mean the same thing between the two of them, anyway? “Partners.”

“Romantic partners?”

“Yes.” Virgil said. He picked up Janus’s abandoned tea and twisted the tea bag around his finger. “Yeah.”

Logan tracked the motion, as shown by the tilt of his head and the press of his lips together. The lights racing through his body slowed further into a contemplative tempo, something that someone could slow dance too, not that Virgil was thinking of slow dancing or anything. He was a scorned poetic, not a masochist.

The tea tasted like Jasmine although Virgil doubted any planets this far from Earth produced the plant they were used to.

“You are happy,” Logan stated. Which very much sounded like an unchangeable fact than a guess or an observation.

Virgil blinked at the sudden change of tone, but he nodded carefully. “Yeah?”

“Janus makes you happy.” Logan stated again.

“Yeah,” Virgil answered again. He couldn’t help but feel like he was taking a test suddenly, like Logan was his Spanish Teacher and he was being graded on his pronunciation in front of the entire class, like there was a lot riding on his every answer but he couldn’t figure out the trick that was going on.

Logan tapped his writing pen on his notebook, and drummed two fingers from another hand on the edge of the table, much like Virgil’s actual Spanish Teacher when she was about to fail him.

“I am causing you distress,” Logan said leaning back, “I apologize. My line of thinking was not intended to make you uncomfortable. Through my observations and with the help of your answers I am formulating conclusions--”

“That is way too much thinking for this early in the morning, Logan.” Virgil told him, shifting slightly. “Really too much--

“Were you unhappy?”

Virgil froze.

He felt his blood run cold and turn to ice crystals in his veins, cutting off all feeling to his extremities. He felt the warmth disappear from his cheeks, felt the air in his lungs come to an absolute stop and the vacuum of space suck away every moderately decent feeling he was having. Virgil had never been tossed out into space but he figured that this feeling was pretty close to how his carbon based body would react to Absolute Zero.

“We have known you for two years,” Logan continued, talking much like he was the dam and the words were the water breaking through his barriers and drowning them both. “Ever since we picked you up from TS-1219, you have portrayed a certain personality: you don’t smile, despite having told us that humans smile to show happiness, you’ve always held yourself at a distance and been closed off about your past. You have always been a difficult person to get to know, although Roman, Patton, and I have put forth a valiant effort to befriend you, Virgil. However in just the short time Janus and Remus have been on our ship, you have-- you have--”

His upper arms writhed in the air with hopelessness bordering on frustration that was covering some other emotion Virgil couldn’t quite pick out and was afraid to pick out. This was Logan, and he didn’t do “hopeless”. He had a plan for everything. He was the anchor in the storm, the calm in the chaos, the reassurance in the panic. When Virgil had lost everything and everyone, Logan had shown up and pulled him out of that dark place.

“Were you unhappy?” Logan asked quietly with all his lights going dark, “Did we make you unhappy?”

Virgil's mouth moved, but the lack of oxygen in his lungs twisted his insides into a mess, wriggling like a knot of snakes that were devouring each other. Before he even knew what he was doing he sprung across the table, catching Logan in the Cosmos’s Most Awkward Hug ever. Janus’s stupid tea spilled again but Virgil couldn’t have cared less about getting hot leaf juice on himself when Logan was sitting across from him wondering if he was the reason that Virgil had hated living for so long.

Logan was larger than him, but Virgil fit his arms between Logan’s upper and lower ones and held him as tight as he could, tighter than he could, tightly enough to convey all the words he couldn’t articulate. He buried his face into Logan’s crystal collarbone just as Logan’s probably completely confused, maybe a little terrified arms circle back around to tentatively hold him back.

“Vir...gil…” He whispered. “What…?”

“No, no, nonono,” Virgil said, “No, Logan. I wasn’t-- I’m not-- I swear--”

There was something warm trailing down his cheeks, and it took him a half a quisannu to realize, oh, those were tears. His tears.

He was crying.

Logan floundered his upper arms. “Virgil you-- your eyes--!”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said.

Logan made a hysterical noise in the back of his throat, running lines of agitated lights up and down his arms. Virgil could feel the warmth of them as he pressed his face into Logan’s chest, like holding his palm to a birthday candle. The alien smelled like dish soap-- the fancy stuff that the Ekans kept in their kitchen that made the best bubbles at two in the morning when they were trying to clean up any signs that they had been making cookies.

“I do not understand why you are apologizing,” Logan said desperately, “Please do not apologize! I was the one who asked--”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said again, “That I made you… fuck, Lo...Did I really…?” He sucked in a dangerous breath, an urgent, determined, dire breath and forced it back out.

“You guys made me so happy, Lo,” Virgil told him. “You don’t… you really don’t know how happy you guys made me.”

Because they did make him happy. They made him so stupid happy. Virgil’s favorite memories were the ones where Patton was hopping around the kitchen, experimenting with new foods and sweeping everyone else in to dances, the ones where Roman was polishing his sword collection and telling the corresponding tales for each weapon, the ones where Logan read off science tidbits to the room and got excited for new experiments in testing, the ones where the others let him play around with their broken electronics and he created something ultimately useless but that the others were so amazed over. They were the memories that bandaged up the gaping wound in his heart and finally allowed it to heal over, the ones that reminded him he could smile, that there were still things to smile about.

They pulled him out of the black hole of despair he’d fallen into, they brushed the Welsor fighting ring’s dirt off of him, and they accepted him-- even when Patton had started out so terrified of him and Roman was so distrustful and Logan was struggling to climb that language barrier between them.

When Janus had disappeared from Earth, Virgil had been left empty. The three of them had filled him up again.

And they hadn’t asked for anything in return for it.

Virgil wasn’t sure how to tell Logan that in definite words, in concrete breaths, in a way that didn’t dredge up the memories of who he was before Logan, Patton, and Roman. Because he was sorry he ever made them doubt how happy Virgil had been with them, that he made Logan so scared he had to ask the question out loud, that he hadn’t realized his actions could have been perceived that way at all.

Sometimes Virgil forgot as alien as they were to him, he was just as much as an unknown to them.

There were a billion, million, trillion stars in all the galaxies and Virgil would give them all up for the sake of the people he called family. Screw Earth and the Human Race; Virgil had already decided he didn’t want to save his own last name. He didn’t want the people that he had grown up with.

He wanted the three aliens and Janus and hell maybe even Remus too, when the guy stopped trying to sell them to the Space Pirates of the Caribbean. He wanted to travel and see nebulas, watch the death of a star and the formation of a sun and all that stupid stuff he never thought he was ever gonna see.

He wanted to be able to turn around and grasp at the nearest person and ask “Are you seeing this?! Isn’t it so fucking cool?!” Because that was his deepest desire, what he saw in the Mirror of Erised, what he would be happy doing for the rest of his tiny, insignificant life.

There was a thin line between being content and being happy and Virgil had walked on the far side of it for most of his life. Before Janus, he had clawed his way through his parent’s disappointed gazes and he had resigned himself to being content on the days where they’d rather ignore him than ask him if he had gotten any better at kissing his teachers shoes. Before Janus’s death, he had been content with those stolen late nights with Janus and happy with the cherished few hours he could get away with.

Before, before, before. Virgil had been content with what he had. He wrapped himself around those things that brought him warmth and he held onto those memories even when they burned him-- even when Janus’s ghost had been laughing in his ears and he had torn himself apart missing it, he clung to the concept of it. He had been content once upon a time, and he was content knowing that even if he had never reached that state again.

But now?

Now, he was more than content.

He was happy.

Because Janus wasn’t dead and he had Logan, Patton, and Roman who wanted him around. Because he was in space and learning new things. Because it was everything he had never dared dreamed of and more.

“Oh Great Disney,” A voice behind them said, “What did you do to him, Pocket Calculator?”

Logan shifted slightly, but he did not go as far as to try to remove Virgil from clutching him. Even from behind closed eyes, Virgil could tell he was giving off purple flashes in regular slow inverals, the type that usually calmed Virgil down when he was waking up from a nightmare and couldn’t get imaginary alien blood out from under his nails.

“I ah… I’m afraid I’m not entirely certain,” Logan admitted. “He mentioned that perhaps I was doing too much thinking this early in the rotation.”

Roman-- Virgil couldn’t think of another person who’s footsteps could sound so dramatic other than Janus, but Janus didn’t have a tail-- let out a huff, “Yeah well! I would also burst into tears if you started talking about warp cores and all that junk before I got my Shishdouble.”

“Is that what this is?” Logan asked tiredly. “Crying?”

There were some sounds of things being pushed around, cabinets being opened and closed; Roman must have been looking for food. A specific type of food. The food that Virgil had already poured all over the floor and then cleaned up hurriedly and placed back on the counter.

“Uh yeah,” Roman said, “Seriously, what did you say to him? Virge, whatever it was, I’m sure he didn’t mean--where is my Shishdouble?”

Virgil gave Logan another, last tight squeeze and untangled himself from the rocky alien. He was a little wobbly standing back up, but he managed and he even got to rub away the slight tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Sorry, Lo,” He rasped out.

Logan was peering at him curiously and Roman, too, now. The latter had a spoon in his mouth and was watching from next to the counter, his bone plates clacking together in what Virgil thought might have been surprise.

It took Virgil a moment to figure out why. He was sure he looked great: his bed head was probably still in effect and he was wearing a sleep shirt with too many holes in it, not to mention the way his face grew blotchy when he cried and the red rim to his eyes.

But even through all that, he was smiling. Teeth and all. Oh God, when was the last time he smiled like this? Had he ever?

“You broke him!” Roman hissed.

“I didn’t--!!” Logan snapped back.

And Virgil laughed. It felt a bit like he was letting go of a weight he didn’t know he was holding, like an invisible straight jacket being cut off him, like he had been drowning his entire life and just now came up for air for the first time.

“S-sorry,” He laughed between gasps for breath, “I-- oh fuck, god, sh-shit! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t let Pat hear you say that,” Roman said, “You’ll make both his hearts give out with such strong language.”

“I have already said this, but it bears repeating,” Logan said, “You do not need to apologize, Virgil. I appeared to have overstepped your boundaries with my personal questions and that is my fault. I should be apologizing to you.”

“Disney, guys,” Roman moaned. His tail knocked against the counter, “Just how deep did the two of you get this morning? Its only the seventh Phisannu.”

Virgil laughed again, shorter, lighter.

Because he was happy.

Not just content with things, but happy.

Happier than he thought he had ever been.

“To answer…” Virgil said, looking at Logan, “to answer your question, Lo, I am the happiest fucking man in the galaxy. I am living my best life. If I die right now I will have, like, no regrets at all.”

Logan and Roman shared a look. Roman sucked on his spoon for a second before popping it back out and using it to point at him.

“So this whole…. “Pleasant personality” gimmick is sticking around?” The Erefren asked, sounding damn near disappointed. “You’re much less entertaining to make fun of when you’re upbeat.”

“You like kicking men when they’re down, Princey?”

“Only when they attempt to steal the 350 griot Shishdouble that I bought for myself and specifically told them not to even think about taking.” Roman pointed to Virgil’s abandoned bowl of jello like cubes. They jiggled in accordance with the barely recognizable power of the distant engines.

“Who says I wasn’t getting it for you?” Virgil asked sweetly. “Maybe I was being a decent person!”

Roman blinked several times, twisting between Virgil and the bowl. Virgil could see the moment his suspicions melted away: Roman’s telltale tail started wriggling in the air behind him dangerously close to lodging into the cupboards (Which, unfortunately would not have been a new occurrence, but Virgil doubted that Patton and Logan’s combined budget plan included funds for new cabinet doors. Again.) His face flushed purple in a way that suggested he was letting himself be flattered and he picked up the bowl delicately.

“Oh, well,” He said, “That was really nice of you, Vee. This “kind actions” routine is different but I think we could all certainly get used to it! Needless to say no small actions will go unappreciated under my watch from here on out!”

“You trust me way too much,” Virgil told him as he took an exaggerated bite of his stupid cough syrup tasting Jello.

“Wait what--”

Logan winced from his spot at the table, “He poured that all over the floor.”

“Unapologetically,” Virgil added, because being nice was overrated and watching Roman get an impressive distance with his spit take was his new favorite breakfast event.

The Erefren pawed at his purple tongue and spit the rest of the half eaten Jello on the floor. He cursed in his native language, growled something in Common, and threw the bowl back on the counter.

“You heathen!” He cried. “You don’t mess with a man’s food! Don’t you know how much that cost me?”

“Is now a bad time to tell you I used the last of your shampoo last night?”

Roman’s bone plates clicked and then fanned out, oozing the red toxin that his race was known wildly for. He growled, baring his teeth and took a threatening step towards Virgil.

“I’ll take that as a “no”,” Virgil said, and offered a quick double thumbs up to Logan, “Like I said, no regrets!” Then he sprinted towards the door back to the inner bowels of the ship.

Roman let out an Erefren warcry and charged after him.

Erefrens were fast, but Virgil was faster. By just a little bit. It also helped that Virgil was able to dodge the sleepy Patton coming around the corner when Roman tripped right over him-- if the series of thuds and slew of curses were anything to go by. Virgil thought about turning to check but then a bone lodged into the wall mere inches from his face and the flight instincts kicked in again.

“Hey Pat! Bye Pat!” Virgil yelled.

“Careful!” Patton’s voice called after him. “No Running in the halls--”

“I’m gonna eject you into Space, you Deathworlder!” Roman bellowed drowning out the rest of Patton’s helpful advice. “My Shishdouble! Virgil! Have you no honor?!”

And yeah, Virgil thought that if every morning started like this for the rest of his life….he wouldn’t mind it. At all.

Out here in Space? He was happier than he thought he could ever be.

#sanders sides #Virgil Sanders #Janus Sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #Alien Au #anxceit #platonic analogical #Sympathetic Deceit #eighteen pages of Virgil being a happy boy in space #humans are space orcs #sometimes I just want them to be happy #okay? okay #1am editing spree #rip Romans Shishdouble #and his shampoo #Virgil being a little shit #wow I said fuck a lot in this

158 notes · View notes

trying-write-fanfics · 4 years

Text

Shouji MezoX Reader part 3, Remember

Sorry there hasn’t even been Shoji yet. He’s coming I swear!!

“You have like a million students! What if I don’t know all there names! I haven’t even done anything! I’ll look lazy! Aren’t you injured?”

“I thought you’d sass me in front of my classroom.”

“That’s a guarantee later when I’m not worried about being lazy!”

“Why don’t you go get some lunch.”

“What I’m not gonna get escorted there-“

“I doubt you’ll try to escape.”

“I’ve never been here! I don’t know where places are!”

Aizawa stuck his head out of the classroom and called a student over. He had green hair and freckles. Sorta plain, sorta short, but tone. He was talking to him, but she wasn’t listening.

“This is Midoriya, he'll take you around.”

“I’m not gonna remember that!” Her mask was down. “What’s your quirk broccoli?”

“It’s uh-“

“Like a super strength one.” Aizawa said.

“So you’re not a veggie, you're a beefcake.”

“I’m uh what?”

“I’m bad with names, let’s make you memorable.” She told him.

“Just show her to the cafeteria.” Aizawa said.

Y/n being taller than Izuku she towered him (if you’re it you’re in heels) . She put the teaching aid face back on, all responsible and doesn’t say random things.

“So you want to be a teacher?” Izuku tried asking.

There was something familiar about the woman. She was dressed like she was from a big city, and seemed so tall.

“I guess.” The mask was back on. Like hell she knew what to do. The future was hard to think about, and now she has to pretend she’s working towards one she doesn't know enough about.

“Ah…” Izuku didn’t know what else to say to her.

“Is there any drama I should know about? Who hates who, who likes who, whose weird.” Y/n asked.

“What!” A real surprise question.

“I’m at a disadvantage coming so late in the game, but with how everything worked out I’m here now. What if I set up two people non compatible. Do you have a good way of remembering your peers names, beefcake?”

“I uh, it took a minute but I got there with their names. Why am I beefcake?”

“You’re buff, buffer than the average high school boy. I guess that would be expected though with your quirk.” She explained

She was not surrounded by people who wanted to be heroes.

“Ah...is that a good thing?”

“Yeah, I wish I had your forearms.”

“You never told the class your quirk, may I ask what it is?” Midoriya asked

“I’m keeping it a secret. Aizawa may ask me to help with your guys' training. Important for you guys to go up against someone you can’t predict.”

“Good point. You have combat skills?”

“In a way.” She shimmied her shoulders. “At least tell me the class clown, if I need a laugh.”

“Maybe...Kaminari…”

“Description, description!” She gestured her hands that she needed more than what he was telling her

“Oh he’s blond with an electricity quirk.”

“Can he charge phones?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy-this is a huge cafeteria!” She yelled

She seemed to be from a big city, but wouldn’t she be use to such a big room.

“There are so many people here!” She yelled. “You all just eat together!”

“Y-yeah.”

“Beefcake how is there not a fight every day!” She asked rather loudly.

“I-uh.”

To Izuku, Bakugo could make it happen. He took Velia to the line. Her eyes wide at the food, and asked if she was allowed to get certain items. She didn’t seem like an adult, but she was a teaching aid. Technically other schools did allow teaching aid students, but UA normally didn’t since people going there didn’t typically want to be teachers.

“Okay who are we sitting with beefcake?” Y/n asked.

“I normally sit with Ochaco Uraraka and Tenya Iida.”

“Cool, cool, cool. Could I also sit with you guys?”

“Sure.”

They approached the table.

“You’re sitting with us today, Velia?” Iida asked.

“Yeah, gotta sit with the cool kids first then rotate.” She said. “Can’t pick favorites”

“I was assigned to help her tour around.”

“So where are you from? Do you go to university around here?” The brunette girl asked.

That was not part of the back story. She didn’t even think she was smart enough for university, but that’s fair she’s not even at the average age people attend it.

“No, I got offered the position and took it.” She lied.

“I have to say, you look a little familiar, have we met?” Glasses asked.

Tenya Iida. Yes she knew of him.

“With those legs, you’re related to a pro hero aren’t you. It’s a legacy isn’t it, glasses.”

“Glasses-I’m Tenya Iida.”

“If beefcake gets a nickname you need one too. I can’t get accused of picking favorites.”

“What about me?” The brunette girl asked.

“I'd call you brunette but I can come up with something better, give me time.” Y/n said. “You do have some big ass eyes though.”

Though she was sorta an authority figure she was just like another student. She didn’t seem like someone who would hangout with them if she was another student. If it was a typical high school background she seemed she would be someone popular maybe, she was confident and kinda just said anything that crossed her mind. One of those cool popular girls who gets along with most.

“Whose moth man, he stands out the most, or is he a quiet and reserved type?”

“Moth man?”

“Six arms, kinda look like wings, wears a mask?” Y/n described, she wasn’t going to use her original thoughts out loud to describe him, she had to be an adult.

“His name is Shouji Mezo, he is kinda quiet, but very strong” Izuku said.

What a name.

“I'd be jealous, he’s the only one whose allowed to wear tank tops.”

Words that flowed so freely like that made them wonder how she got the job, but she wasn’t bad. It was kinda fresh to have that. But how did she pass the interview?

The rest of the school day was getting easier. Y/n secretly suffered through her anxieties, but she powered through. Her favorite student was the frog girl and maybe moth man. The class was let out and it was just Y/n and Aizawa.

“You’re calming down a bit.”

“Well your little plan worked eating lunch with some students kinda helped.”

“Are you learning anyone’s name?”

“It’s kinda hard still. I didn’t really call anyone by their real name before this either.”

“I figured you were like that.”

“You must know everything when reading my file.” Y/n mocked.

“That garbage isn’t accurate and you know it.”

“No one really asked me to update it.”

“That should be your own responsibility.”

“I am a child-“

“Not here you’re not, you’re supposed to pretend you’re an adult.”

“I don’t even know how to even act like one. You’ve read enough to know that.”

“For someone who's been isolated I wouldn't think you would talk this much.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine.” Y/n hissed.

#shoji mezo #shouji mezou #xreader #bnha fanfiction #bnha

14 notes · View notes

feelingfredly · 5 years

Text

The Fox Guards the Wolf

Part Eight

Baring Teeth

Ichigo thought Urahara had been joking, but no. They were at the Tokyo Toy Museum, and the Director hadn’t stopped touching Kisuke since they’d arrived.

If Ichigo stiffened as pale pink-tipped fingers hovered over a green sleeve, or daintily floated close—too close—to a green yukata covered shoulder, well, that was his job. She was lucky he didn’t bare his teeth at her and growl.

He’d thought about it.

After the first round of introductions, he’d stepped back a little. He followed them into the quiet offices behind the scene where Urahara-sama had been led through every detail concerning the new displays, the new plantings that had been installed in the gardens, even the repairs that had been made to the roof. Ichigo was bored out of his mind, but he listened attentively, even as he tried to decide if it would be possible to murder someone on the museum’s grounds and get away with it.

“Would Urahara-sama care to resume our game of Go, now?” The Director bowed in Urahara’s direction but gave him a little sideways look as she rose. “I would not want to keep your companion waiting, although I would be very disappointed to skip our weekly contest.” She turned her next comment directly to Ichigo. “Urahara-sama graciously donated the new Go tables in the parents’ lounge and has provided me an opportunity to play regularly. It has been incredibly refreshing. As much as I love the children and their families, it isn’t the same. Go is as subtle and complex as our toddlers are straight-forward, and Urahara-sama is by far the most talented opponent I have ever challenged.”

Director Abe Hatsu-san was quickly becoming one of Ichigo’s least favorite people. If she laid the flattery on any thicker, Urahara would fall over under its weight.

“Do you play, Kurosaki-san?” She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow and Ichigo bared his teeth in an almost smile.

“No,” he said airily. “I’m much more like your other visitors.” He dropped his lashes a little and gave Urahara a long look. “I am very straight-forward, and I am much more… enthusiastic… in my play. But I don’t mind. I brought my own entertainment with me, so you and Kisuke-chan can strategize all you want.”

Ichigo slid his backpack off his shoulder and raised it a little. “Is there a place in the Go room where I can plug in?”

The Director stared at him a moment as if she’d never seen anything quite like him before, and then looked to Urahara. Sometime during the interchange, the white fan had made an appearance, and Ichigo thought there was a smile hiding behind it.

“If Ichigo-san doesn’t object, I would be happy to continue our game. Shall we?” The small woman tilted her head in invitation and the blond bowed.

Urahara was barefoot, geta left by the door, and suddenly Ichigo was caught by the movement of his turning. He barely raised his heel from the floor and rotated on the ball of his foot so as to not make a sound. It was not a natural move but looked as natural as breathing. No one moved like that without training.

Another mystery.

Ichigo loved mysteries.

He filed the little gem away with the other’s labeled “Urahara Kisuke” and wandered over to one of the low tables by the door into the playroom. There were two young mothers sitting at the table next to him quietly talking while they watched their children enjoy themselves in the ball pit, and they bobbed a silent greeting to him as he moved to a table further from the door.

From there he could watch Urahara and the Director without looking like he was hovering, and he might actually get through the scene he’d been fighting with. Might.

He pulled out his laptop and plugged in, turning the screen away from any prying eyes that might object to certain levels of socially questionable behaviors, and tried to focus. It was noisy, but nothing like listening to Yuzu singing the theme song to Sergeant Frog at the top of her lungs when she was watching her favorite cartoons, and soon he was able to tune out the whispering mothers, and the giggling children, but he couldn’t stop watching Urahara.

Was there something between him and the Director? It seemed like Abe Hatsu-san would like there to be. But then, her actions were so completely out of line with what a museum director would usually be, it almost seemed too much. Like she wanted to look like she was interested, but she wasn’t actually interested. The touches were flirtatious, and the smiles. There was just something missing.

Ichigo shook his head. He was getting paranoid.

“’Scuse me, Mister?”

A boy who looked about five or six came up to Ichigo’s shoulder and stood there, a hot pink little phone in his hand.

“Do you have a charger I could use? My phone is dead, and I want to call my mom.”

The boy looked like a younger version of his friend Ishida, small and angular, with a too large pair of glasses, and Ichigo smiled at him.

“Here, let me see it for a minute. Mine might fit.”

The phone was older, and well loved, but it had a standard power jack so Ichigo was able to get it plugged in with no trouble.

“Aren’t you here with your mom?”

The boy looked at him nervously and shook his head.

“No.” He looked around before saying anything more. “We were waiting for the train, and I wanted to come to the Toy Museum, but mom said we didn’t have time.”

There was a little wobble in the boy’s voice and Ichigo tried to look as non-threatening as possible. The kid’s mom was probably frantic, and the little guy was clearly wishing he’d stayed with her instead of wandering off.

“I guess he heard me asking to come.”

What?

“When he said he’d bring me to the museum and then make sure I got back home before dinner, I was so happy.” The little hands tightened on the pink phone, and there was a similar tightness to his lips. Ichigo was getting a bad feeling. “I just wanted to play with the train.”

Ichigo looked over at Urahara and waited until he caught the blond’s eye. Then, he raised a finger and with as little fuss as possible drew it across his neck, hoping the man’s strange repertoire included the infantry hand sign for danger.

He shouldn’t have worried.

Up came the white paper fan, and Urahara nodded his understanding behind it.

“Where is the man who brought you here, now?”

The little boy looked even more upset, staring down at the still dead phone, and he whispered, “I just wanted to play with the train.”

Ichigo slid out of his chair and kneeled in front of him. “It’s going to be okay.” He pointed to Urahara and the Director at the Go table and said, “Can you tell me your name?”

The boy thought about it for a second and then nodded.

“I am Wada Kiyoshi.” He bowed perfectly, just the way it was taught at school, and Ichigo smiled.

“It is very nice to meet you, Wada-kun. I’m Kurosaki Ichigo. My father is a policeman, and I am going to make sure you get home safely to your family, okay?”

He could see the effect of the words as they sank in, and he hoped it would be enough to get the boy to go along with the next part of his plan.

“The lady playing Go with my friend in the silly hat is the director of the museum. She is very nice, and I’m sure you’d be safe with her if you wanted to go into her office and wait for your mother there.” He looked straight into the boy’s eyes. “You and she can go in there and no one will tell the man who brought you here where you’ve gone. Okay?”

The tiny shoulders shook a little, and the hands tightened even more around the pink phone. “He wouldn’t find out where I live?”

Ichigo was going to hurt this man, whoever he was. There was a special hell for people who put that kind of look on kids’ faces.

“No. He won’t know who you are, or where you live. I promise you that.”

Something in his tone must have convinced the boy he meant it.

“I ran away from the man in the forest of trees. There was a little tunnel he couldn’t fit into, and he didn’t see me duck into it. After he left, I crawled back out and came this way.” He shrugged a little and looked at Ichigo gratefully. “I’m glad I did.”

“I am glad you did, too, Wada-kun.” He unplugged everything and slung everything into his bag, making sure Wada-kun still had his phone. “Let’s go introduce you to my friends.”

***

“Director-sama,” Kisuke said quietly, “I believe our entertainment is about to be curtailed.”

Ichigo and his new little friend appeared at Abe’s elbow.

“Please pardon us,” the ginger said, his earlier attitude nowhere to be seen, “I’m afraid that my friend Wada-kun here has become separated from his mother.”

Kisuke watched Ichigo gently handling the child and remembered the two younger sisters he’d helped raise.

“Oh my, Wada-kun,” he said, gesturing dramatically with his fan. “We must certainly remedy this situation. Is your mother in the museum?”

The Director had gotten to her feet and switched into professional mode as well but stopped when Ichigo raised his hand in a little warning.

“Wada-kun came here with a fellow from the train station. His mother was talking to one of her friends, and when someone offered to bring him, he thought it would be a good chance to get to see the train again. Right?”

The boy was standing stiffly, but loosened up a little when he realized no one was angry with him.

“I wanted to see the train,” he whispered, “and the man brought me, but then he wouldn’t let me call my mother, and when he gave me back my phone it didn’t work.”

He held the little pink phone in front of him as proof.

“Kurosaki-san let me plug it in to charge, but it still doesn’t work.” He looked worried. “Did the man break it?”

Urahara held out his hand and the boy gingerly placed the phone in it. It was the work of a moment to discover the problem.

“It seems that your battery has gotten lost, too, Wada-kun,” he said, handing it back to the waiting child matter-of-factly. “Luckily, I always keep a few around. Just in case, you know.” He smiled down, and the boy smiled back, a little less fragile looking than before. Good.

Ichigo made eye contact with him over the boy’s head. “I’m going to go see if I can locate the fellow that brought Wada-kun here. I want to thank him properly for bringing him. You and the Director should go back to her office and call Wada-kun’s mother. I’m sure it’s nice and quiet in there. Better for such a phone call, don’t you think?”

Urahara could hear the better to keep the boy away from trouble as clearly as if it had been spoken, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to see how Kurosaki would handle the situation.

“Director Abe-sama,” he turned and gathered the woman and boy with a sweeping motion, “let’s see if I can’t find a battery that will fit young Wada-kun’s phone, so we can get in touch with his family. I bet they will be very happy to hear from him.”

“Kurosaki-san?” He tossed back over his shoulder, his face more solemn than usual. “Please give the gentleman my regards as well.”

The redhead nodded grimly.

“I will, Urahara-san. Trust me.”

***

Wada-kun said he’d hidden in the forest of trees, which was an oversized indoor playground full of ramps and poles and stairways. The walls were made of wooden slats with about an inch between them, which allowed light in, but didn’t trap little fingers. Adults were allowed inside but were typically too big to enter certain parts of the playground, leaving them to supervise from the large center area.

No adults were there, now, though, so their friendly-neighborhood-possible-kidnapper must have moved on.

Ichigo stayed close to the wall, letting the flow of little ones mask his movement until he got close to the door of the next room, and then he ducked in around the corner. There was no man here either, but a pair of young mothers were watching the play, and him, so he decided to take a chance.

“I beg your pardon, but have you seen a man looking for his son?”

One of the women looked down at the floor, clearly unimpressed by being accosted by a stranger, but the other seemed friendlier.

“I’ve only seen one man,” she gave an embarrassed little laugh, “one other man, here today. You remember him Aine-chan—the angry man in the garden?” She looked back at Ichigo. “I don’t think he is used to children. He was quite upset.”

I’ll be he was, Ichigo thought.

He smiled and bowed. “Thank you. I will go check the garden. Hopefully he is still there, and I can tell him the boy is safe.” Safe from him.

Both women smiled and went back to watching their own children, whispering about fathers not being able to manage anything that wasn’t work related, and Ichigo half-grinned. Isshin had done better than most, but even he had lost him or Karin on more than one occasion, and he was a trained professional. Kids were sneaky. Luckily, Ichigo had never grown out of it.

He headed to the garden.

For downtown Tokyo, the garden was quite large. The Director hadn’t been kidding when she’d said the new plantings were beautiful, and Ichigo almost wished he could come back and enjoy a quiet afternoon here someday.

An image flashed through his mind of him sitting on one of the covered benches typing away, enjoying the breeze and the scent of jasmine in the air. Then suddenly imaginary Ichigo was sitting next to a man in geta, with a silly striped hat. Just sitting.

His breath caught a little at how appealing the idea was, but now wasn’t the time for daydreams. Nope, now was the time to take care of a nightmare.

Growing up it was his job to watch over his sisters, and his father had lectured him more than once about how you couldn’t trust strangers no matter how nice they seemed. It wasn’t Wada-kun’s fault he didn’t have a big brother to look out for him. Now, though, he had Ichigo.

The man was easy to find. He was standing in the corner of the garden whispering angrily into his phone. Dressed in black. Wearing expensive shoes. What were the odds?

It wasn’t bad enough that it was a potential kidnapper. No. It was another man after Kisuke.

The angry big brother in him fell quiet, and another predator awoke. No one was going to hurt either of them. It didn’t matter who they were.

Ichigo reached into the side pocket of his backpack and pulled out a heavy steel cylinder, feeling it warm in his fingers as he approached.

“He’s still inside playing Go.” The man sounded frustrated. “No, I can see both exits from the garden, I know he’s still in there.”

Ichigo couldn’t make out what was being said on the other end of the conversation, but from the sound, it wasn’t hearts and rainbows. Apparently Kisuke frustrated other people besides his bosses. Who would’ve guessed?

“Yeah, he’s got the redhead with him again, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Yeah. Looks like the mad scientist’s got himself some arm candy.”

Arm candy, hmmm? First mistake. A flick of the wrist and the cylinder expanded to three times its original size.

“Look, I gotta go.” The man in black turned and looked back towards the door, totally missing where Ichigo was hidden behind the trees next to him. “Just be ready to bring the car around when I call. I’ve got enough Ketamine to put him out for the count, but once I do, I’m going to need you close. Carrying someone out like a sack of rice isn’t going to be exactly inconspicuous.”

Another grunt and the phone was slipped back into its pocket. Perfect.

Ichigo slipped his pack down his arm and tossed it across the space behind his target. It landed in one of the ornamental bushes, crashing and rustling through the leaves as it fell. As hoped, the over-dressed idiot spun on his heel to see what had caused the disturbance, one hand shooting for his pocket, only to drop away when he didn’t see a threat.

Second mistake.

Ichigo brought the baton down hard on the back of his left knee, and the man dropped immediately with a muffled exclamation of pain. A backhanded swing to his ribs spun him to face Ichigo, the crack of bone sharp in the quiet of the garden. Finally, Ichigo brought the baton down on the man’s right collar bone, snapping that as well, leaving his dominant arm hanging at his side.

“What the fuck!” The words came out on a wheeze, pain-filled eyes wide, and Ichigo smiled evilly at him as he pulled the wounded man up tight against his side.

“Wada-kun didn’t appreciate you breaking his phone.”

The look of confusion was totally worth it.

“Wada-k-kun?” The name came out on a stuttered breath.

Ichigo pushed the butt of the baton into the broken ribs. Not hard enough to puncture anything, but hard enough it couldn’t be ignored. The man sucked in a sobbing breath and turned grayer.

“The little boy you kidnapped to use as camouflage here at the museum?” He looked down into widening eyes. “Yes, that one. Using little kids as cover is a shit thing to do, you know that?”

Something in Ichigo’s face must’ve worried the man more than the blunt force trauma had. He shook his head weakly.

“I wasn’t going to hurt him. He wanted to see the trains. I bought him a ticket…” the wheezy voice trailed off. “I really wasn’t going to hurt him.”

Ichigo dropped the baton and used his free hand to pat through the man’s pockets, and just as he’d expected he found a prepped syringe. Ketamine if what he’d heard was accurate. 10 milliliters of it. Shit, these guys weren’t messing around. That would’ve put Urahara down for the count fast. He pulled the cap off and stuck it in his pocket.

“Look, I don’t like you, but I don’t think you were going to hurt the boy, but,” he bent a knee slightly and forced the man to bend over it, pulling the material of his slacks tight across what would normally be a very attractive ass. Ichigo squeezed out 4 milliliters of the Ketamine and shot the rest into the thickest part of muscle he could reach at this angle. It should work. At least it wouldn’t kill the guy. “You were going to hurt my friend Kisuke, and I can’t have that.”

The man stared at him, a new glossiness appearing in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Ichigo smiled and hefted the man a little higher before heading back into the museum with his soon to be unconscious burden. “Me? I’m just the arm candy.”

***

Ichigo patted the top of the black car as it pulled away and waved at Wada-kun’s smiling face in the back window.

“You have made yet another conquest, Kurosaki-san.” Kisuke said,

The ginger looked back at him with a grin on his lips.

“He’s too young for me.” Brown eyes sparkled. “I like more experienced men.”

Kisuke quirked an eyebrow at Ichigo’s flirty tone. “I meant Wada-kun’s very attractive and appreciative mother.”

“Her?” Ichigo laughed a little and shook his head. “That wasn’t a conquest, that was sheer relief. She would have thrown herself into the arms of anyone who’d managed to produce Wada-kun at that point. Believe me. My dad did the same thing once when he lost me in a parking lot. I think it took them ten minutes to pry him off the man who found me.”

The blond tutted behind his fan. “Perhaps. Still, you shouldn’t underestimate yourself, Kurosaki-san.”

Ichigo walked slowly over to where he was standing, every step measured, until he could have reached out and touched him. That close Kisuke could see the little golden flecks in his eyes, and the faint dusting of freckles under his tan.

No, he thought, he shouldn’t underestimate himself at all.

“Who’s the other one?” Ichigo asked.

“The other one, what?”

The shorter man had gotten close enough now that Kisuke could smell the soap he used for his laundry. And his aftershave.

“My other conquest.” Ichigo looked up at him through faintly lowered lashes. “You said I’d made another one, so who’s the first?”

Kisuke, gray eyes wide and serious, looked straight at him and answered. “Tessai-san, of course.”

One second, then two, and three… and Ichigo burst into great peals of laughter.

“Okay, you win!” he said. “But, why on Earth would you consider Tsukabishi-san one of my conquests?”

Kisuke looked at him for a moment trying to decide how to say fewer bodies means less paperwork. He couldn’t think of anything so he chose another direction.

“Do you know how many Go matches poor Tessai-san has had to sit through over the past few months? You’re his savior, Kurosaki-san. His absolute hero.”

Ichigo had stopped laughing by that point and gave Kisuke the look he was coming to understand as don’t try to bullshit me old man.

“So, he isn’t in on the secret messages hidden on the Go board, either? Or he just gets his notes later in a slightly less obscure format and doesn’t like wasting his time on it twice?” Ichigo’s tone held its usual dose of sassiness, but there was a base of seriousness under it.

Kisuke’s blank face was a work of art. He knew it was. He’d practiced it for years, but it didn’t even slow the ginger down.

“I see. He gets some of it. Whatever you think he needs to know, right?” Ichigo scrunched up his face like something smelled bad. “I’ve always hated the whole need to know thing. Cops do it, too. They keep you in the dark until it’s too late to do anything about whatever shit is going down, and then spring everything on you like, oh by the way. Here’s a mess to deal with. Sorry!”

Kisuke had always held information close to his chest, it was safer that way, but he understood the sentiment. He couldn’t tell Ichigo that, though, without addressing a lot of other things that were better left unaddressed if possible.

You can’t unopen the can after the worms escape after all.

“Tessai-san and I have a perfectly equitable working relationship. He knows everything he needs to know to keep the department running smoothly. Why would he need to know the details of my Go matches with the Director?”

Now back in the lobby, Ichigo wandered over to the welcome desk and picked up his backpack. It had been very astute of him to use it as a distraction, and his skill with a baton was something Kisuke hadn’t expected. Except for handgun training, the skills Tessai had focused on were all hand to hand. He was slightly embarrassed to realize he hadn’t even known that his bodyguard had been armed, and it was his job to know exactly who was holding what weapon, and how to take it from them and kill them with it. It was a sad day that a pretty face would distract him enough that he wouldn’t recognize a threat, even when it was sitting right next to him.

“Look Urahara-san,” Ichigo said, his earlier good mood gone, “I know there is more to this picture than you’re letting on, but don’t assume I’m a fool just because I dropped out of the med school rat race to write a novel. The moves on that board? Not possible. There were at least three areas where the placement of the stones could not have happened that way during game play. That means either the Director was passing along information about something she didn’t want tied back to her, or you two were exchanging coded love notes. Considering the little love taps and smiles she was so carefully bestowing upon you, I’m assuming she’d be fine with sharing love notes in the public eye, so…” he held his hands out in a voilà motion, “more secret spy stuff.”

Kisuke listened to his summary of the situation and marveled again at how intelligent this young man was. And dangerous. He was a mystery, and Kisuke loved mysteries.

“You told the Director you didn’t play Go.”

Ichigo shrugged and shouldered his bag, clearly ready to move on, both from the conversation and the museum.

“Why should I tell her anything?” he asked finally, a little of his flirtatious attitude returning as he headed out the door. “I’m just the arm candy.”

#Bleach #UraIchi #armcandy #bamf!ichigo

17 notes · View notes

ebthecelebrity · 5 years

Text

#ManCrushMonday

I feel like all my life, I had a crush on someone. Well, from what I can remember since I was 6 years old. It was 1989. I think the first time I saw him, he was performing on Showtime at the Apollo and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had high energy, he could rap, and he could dance his ass off! MC Hammer. The swag was impeccable with the bigger than life pants and at that very inappropriate age of 6, I couldn’t help put stare at his muscular chest. He was always shirtless and my virgin eyes would fixate on the beads of sweat dripping off it. It wasn’t a sexual crush that I had on him then, hell, I didn’t know I even had a vagina. It was something about that testosterone that caught my estrogen’s attention, and he was so unique. MC Hammer fascinated me. At the same time, I was also fascinated by the rap duo, Salt n Pepa, but it was something about MC Hammer.......

It was official; I was crushing on boys, well, in this case a grown ass man.

MC Hammer dominated the early 90s. He was on a plethora of television commercials, he had a cartoon that aired on Saturday mornings and he was staring in multiple movies. I was in MC Hammer Heaven from 6 – 9 years old. It’s 1992 and one night I see three cuties singing about “Da Munchies” on the BET channel. When I set eyes on Immature also known as IMx, it was a wrap for Hammer. He drifted far away in those balloon pants to a land unknown from then on out. Similar to how my current dating life is like, but that’s a whole other blog I can’t even get into right now lol. This boy band literally consumed my mind and I found myself constantly singing love songs like I had been cheated on for the 25th time by a raggedy 5th grader. Each member in this trio was very different and I had my eyes set on the “bad boy” Romeo. He was the rapper of the crew and the eye patch he wore over his right eye was mysterious. Just like Hammer, he was unique in his own right and this crush lasted for the next 3 years.

It is now 1995 and I had mentally cheated on Romeo with numerous members of young boy bands in my innocent mind. Jordan from New Kids on the Block, Ronnie Devoe from New Edition, Red from Another Bad Creation, and even the guy with the light eyes in Milli Vanilli…..I was swapping out these crushes like drawers. Middle School created an obsessive with Layzie Bone from the popular rap group Bone Thugs n Harmony. It wasn’t until I saw the music video, “Thuggish Ruggish Bone” that I attempted to understand every fast spitting word they said. I equally loved them all, sometimes rotating which member I liked more with each performance, each music video, each magazine spread. If you knew me back in High School, you knew! My adolescent bedroom became a shrine. My parents questioned what the hell was going on and couldn’t understand why I liked these “Thugs.” The crush I had on Layzie Bone became so embedded in my mind that I created a married life with him and 3 kids. My best friend and I just knew we were going to graduate high school, move to Cleveland and have this life! These plans were made at 13 years old. No offense, but there’s no way in hell I’d move to Cleveland now lol.

The solid crush on Bone Thugs n Harmony lasted until well after college. Finally, I started to really date and the crushes became boyfriends. The boyfriend became a husband. The husband became an ex husband. Now here I am, it’s 2019 and I’m knocking at 40’s door. With the take off of social media, you can see the love across the multiple platforms with the hashtag, “ManCrushMonday also known as #MCM.” It’s the social media trend to post pictures and express your affection for your crush on a Monday. Like clockwork, each Monday, I was reminded of everyone’s crush on my timeline. About 90% of them were of their significant other. I started questioning myself, “Who is your crush, Eb?” Looking back, I had never posted a real life #MCM. I was pretty private with my love life, but honestly to get the #MCM post, you had to give me the same feeling I felt when I saw hot fish come out of grease. I wasn’t feeling that with no one. There wasn’t a connection. Would I ever have a #MCM? Shit was depressing. So, I thought back on how my crushes started as a young girl. Never were they truly someone I went to school with, dated, or even personally knew. They were all celebrities.

To get my #MCM started, I began my Mondays with some eye candy. A different celebrity graced my page. I didn’t know a damn thing about their personal life. They could have been a real life asshole for all I knew. They were all finer than frog hair though. Rappers Dave East and Nas, and actor Kofi Siriboe were all exposed on my page. Each week, I fantasized for a brief moment about my celebrity #MCMs and chuckled to myself how they didn’t even know my black ass existed. One Monday, my routine was abruptly disrupted. I thought about posting singer, Trey Songz. I had actually met him in a club years ago and conversed with him. I remember him being as fine as his pictures online and the short conversation sent me floating on cloud 99. I scrolled his Instagram and said to myself, “Bih, Trey don’t know you!” I quickly put my phone down and found myself so deep in thought. “Who does know you, Eb?”

As I sat back and analyzed the consistent men in my life, one stuck out the most. My brother. He was there through all the youthful crushes. At the tender age of 1, my brother was there for MC Hammer. He was 4 when I fell in love with Immature. At 8, he didn’t realize it but I was mentally married to a thug. He was always there, and he always had my back. Being five years apart, we never went to school together but the neighborhood knew I was his sister and he was my brother. Now, here we are…I’m in a mid life crisis and he’s in his prime. At 31 years old, he never was the over protective brother. He gave me just enough space and opportunity to do me. He would be vocal if necessary and I appreciated that. Sometimes the big sister had to let little brother be big brother and there were times he had to counsel me.

He’s my #MCM! Sometimes we single people get caught up in the hype of a fantasy. I’ve been in that hype majority of my life. Loving celebrities who don’t even care about your existence, and ignoring those who do. I want to dedicate my #ManCrushMonday to my brother, Weedee. If I told you his government name I’d have to kill you. He was my Weedee before any of you knew him. I watched him love me from a little brother’s point of view and be there for me when the crushes were nothing but a memory. He’s a stand up guy and if my crush is not even 10% of what he is made of, I am not interested. I challenge all single ladies who participate in weekly #MCMs to utilize your platform and shout out your loved one who is a male that has been CONSISTENT. Many confuse a crush with someone who you have to date or be sexually involved with. No, a crush is someone who you can be intensely infatuated with, without it having to be inappropriate.

I salute you Weedee. Thank you for looking out for me when literally there has been no one I could turn to. Having a crush on someone is fine and all, but having a real life bond for eternity with someone you respect and admire with the same DNA is incomparable. No crush compares to my brother.

#mcm #mancrushmonday #BROTHERS #bonethugsnharmony #mchammer #IMX

1 note · View note

msbrightside85 · 7 years

Text

Here we go ...

Ok so here i go. I want to keep a blog for myself to record some of the mind bending things i’m seeing here and also for you guys! So hope you enjoy peeking through this little window into life in China and feel free to leave any comments it would be great to see you’ve stopped by :)

So the first two blogs i have posted were written on the flight on the way over and on my first full day in China but since then it’s been a bit of a whirlwind so a lot of time has passed where i haven’t written but it certainly hasn’t been event-free!

We all know the importance of bullet points when it comes to maintaining interest and i have a thing for lists so firstly and most importantly ...

Food and drink

Frog - it really does just taste like chicken although a few more bones ...

Lotus - i thought the consistency was very apple like but not sweet

Squirrel fish - i showed some of you pictures of this Suzhou delicacy before i came out and can now proudly say i have eaten it and very nice it was too!

Duck throat - yes well this was actually completely by mistake. I probably shouldn’t have used google translate on the packet while i was eating it ... or maybe it was a good thing i did because i kind of lost the taste for it after that ...

Crisps - they have the wackiest flavours out here such as cucumber, yoghurt, lime, spicy and numb and seaweed. Ooh that reminds me i have a packet of the cucumber ones in the cupboard!

I have eaten a whole host of things for the first time here but to be perfectly honest i couldn’t name them all because i don’t actually know what they were. I’ve had a few shared dinners with school where it’s been a Chinese buffet style meal where everyone sits at a round table and the food goes in the middle on a rotating glass plate so people can try different things and there have simply been so many meals and new foods i wouldn’t be able to name them all!

Pork, aubergine (egg plant), coriander and mango - i’m giving these a mention because they are all foods i love and thankfully they are in abundance here so i’m lapping them up!

China-esque

So how is China different to England? Wow. Well where do I start?

Crossing the road

Hahahahaha i am still NO good at this. E-bikes, bicycles and general wheeled things that aren’t buses or cars mount the path and other pedestrian areas without warning so you have to constantly be on the look out. So imagine you’re stood waiting at a crossing and the green man comes on. Excellent! International sign for you can cross the road. WRONG. Even on a green light for pedestrians, cars can make a right hand turn so you can very easily nearly get mowed down! I tend to use the technique of looking in all directions when crossing the road :)

Spitting

Eugh. I refuse to go into too much detail about this but some Chinese people spit in the street. You can’t miss the sound. So again ... eugh. I was on the bus the other day and thought i was free from the sound when i heard it. That unmistakable yacky sound and the guy did it over and over again and was ‘spitting’ into a plastic bag. I was less than pleased.

Humidity

Dear god. I have never been so hot in my whole life. I think my poor body is wondering why i have not yet returned to the less balmy British weather after my two week holiday. Poor thing. Think it will certainly take some getting used to. 37 degrees today and I hear we’re due a heat wave soon ... pretty sure we’re already experiencing the heat wave?!?!?

Giving money to the cashier

Two hands people! Do not simply give the money to the cashier in a store, hand it over preferably with two hands. I have experience problems with this especially when you have your purse in your hand and then you have to use said hand in the double hand over process but it’s a working progress.

Subway security

Each subway station has it’s own security and all bags and belongings must be scanned before entering the station. Oh and also if you’re taking an open bottle of drink through you need to drink some in view of security so they know it’s nothing suspicious. This can be rather amusing when you proceed to catch their attention by doing a little dance to drink from your bottle in front of them :)

We chat

This app is going to take over the world and so it should. Here they have set it up so that you can pay almost anything electronically by scanning a QR code on your phone. This includes paying for ice cream at the ice cream van and other mobile food vendors - i (sigh) do not yet have my chinese bank account so am still without this perk but cannot wait for it to be set up and be a prolific we chat purse user!

Cheap, cheap, cheap

Compared to England cost of living is cheaper! As the days go on i almost feel more and more sorry for our Chinese visitors to the UK who either must be millionaires or save up their whole lives to send all of their cash on our transport, food and daily living which in comparison is so reasonably priced here. Definitely a smiley face on that front from me :)

Don’t drink the water

A simple one that applies to lots of other countries but when you’re actually living somewhere it does become a little tedious to not be able to drink the water. However bottled water is DEFINITELY cheaper than in the UK so it doesn’t put you out of pocket (see cheap, cheap, cheap above for more details)

Funniest signage

I have decided i need to start documenting some of these but in the mean time check this out.

Ok well i think that will just about do it for now. Until the next time TTFN. RM.

#china #Suzhou #signage #cheap #water #wechat #subways #humidity #spitting #crossingtheroad #foodanddrink #squirrelfish #duckthroat #frog #lotus

7 notes · View notes

scientia-rex · 7 years

Text

Day One of My Psychiatry Rotation

The first thing I noticed, upon meeting my attending for the entirety of this rotation (I checked the schedule; I'm in the same ward the entire time, having been spared the three-week rotation in the ICU by virtue of having been assigned to the mixed-acuity ward rather than the lower-acuity ward), was that he looks just like that character actor who plays Lily's dad on How I Met Your Mother. I know he's been in a million other things, but I do not know his name off the top of my head and this is a reference many people will understand.

He wears glasses with round lenses that have the partial frame beneath, rather than above, his eyes. He looks kind of creepy. He looks a little insane. I am rapidly discovering that all Psychiatry attendings have a permanent case of crazy eyes. My resident seems nice, but at noon conference saw him staring at the attending who talked longest and most tangentially, and if looks could kill, his glassy, enormous-eyed stare would electrocute frogs at a hundred yards.

No one discusses whether the medical students are, or have been, psychiatric patients. Statistically, about 25% of us either are or should be, for depression alone. No one is going to hear my thoughts on the merits of citalopram. No one wants to remember that our position of power is tenuous and poorly-deserved.

In observing conversations with the patients, neither the attending nor the resident are what I would consider good at it. The attending is better, but he doesn't pay enough attention to what people aren't saying. My desperate, massive social anxiety makes me pick up cues from body languge in the non-English-speaking patient that the interpreter doesn't see and the attending doesn't get. I spend several minutes in agony waiting for him to figure out what he screwed up. He does, eventually.

He is also kind, and he tries hard to find opportunities to teach me and the resident. He has made charts. He emails us the charts. They're good charts--clear and accurate. He's making a special place for himself in my heart already. As long as I don't look too hard at the enormous bulging veins running through his bald scalp. I know they're not his fault, but good lord do they creep me out something awful.

Toward the end of the day, we're running the list--talking about the changes made for the patients during the day, making sure every patient has been discussed and followed up on. A text comes in. A patient whose meeting I was absent for (because of an orientation that gave me very little usable information) has been having auditory hallucinations again. This is something you need to keep in mind when you conceptualize inpatient psych units: mental illness is real. Psych wards are not a conspiracy invented by The Man to keep you down. They're a response to a real need, merely run by The Man, and keeping you down is an unintended secondary consequence of the meaty breath of privilege wafting through the air.

The reason these auditory hallucinations, in particular, are a problem, is that this patient becomes violent as a result. A danger to self, if not others. Bangs their head against walls. We go to check on the patient. The patient had a congenital infection, and as a result has anomalous facies. Particularly in combination with their new and spectacular goose-egg from head-banging, it makes looking directly at them a somewhat surreal experience. The patient vocalizes their distress, clearly, explaining the violent content of the hallucinations, explaining their fear at this content, their fear that they will hurt someone, their desire to be restrained. The volume of this gradually escalates.

Then, after a couple of moments of silence, the patient flings themselves out of their chair. Hurls themselves forward so fast I can't dodge, and starts banging their head on the floor with tremendous force about half an inch from my foot.

I said, "Oh, my God!" completely unintentionally. I just heard myself say it. I yanked my foot back. Good God. I just watched that patient bang their head on the floor and my only thought was getting my foot out of the way. I was frozen in shock and fear. It’s not the first time my reaction to a patient’s immediate pain and suffering has made me pretty sure I’m a terrible person, but it is surely one of the most memorable.

The patient got an MRI. Huge swelling from all the head-banging. The goose-egg had tripled in size.

I was thinking to myself on the way home, if this were a movie, I'd be criticizing the screenwriter for the heavy-handed imagery. Unrealistic prosthesis to depict the face. Psychiatrists depicted as strange, odd-looking people, wearing white coats, fluttering around like albino bats. But it's my life right now!

It's going to be a long six weeks.

#med school dead school

5 notes · View notes

gunmetalgaze · 4 years

Text

#SL #NoGoodAnswers

Written by @GunmetalGaze and @OffKeyDeviant

Mentions @ToTheGrahve

*****

Xhex: [Tonight is my last hope of finding any lead on the missing male. I hate approaching the Brotherhood under the best of circumstances, and these are far from the circumstances I would choose. Who's missing? A male. Any name? Nope. Friends? Yes, but I can't find him either. How do you know he's missing? Lash took him. Yeah. Great. I need something more. Anything. All I have is a timeline backed by some closed circuit security stills. None of my staff have heard anything, but they can't identify the best people to ask. Letting my senses thread out, I skim minds for anyone who any glimpse of either male. Spotting a pair of civilians I haven't spoken with yet, I ease my way through the crowd. Settling in beside them, I check the sightlines around me before giving a smile just large enough to expose my fangs. It may be widely known that this club is run by vampires, but there are a lot of humans on staff too. Pulling out the pictures of the male and his friend, I roll my shoulders, the sense of being watched most likely a symptom of my paranoia, and the alcohol still running through my system. Same old, same old. "Never seen either one, are they dangerous?" And my refrain, "of course not, I need to ask them a few questions." Leaning back against the bar, I watch the two scurry off with their drinks. Rolling my shoulders again, the single bottle of Spirytus behind the bar catches my eye. I'm probably killing myself, using that poison to sleep, but knowing Lash was so close has me on edge. And it may be one I throw myself off of.]

Adrian: [Heading back that pre-dawn morning without the trainee to that mansion, filled with males larger than any human bodybuilder hadn't been appealing in the least. Grahve was a grown boy by anyone's standards (boy I say, because 'm old enough to be his great grand-something x1000) and if he had chosen to drown his broken heart between a pair of legs at the end of the night who was I to demand any different of him. Only, I felt I should have.

When Grahve didn't show up the next evening, hungover and ready to get his lead hot on the target range, I figured he wasn't ready to do the walk of shame because it became clear when two more spectacularly built males charged through the "I'll fucking kill anything that so much as looks in my direction". Qhuinn and the hothead kid, Crhistopher. Enough rumors, true ones at that, floated around that all three of them had been intimately involved. And the static that preceded either male was enough to power Caldwell for an entire winter with energy to spare.

Which explains why, without mincing words Grahve bolted that night. I'd learned a little about -not- getting between a bonded male and his mate. The King and Queen were the prime example. Blind or not, his highness could circumcise an atom with his fangs if it bounced amorously close to his female. Talk about pucker factor.

Keeping my distance was only a tiny reason that found me back at the club. Balls in one piece, check. Asshole the usual diameter, check. Much as I like a good rim job on occasion, one from the King isn't on my bucket list. K, thanks. Folding my wings and letting them fade back to where they came from, I'd purposefully set down in the shadows a block away and remained invisible as I had every day and night when I arrived. I watched all the incoming and outgoing people, humans and vampires. I listened to their conversations.

Between the two and my constant vigil, I still learned nothing new. Except that a particular woman, not too tall, lean muscled and with the demeanor of an electrocuted, pissed off wet cat, was the constant body in the place. Even the bouncers were rotated through, not the same faces every night but regular enough to look familiar. They treated the woman with the utmost respect and she did the same back. Working girl had been quickly ruled out, which left few choices that were further narrowed down when I caught sight of her frog-marching a drunk out the door.

Head of security, perhaps? Only one way to find out, I thought as I slipped past the line and into the club. The darker hallway near the back rooms would give me the cover I needed to drop the invisible cloak without raising all kinds of "WTF's!" Conveniently slipping into the men's room when a half drunk man staggered out, his pants halfway to his ankles.. hmm, half moon out tonight.. and waited a moment before showing myself in the reflection of the mirror.

Satisfied I'd been alone, I pushed back out the door and made my way to the bar, assuming the role of patron while keeping an eye out for a particular female.]

Xhex: [The lure of the bottle still isn't strong enough to pull me from my jobligation. No matter how much I don't want to deal with the drunk tripping on his trousers outside the private washrooms. Rolling my eyes, and my shoulders, I push off from the bar like a swimmer pushing off from the wall. I don't care about the humans scattering out of my way any more than the swimmer minds the water. I am fresh out of good manners tonight. Too fucking bad my guys are on point, and have the drunk redressed and on his way to the door before I can drag him out. Spinning on my heel, I run right smack into the back of a large male, and every sense in me lights up, because my nerves are jangling. Threading a push at the mind attached to the offending expanse, I pull up short as what is in front of me registers. Not Lassiter, but just as bad.] Jesus fucking Christ! Is Caldwell holding a convention for you guys?

Adrian: [Waving off the barkeep after shotgunning a few rounds and idly turning to lean back around to face the writhing wave of over n' under sexed bodies, frustration was beginning to consume me on an epic level. Giving up on the trainee wasn't an option, and as much as I'd have liked to peruse a few more other 'heavenly bodies' to drown off my own deeper issues, finding the kid was taking point. I'd give in to temptation later, after we saved the world. Not all angels were… angels.

The bump and grind matched tempo with some techno beat screaming through the speakers I didn't really hear. Raking a hand through my hair and dishing a less than heartfelt grin at a few ladies that managed to draw my attention for more than a cursory glance. Youd'a thought finding the female head of security would stand out a little more, I mumbled to myself, eyes scanning the crowd in methodically.

As if on cue, my skin prickled and I felt myself shoved forward. This was no bump into by a tipsy patron, and I didn't need to see to confirm; I -felt- it. Wiping the unease off my face and slapping on a small grin, I turned, prepared for whatever was to go down.. ]

"Didn't expect you to have a sunny disposition and roll out the welcome wagon," I countered, the female's aura like nothing I'd encountered before. Par for the course, like I hadn't expected to be thrown into a den of vampire warriors after being forced to play a game of life and death at His whim. So it wasn't all that surprising that she neither felt human or vampire. And thank fuck she didn't have that telltale feel of demon. I shuddered internally at the intense relief there was only one demonic bitch to worry about.

"N' by the way, m' name's not Jesus, but many have mistaken me for him at certain times, but that's a story for another time" I quipped, still feeling out her aura. I'd ask Lassiter later, for now I needed whatever information I could get from her on Grahve's last known minutes here. My tone now serious.

"M' looking for info on a friend of mine. In private would be best." Wouldn't do any good to dish out all the details in the middle of the bar floor where it was possible one of those Lessers-whatever could be skulking about and overhear.]

Xhex: [Glaring at the angel, I consider telling him that Lassiter wore that joke out already, but it's probably a waste of my breath. Locking eyes with the male, I pull my watch up, and snap into it.] I'm off the floor. Nobody comes near my office for anything less than a dead body, clear? And call off inquiries about the two men. [My earpiece is filled with a staccato of acknowledgements. Addressing the dark haired male again, my hands twitch with the impulse to drag him to my office. Clearly, he has no clue the hell he abandoned his friend to, but I still want to wipe the grin from his face.] Follow me. [I growl, not even remotely civil, but the roiling in the pit of my stomach has only intensified. One step closer to finding the missing male is also one step closer to Lash. Whose picture is face down on the desk in my office, where I might finally get some answers. The most direct path to privacy happens to be through pretty much everyone, and I thread my way with all the subtlety of a cannonball, not once looking to see if the angel is following. If he doesn't, I'll have an excuse to go back and drag his feathery ass up the stairs. Not that I've ever seen Lassiter's feathers, but the stereotypical image has to come from somewhere. Leaving the door open, I settle into the chair behind my desk, schooling my features and letting my senses stretch out as much as they can with my cilices on. As soon as the male crosses the threshold, I start in, even as I gesture to close the door.] I'm Xhex. I run security here, and I have had every employee looking for anyone who can identify you or your friend for a week. Start. Talking.

Adrian: HE must have had the humor of a rag doused in gasoline when he created the head of security, because she gave off the feeling the slightest bit of friction would light her fire in the worst way.

Giving the lady (which I used the term figuratively because I was applying it based on assumption-yes, hypothetical gender fluidity and all that) a nod, I followed in the wake of parting bodies, as if the ebb and flow were used to the interruption. Nor did I hesitate at the 'open door and close it behind ya' ass' policy. Which I booted shut with a solid click behind me. This convo was attended by invitation only.

The sparsely decorated box I'd just locked myself in had all the personality of a jockstrap and thankfully it didn't smell like one. A simple desk and chair, occupied by the lovely snap dragon I'd followed in, and a tall file cabinet were the only pieces of furniture herein. No windows, which explained why no cute little desk plant, and only one door. Also windowless.

Cozy. Not.

A moment more and I settled back against the door, both for feeling of something solid behind me and knowing it was my only exit.

"Not m' fault your boys at the door don't check IDs," I mused aloud before getting serious, noting the photo quality paper face down on the desk.

"N' my friend has been MIA for said week. Last I saw him, he was drowning himself at the bar, n' 20 minutes later he vanished." No need to describe any details on what I'd been doing in that 20 minutes, fairly sure there'd been no lack of cameras in the dark yet fully public hallway.

Throwing out my angel senses and listening to them closely, I figured out what I'd already guessed, that this creature in front of me wasn't human. Her aura screamed she wasn't full vampire either and that I needed to tread carefully.

"No calls, no messages, no paper trail on him. I came back here t' see if you had any surveillance footage I could look at," I spoke with dead calm, because something told me whatever was on that photo held the answer I was looking for.

Xhex: Interesting for you to say no paper trail. Nobody knows who you are. Nobody knows who your friend is. So, I have no names, no next of kin, and no connections whatsoever to run with, when a male gets knifed and abducted outside the back door of this club. [Leaning back in my chair, I kick up my feet, and hook one boot heel under the lip of the desk. Rocking slightly, I catalogue what little I know of the whole clusterfuck I find myself in the middle of, watching the angels's face for any twitch or tell.] There is surveillance, so I know that a week ago, you left your boy for some action. That's when his life went to hell. The male that picked him up is painfully well known among vampires, but not his whereabouts. For your friend's sake, I hope he's dead. Lash loves to break his toys. [Kicking up my chin, I use my boot heel to push the photo across the desk, and the motion to cover as I swallow repeatedly. My own stint as Lash's captive plaything threatening to overwhelm me, it takes an effort to bring myself back to the here and now.] So tell me, angel, do I need to contact someone about Fade ceremony arrangements, or is your friend a fighter?

Adrian: [As each word came pouring from the head of security's mouth, all I felt was nauseated. Knowing that I'd all but delivered Grahve to be this Lash's midnight snack was enough to spiral me into a week long visit to the demon bitch after his body was recovered. If it was recovered.

Reaching for the graciously offered print, I fought to keep my expression neutral, noticing the way the female seemed to be struggling to keep something from fighting it's way to the surface. Something to do with whomever was on the other side of that photo, perhaps? Must have been a doozy given the way everyone reacted around the hardass outer shell she wore like those painted on leathers she was sporting.]

"You'll have t' forgive the lack of formalities, m' name's Adrian, and my friend is one of the Brotherhood's trainees. Grahve. So we're not exactly the kind t' have next of … wait, you said knifed?"

[Sliding the paper to the edge of the desk and flipping it over, all that sourness in my gut threatened to redecorate the tiny, suddenly claustrophobic space with leftovers to spare. Grahve, taken out back and slaughtered like an animal.. all because I'd stepped away to get a piece.

Shoving the bile back down, the blondish kid in the photo had the comical look of a maniacal, psychotic killer. He looked more like he should be the poster child for an episode of The Addams Family.

Staring hard at the image, each breath punched holes in my chest at the thought of what the trainee had gone through based on the female's report. How much more he could be suffering; the mental hurt with whatever drove him out of the house in the middle of a lockdown had to have been hard enough to endure. Being stabbed? On the nightly, but it was usually during a fight that was begging to happen and then with a laugh and wave the trainee would hobble himself to one of the docs for a quick stitch and be back out before a hot cup of coffee could go cold.

Being already compromised emotionally and liquefy his comprehension and balance and this.. fuck comes along?

God. Damn. It.]

"He's a fighter!" [The paper in my hand crumbled to the size of a golf ball, fingers curled and gathered it in a barely controlled shaking fury, the sound unheard as the muffled ringtone assigned to Vishous screeched in my pocket. Digging the device out and hitting answer, eyes not leaving the female camped back in her chair.]

"Little busy..." [Vishous' voice was sharp and to the point, his words another dig at trying to evacuate my last meal. Eyes narrowed as I turned to the door, ending the call.] "I'm on it."

"The trainee is holed up in a hotel, could be a trap with this Lash holding him there," I mumbled, glancing at the female while waiting an eternity for the text for the hotel.]

Xhex: [Shit. One of the Brotherhood trainees? Could I be any more fucked? At least my end will be quick, if Wrath demands my life for losing one of his trainees. Then again, this may be my chance to take Lash out of the equation, even if I go too. Opening my mouth to respond, I snap it shut as the angel, Adrian, pulls out his phone. As the angel speaks, my course is set. Kicking back from my desk, I snag my jacket that contains a pitiful selection of weaponry, and lament the lack of time to remove my cilices. But the only path to Lash, without getting shut out of Brotherhood business, is getting ready to march put my door.] I'm coming with you. If it's not a trap, Lash has been compromised somehow. [Darting in front of the angel, I look straight up, keeping my voice level.] Your friend? He's not going to be the same. He may have only been held a week, but he may very well wish he'd died. [God knows most nights, I wish that I had.] So are you sharing that address, or making me follow?

Adrian: [Eternity had never drug its feet so slowly before. Brother Tattoo Face was going to get an earful when all this was said and done, makin' my ass wait. While in the split moment it took to end the call and bring up the message board, the female moved faster than a cat after a mouse to stand between me and the door. Call me sexist for this but if it had been a male jumping between me n' the door, it'd have been the wrong move 'cause I'd have plowed over his ass like I was aiming to create roadkill.

She made sense and that stalled me for a fraction to consider. Either way, I was bringing the trainee home.]

"Keep up, n' don't get caught." [That was all I had time to say as the alert I'd waited a mini-millenia for cracked the silence.]

"Got it, bad side of town… an' m' familiar that hotel." [I tipped the screen so Xhex could read the address. It was the same hotel Jim burst into and triggered one of Devina's 'silent alarms'. No longer waiting or into playing nice, I pocketed the phone and reached around Xhex to open the door. Marching out I spoke low to avoid anyone else getting any funny ideas of following us.]

"I go in first, trust me when I say no one will see me unless I want 'em to."

Xhex: [The crack about not getting caught knocks the wind out of me. Fuck that right out the window. If I get caught again, I will take my own life. It's not like I believe all that bullshit about the Fade anyway. Scanning the screen that gets tilted my way, I nod once, knowing the area well. Like I know most of this city. This angel might not know me, but if he's in the Brotherhood's sphere, he should have a clue or two about my kind.] Pretty sure he can pick up on me, even when I use my symphath tricks. If your ability keeps you off his radar, more power to you. All I want is a shot. I owe that fucker. [Pulling my wrist up, I brief my boys that I'm out for the night. A chorus of affirmatives comes back at me, and not one single question. I regret that I'm stuck with my cilices hampering my bad side, but this angel is not slowing down for hell or high water. So neither am I.]

#NoGoodAnswers #BondedBrothers

0 notes