Thrilled to report that Job Number One has finally got the memo and is going mostly remote (I still have to physically be in the office only one day a week) and so that means that I am going from eleven hour workdays for Job One to something much more manageable for the indefinite future.
Also no jury trials until at least January. Love that for me.
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Sinbound (1/8)
Daniel Jones x Reader
5k; Content warnings: Spoilers for The Report. Mentions of torture/violence, but nothing explicit.
Tumblr Masterlist // Also Available on AO3
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Two years. That’s how long it’s been, up to this moment.
Two years in this basement, surrounded by concrete walls and the faces of ghosts staring into his very soul. It’s haunting, being down here, Dan thinks. Walking empty halls in the middle of the night, the way that sounds echo and come from all directions at once, everywhere and nowhere.
He walks the halls now, something sour sitting in the pit of his stomach, something close to panic, he thinks. He’s not going to let it turn into anything real, he doesn’t have the time for that.
It feels like he doesn’t have the time for anything, anything except for this report.
He’s the last to leave the office, the last to leave the building, just as he is every night. Usually he’d stay later, but as he scans his badge to open the door that leads to the lobby of this dark cinder block building, his eyes struggle to focus. He must look particularly rough, because as he does scan himself out, the good-natured security guard gives him a pointed look.
“Do you ever sleep, Dan?” The security guard asks, and despite the exhaustion in Dan’s bones, he manages a friendly smile.
“I used to, it got in the way of work.” He jokes, earning a smile back.
“Anything in that bag contain the real names of CIA officers, assets, or partners, or any information that would be in violation of the agreement between the Central Intelligence Agency and the United States Senate?” The security guard rattles off the protocol, a memorized passage that both he and Dan know by heart at this point.
“Have a good night, Jay.” Dan doesn’t answer the question, he doesn’t have to, he doesn’t need to.
Instead, with some kind parting words from Jay as permission to leave, he walks out through the door and into dark damp streets of the real world, a world which has passed him by, two years shot in the blink of an eye.
Dan sits in his car and sighs, for a minute or two, or twenty. He rubs the back of his hand against his eyes, blinks a couple of times. He’s been debating getting a pair of glasses, the new kind that block out the blue light from screens – god knows he could use that. He’s more tired than usual, and with good reason, he sighs. He looks at himself in the rearview mirror, sees the bags under his eyes.
“You wouldn’t look good with glasses.” He shakes his head at himself, dismissing the thought.
He sits in his car and folds his arms over the steering wheel, rests his head down on top of them and wills himself not to scream. He thinks back over the events of the day, of the last couple hours, thinks about how he’s going to have to go through this alone now. In retrospect, he should have known this was coming. He just had hoped…well. He had only hoped it wouldn’t be so soon, wouldn’t be right when they were finally starting to connect dots, piece together the puzzle, wouldn’t be right when they were only just beginning.
----------------------
Dan noticed April gently approaching him, her arms crossed over her chest. He glanced at the clock, realized he’d been reading this document for nearly three hours, picking it apart, studying it. He’s glad for April’s audience, and he didn’t waste much time launching into what he’d just learned, knowing that she would be just as interested in it as him.
“Did you know that the CIA testified in 1978 before Congress on the subject of – of ‘coercive physical interrogation techniques’ in Latin America? And how they concluded that they were proven to be ineffective – that the prisoners would lie just to make it stop?” Dan scoffed, frustrated, shaking his head.
April had shifted in her spot a little then, had cleared her throat, but Dan wasn’t entirely paying attention, not even when she tried to interject with,
“Dan, there’s something I have to say – ”
“But before they did it in Latin America they did it in Vietnam! It didn’t work then and it isn’t working now and – ”
“Dan, Dan I’m leaving.” April had said, with such finality that it shut Dan up. She had held her ground, her arms crossed over her chest, in that dark cold basement, and told him, “The study, I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore, I’m sorry. I got a job offer and I’ll be packing up once the Thanksgiving break finishes.”
Dan held his breath, wondered if this were another one of his nightmares. He’d been having them more and more recently, but this was never one of the plot points.
He blinked, stared at her and then at his computer, watched as the screen flickered for a moment, as if it too were uncomfortable, stressed.
“Thanksgiving.” Dan had replied (and in his car, Dan wants to kick himself for making such a point of himself, for proving their point because he had stupidly said), “That’s – okay well that still gives us a couple months and – ”
“It’s November, Dan. Thanksgiving’s next week.” Julian had gently reminded him.
“…Right.” He was deflated, embarrassed, and faced with the reality that maybe he was losing his grip on reality. He can’t look at her, at April. The screen flickered, and he sighed. “Right I – I…Right. Okay.”
“I’m sorry, I am, it’s just that…well you said it yourself, the CIA knew decades ago that this shit didn’t work. They knew and they’ve known the whole time that their program is ineffective now but who is listening to us? Who is waiting for us to come out with all of this?” April tried to explain, even though she didn’t really need to. Her voice was soft and gentle as she placed a hand on his shoulder and tried to talk some sense into him, “We’ve been down here for two years, Dan, the three of us in this basement, typing up thousands and thousands of pages. No one is waiting for us.”
And that was it, wasn’t it? That was the cold hard truth that Dan refused to accept. Every day, Monday through Friday and weekends, he’d been there. They’d all been there, working and working and working until their eyes grew sore, until their backs went stiff and their wrists ached, scrounging together as much information as possible – while under impossible restraints.
No cooperation from the CIA.
No cooperation from the DOJ.
Three people in a basement, trying their best to bring justice to an unjust situation, and being vilified for it.
Dan sighs, both in his memory of the exchange, and in his car.
“I understand. I do.” He said, because he did. He didn’t like it, he wouldn’t accept it, but he understood it. That was enough for April, enough for Julian, enough for them when Dan nodded and sighed once again, glancing at the calendar. “Thanksgiving.”
“I’m sorry.” April had said again, before going back to her desk.
Dan locked eyes with one of the mugshots on the wall, and he thinks that it’s not him that April should be apologizing to.
----------------------
He starts the car, smacks a palm against his cheeks lightly to shake himself out of this funk. He’s just tired, he knows. He’s tired and it’s been a long day, that’s all. The dashboard lights up and he’s relieved to see it’s not that late, not really. It’s only eleven, he’s stayed later before. Washington D.C. is never not busy, but Dan finds that later in the evening like this, on a weekday no less, there’s always a little less traffic, for which he’s appreciative.
His stomach is appreciative too, it growls and growls the entire drive home, so much so that Dan makes a pit stop at a Chinese takeout place, lured in by the idea of fresh eggrolls and beef lo mein.
The neon sign blazes brightly in the night sky. Something about the world when it’s just finished raining makes everything more rich, more vibrant, Dan thinks. Maybe it’s got something to do with the way that the water on the ground reflects the colors. Maybe he’s just being sentimental, he doesn’t know.
“Mr. Jones! You’re here early.” Cindy, the young woman behind the counter greets him when Dan walks through the door.
“They let me out for good behavior.” His joke falls flat, just a little. Still, she looks at him with a fond smile and shakes her head, before ringing up his usual.
He’s been coming here at least once a week every week ever since this thing started. He never really meant to fall into the habit of relying on takeout, but when one works fifteen-eighteen hour days every day, the prospect of cooking and cleaning up your own kitchen quickly grows less than ideal.
Dan watches her for a while, as he hands over his credit card. He thinks about how she always smiles at him, and wonders if she smiles at everyone else too, or if that’s something just for him. He shakes his head slightly, chastising himself. Of course it’s not just for him, they’ve not spoken beyond the typical small talk while he sits around and waits for his order. She never initiates conversation past that of the weather, and why should she? She’s busy, Dan thinks, busy with the restaurant, with her life.
He tries not to let the thought depress him, the thought that maybe if it weren’t for this report, he could be out busy living his life too. Tries not to think about how he could be married by now, have kids by now. He tries not to think about the girlfriend he used to have, before all of this, tries not to think about how she left him because well, really, he had left her first. He wasn’t a very good partner, he knows – how could he have been? Holed up in that basement, unable to talk about anything he did.
Cindy hands him the neatly packaged bundle of his dinner, and he thanks her for it. She doesn’t know that he goes back to his apartment and eats by himself in the dark every night, but then again, she doesn’t have to. She gives him another one of her smiles as he offers a little wave goodbye, and he’s walking to the parking lot, the interaction and the thoughts behind him.
It’s worth it, he thinks, as he walks back to his car. One day, one day soon, Dan knows it’ll all be worth it.
Climbing into his car, Dan notices something.
Or maybe, he thinks he notices something.
There’s a car in the parking lot that wasn’t there before, was it? He doesn’t remember anyone getting out, no one came into the restaurant while he was there, and no one had left when he showed up. It’s black, with windows so tinted that he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to look in even on a bright sunny day. Something about that churns his stomach some more.
“You need to eat and sleep.” Dan shakes the paranoia out of his head, it wouldn’t do to dwell, not right now, not after he’s poured a fresh new batch of images of torture behind his eyelids, dancing in front of his vision whenever he seems to blink. Wouldn’t do to dwell on the thought that maybe he’s being followed.
He keeps an eye on the car though, as he pulls out of the parking lot. It doesn’t move, and he releases the breath he didn’t even know he was holding, as he turns some corners and goes down some back roads, ends up in front of the building he calls home.
----------------------
It’s not that he can’t afford a house, because he can. He makes a significant amount of money, being a Senate staffer at his level. He could afford something nice in a nice neighborhood, green lawn and driveway out front, maybe an inground pool out back for the summer time. He can afford it, he just doesn’t see the point in it, not right now, not with the report.
The apartment though, isn’t bad -- it’s not! It’s a very nice, luxury apartment, with a doorman and a parking garage and everything.
“How’s it going Edgar?” Dan asks, as he passes said doorman, a young chipper guy who Dan wouldn’t have expected to have such a mature name.
Maybe if he and Edgar were friends, he’d call him Eddie. Dan’s not so sure what other nicknames there are for something old fashioned like that. Maybe if they were friends, he’d tell Dan.
“Not too bad Mr. Jones, yourself?” Edgar doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s practically hiding the takeout behind his briefcase, and Dan appreciates it immensely.
“Not too bad.” He echoes with a smile, before stepping into the safety and security of the lobby and making his way over to the elevators, his polished shoes clacking on polished tile as he gives a warm, “Stay dry out there.”
The elevator is empty, thankfully. He leans against the mirror wall and sighs deeply, groans just because he can. He lives on the eighth floor of the building, which gives him about ten seconds of peace, before the doors open again. He likes his apartment building, likes the doorman and the elevator. He likes how each floor has its own little display when he exits the elevator, decorated for whatever holiday is up next.
The lobby’s display probably should have clued Dan in to the fact that it was already November, but he can’t really be blamed for not noticing. He notices now though, and he can’t deny that he’s impressed. There’s a large wicker cornucopia on the antique wooden credenza which sits flush against the wall opposite of the elevator.
In the cornucopia are fake fruits and vegetables in a beautiful array of autumnal colors, reds oranges yellows and plum. He reaches out to pick up one of the faux squashes, impressed by the weight of it. He’d been halfway expecting cheap styrofoam, but these were more solid than that. Idly Dan realizes that he must have completely skipped over Halloween, and something about that puts a bit of a pep in his step.
He leaves the lobby and turns around the corner, goes down the hall until he’s faced with his front door. He’s lucky that there aren’t too many apartments on this floor, his neighbors are down a ways on either side. He likes the privacy, not that he uses it much. Putting his key in the lock and pushing the door open, he can’t really remember a time where he spent an entire day lounging in his living room.
Which is a shame, Dan thinks, because just as he does every time he comes home, he finds that he really does like this place. It’s bright, inviting. Not clean or sterile, nothing overly modern or minimalist, but he has enough dark and gloom at work, he doesn’t need that here, not in his one-bedroom apartment. The walls are a light grey color, the kitchen and living room accented with blue and cool tones. He likes blue, Dan does.
All his appliances are stainless steel, to go along with the color palette, and he likes that too. He thinks it makes him feel more like an adult, like a real person. And he is, isn’t he? Daniel Jones, Senate Staffer. That’s a real person name and a real person job, isn’t it?
Why does it all feel like a sham?
“Eat, and sleep.” He mutters to himself as he steps out of his shoes and puts them neatly in the closet by the door.
He rests his briefcase down on the kitchen counter, brings the takeout over to the rectangular dining table. He didn’t know what he was thinking, buying this dinner table. Maybe he thought he’d have guests over, women over. Now it just feels empty, a table too big for just one person.
Still, it gives him enough room to spread out, which is nice. He keeps the table set all the time, the way they do in old television sitcoms and in movies. He loves movies, and he puts one on now. Nothing high action or stressful, no he’s not got the emotional or mental bandwidth for that these days. Instead, he scrolls through his OnDemand and lets something from the ‘30s dance across the screen in black and white, while he eats his dinner.
Dan tips the takeout onto the plate in front of him – one of the things he refuses to do is eat straight out of the container. Something about that feels like crossing a line into some kind of downward spiral. He can wash one dish, one fork and knife, one glass. He can do that, he has the time for that.
He’s not got time for much, but he’s got the time for that.
Dan eyes his briefcase, thinks about what Jay had said. He’d never taken anything from work before, and he didn’t plan on taking anything from work anytime soon. No, everything in his briefcase was allowed to be there, what was in his apartment was allowed to be there.
“It’s for the best anyway,” Dan says to himself, as the music from the movie swells and flows, a beautiful tap number numbing his mind from the repeated images that are so keen to flash. “Imagine if you brought that shit home more than you already do.”
He scoffs at the idea, at smuggling something out of the basement, out of the building. What would he even do with it? Where would he even put it? No, he thinks, everything that’s important will stay in the office where it’s the safest. The CIA isn’t allowed inside that room, that’s part of the agreement that they made.
“Good thing too, they wouldn’t be too fucking thrilled to read the documents I’m reading.” He’s stopped caring about talking to himself a long time ago, and now that April and Julian will be leaving him, he figures he’ll need the good company, or else he may really go insane.
He sighs, sighs at the knowledge that they’re leaving.
Two years they’d been together, the three of them. Dan’s only a little upset – he’s more scared. Scared of having to go down this rabbit hole alone. Scared of wasting himself away in the basement, surrounded by the ghosts of men who were put through conditions so inhumane that it wakes Dan in the middle of the night, throat hoarse, screaming and raw. What’s worse is he’s scared that they’re right, that no one will care.
But Dan cares. Dianne cares. It’s enough to know that Dianne’s got his back, that’s enough.
Still, they’d gotten a lot accomplished in those two years.
It had started of course, with the tapes.
----------------------
“What tapes?” Dan had asked, a confused frown on his face.
Dan had been in the middle of a meeting when Marcy, Chief of Staff to Senator Dianne Feinstein, had called him out for a moment or two, a folded newspaper in her hands. Dan recognized it, the New York Times, and it was opened to a ground-breaking story of coverups and espionage. He stood in Dianne’s office and scanned over the small print of the story, growing more and more confused with each word he read.
“Evidently, the CIA destroyed tapes of interrogations, interrogations that had been conducted on al-Qaeda detainees.” Marcy said, but nothing rang a bell for Dan.
“Does – did the Intel Committee know that there even were tapes?” He had to ask, wondering if he was simply out of the loop, or if this was about to become something much larger than it already was.
When Dianne shook her head and clasped her hands together behind her desk, when she pressed her lips into a thin line of frustration of her own, Dan knew that it was the latter.
“No, this New York Times story is the first we’ve heard of it. I want you to find out what was on those tapes and why they were destroyed. We’d like you to lead an investigation, Dan.” She spoke clearly, always had, Dianne did. Dan appreciated that, appreciated her candidacy.
It didn’t lessen his confusion, however.
“But if the tapes were destroyed then how do I – ” He started, handing Marcy back the newspaper with a thankful nod.
“Written records. The CIA says they have written records of what was on the tapes, thousands of pages. I want you to find out what it is they actually have, and read every word of it. I want to know what else they’re hiding.” Dianne instructed, and the weight of the task was enough to make Dan stand up a little straighter.
The concept of going through a thousand pages of written records of interrogations had, at the time, seemed like the most intimidating and overwhelming undertaking Dan would have gone through in his life. Oh, if only he had known what he was getting himself into, if only he had had a shred of a clue.
“Yes, Senator.” He agreed anyway, knowing the stress this was bound to bring.
And stressful it had been, but he had done it. He had found horribly disturbing materials indicative of the conditions in the CIA Detention and Interrogation program. He had read those thousands of pages, and he had relayed them to Dianne, and in the end, despite it all, the findings had remained classified.
But through the tapes, the door to the greater EIT Program report had been opened.
Dan of course was the immediate first choice to lead the investigation, considering he already had the security clearances as a result of working on the tapes case. And he had been happy to do it, happy to push forward – the tapes might remain classified, but if he could expose these conditions, if he could bring this to light, then that wouldn’t be in vain.
None of the suffering and illegal practices would have happened in vain.
----------------------
It hadn’t been easy in the beginning, dealing with the CIA. Although, Dan huffs out a little laugh to himself as he watches the movie, when was dealing with the CIA ever easy? From the very first day they’d proven themselves to be smug bastards who held themselves above the law, the very thing Dan was trying to convict them of.
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The first day he was given a very brief tour of the office, an off-site in Virginia where he would have to commute. It wasn’t a long drive, part Dan already knew that the drive would feel ten times longer after a grueling day of uncovering whatever bullshit the CIA was trying to hide.
He had been met by a middle-aged man named Sean Murphy, who had brought him inside. They had shaken hands, and Sean wasted very little time, in that way that CIA agents tended to do. They were brusque, the lot of them, Dan thought. He wasn’t particularly a fan, but whether that was because he was with the FBI for four years, or because he’d never had a good interaction with a CIA agent, was still to be seen.
“The room we’ve designated for you is SCIF; no phone reception, no photos, you know the drill.” Sean had led him down down down dark stairwells and corridors, deeper and deeper into the belly of the building.
Part of Dan wondered if they’d given him such a shitty space out of spite. It seems like something they would do, make the investigation as passive-aggressively frustrating as possible.
“Yes and per the requirements, the room is completely off limits to everyone aside from Committee personnel?” Dan kept his tone light, despite the literal darkness they were descending into. He was relieved to hear Sean’s hum of agreement.
“Absolutely. No one inside without your permission.” The Agent nodded, arriving finally at the door.
It’s metal, windowless, and locked with a combination pad. There’s a small placard which read: United States Senage Intelligence Committee Staff Only. By Order of the Director of Central Intelligence.
Sean pointed to the sign, as if to appease Dan, and Dan only nodded in response. Sean punched in the code on the combination pad, and opened the door for Dan to bare witness to this cell of a room that he was to spend the next foreseeable future working out of.
It was a spotless room, grey from floor to ceiling. Cold and sterile, no windows, no other doors, just six desks and six computer monitors.
----------------------
Somewhere in the present, Dan grimaces at how he once had five other people working with him on this shitshow. How he had had two other Democrats and three Republicans, an attempt for bi-partisan facts. And now it was just him, all alone.
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“Computers?” Dan had asked, running his hand over the top of one of them. He was glad to see that at least the space was clean – no dust swiped off when he traced his fingers lightly.
“All right here at your disposal. You get your own dedicated server just for you. We’ll be updating the database as we go, the files will be loaded onto the server as we collect them from across the Agency.” Sean had crossed his arms over his chest, and Dan nodded, understandable.
“Perfect, we’ll want all relevant documents as soon as possible, get this thing underway.” He put his hands on his hips, if Sean wanted to psyche him out with body language, Dan would show that he wasn’t to be trifled with, at least in this small way.
“Well, you know that could take some time, we have to vet it first.” Sean shrugged, “There’s a lot to go through and – ”
“Vet? No, Director Panetta agreed to give us everything pertaining to the program. Everything.” Dan interrupted him immediately, brows furrowed. “Why – who would be vetting it?”
There was simply no way that Dan could run a thorough investigation if materials were being withheld from the Committee, and if the CIA were the only ones allowed to vet CIA documents due to the sensitive nature of their material, then Dan could only imagine what they would withhold. The displeasure must have been clear as day across Dan’s face, because Sean only shrugged again.
“Listen Mr. Jones, we understand your situation, but it’s a big Agency. We have to make sure you don’t get anything you’re not supposed to.” He tried to explain, and Dan bit his tongue, instead turning to survey the room once again.
“There’s no printer.” He noticed aloud, “No paper?”
Sean had almost laughed at him for that, and still to this day, that makes Dan uneasy.
“No documents are allowed to leave the room without CIA approval. As I’m sure you can understand, Mr. Jones, paper has a way of getting people in trouble at our place.” Sean had said in a hushed voice, a conspiratorial voice, a voice that made Dan want to grit his teeth.
“And I’m sure that you can understand, Mr. Murphy, paper is how we keep track of laws, at ours.” Dan had replied seriously.
----------------------
He should have known then, that they weren’t going to play nicely.
Two years, and they’d only been getting more and more difficult.
Dan finishes up his dinner relatively quickly, sleep dragging in his bones. He’d been up at the office bright and early at eight o’clock in the morning and he was now nearing on midnight. Bringing his dishes to the kitchen, he quickly but efficiently washes them and sets them on the drying rack near the sink, never bothering to use the dishwasher. He doesn’t need to, when he’s the only one here.
He goes straight to the bathroom, turns the shower on as hot as it will go. The hamper was only about half full – or was it half empty? – so he knows he can hold off doing laundry for another day or two at least, as he dumps his clothes from the day into the little heap.
Naked, Dan stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself, really looks at himself. He’s attractive, he thinks, in that way that he hopes so, anyway. He maintains his workout routine, which is probably a good idea, considering how much time he spends just sitting around and eating takeout. Maybe he’ll go for a run tomorrow. He thinks he deserves a day off, it’s not like he’s got to show up and report to anyone other than Dianne, but she isn’t expecting an update until after the holiday weekend anyway.
“Run tomorrow,” Dan tells himself in the mirror, lifts his arms and flexes his muscles just to check himself out, make sure that he knows what he looks like, makes sure he’s real, a real person. Steam from the shower begins to curl along the glass, and Dan knows it’s hot enough for him to get in and scrub the day away. “Shower, sleep, and then run tomorrow.”
He makes sure there’s a nice clean towel nearby, and sighs out a breath of relief as he steps under the scalding spray. He lathers up his shampoo and breathes breathes breathes in the calming scent of bergamot and sandalwood, pretends he’s down by the beach somewhere instead of here alone in his apartment. He’s too tired to jerk off, which feels a little sad but not sad enough to bother Dan too much.
He’ll indulge himself tomorrow, he decides as he rinses the suds away. Tomorrow will be a better day than this one, it has to be. He’ll make it so.
After washing his body and applying his conditioner, he steps out of the shower and wraps himself up, pads across the little hall to his bedroom. He slips into warm pajamas and is about to pull back the covers of his neatly made bed, when he notices a piece of paper resting in the tray of his printer/fax machine.
Dan frowns, how long had that been there?
He hesitantly, very hesitantly, approaches the fax machine. It’s a blank piece of paper, nothing on it – aft first glance. Dan thinks he catches a flash of something, maybe its his eyes playing tricks on him, he doesn’t know. But he turns on the lamp near his printer and holds the piece of paper up and his blood runs cold when he reads:
56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence Memorial
Constitution Gardens, Washington, DC 20245
Sunday 11:30:00 AM
Destroy this.
He doesn’t know what compels him, but he rushes to the window. He doesn’t open it, doesn’t do anything so foolish as that, but he peels back the curtain just enough to see it, to see that black car with its tinted windows, driving away.
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Tagging some pals! If you’d like to be added or taken off this taglist, please just let me know! @clumsycopy @whiskey-bumblebee @umbrielchip000 @supremehaunter @kyloawaken @candycanes19 @thegreenmatt @ladygrey03 @zimmerxman @niniita-ah @autumnlovesadam @solotriplets @steeevienicks @aweirdlookingtree @heldcaptivebychaos @formerly-anonhamster @lookinsidemyhead @adamsnacc-kler @magikevalynn @tinyplanet-explorers @chelsjnov @romancedeldiablo @helloimindelaware @peterisparker @goodboybensolo @the-marvelatic @miasera @emily-strange @proxyfoxy @disaster-rose @hazydespair @yosoymuyloca @1-800-choke-that-snoke @ktellmeastory @anongirl007 @okk–maaan @flapjacques @callmemania-pls @theold-ultraviolence @og-selene @schopenhauerdeathsquad @nekonaomitard @feminine-machinegun @carloswilliamcarlos @contesa-lui-alucard
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chapter: 30/?
summary: Dan’s body has been broken for as long as he can remember, and he’s long since learned to deal with it. Sort of. But when his symptoms force him to leave uni and move into a new flat with a stranger named Phil, he finds that ignoring the pain isn’t the way to make himself happy.
word count: 4760
rating: mature
warnings: chronic illness, chronic pain, medicine
a/n: As always, immense thanks to @obsessivelymoody for beta’ing!
Ao3 link || read from beginning
It’s too early when Phil gets out of bed to get ready for work.
His arm slips from around Dan’s waist. He presses a quick kiss to Dan’s shoulder before crawling out from behind him. The alarm clock on the bedside table tells Dan it’s just past seven in bright red lines that make his eyes burn.
He’s been staring at them since they said 5:27.
He’d woken up to a sharp breath that made his chest ache, tears in his eyes and sticky on his cheeks. His feet were numb and his hands all prickly with sleep and he’d stared into the black of Phil’s bedroom for long minutes waiting for his body to recover from whatever it was that woke him up. It had taken him until two to fall asleep last night.
Dan didn’t fall asleep again.
His legs ache now that they’re not sleepy. His arm hurts from having his weight on it for so long. Without Phil’s body holding him up, Dan rolls onto his side. It makes the muscles in his chest spasm, has him choking on nothing and groaning into the silence.
Phil comes over to the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush his fingers across Dan’s forehead.
“You okay?” he whispers.
Dan’s eyes get teary again. He blames the too-tight feeling wrapped around his heart, the thoughts that have been circling the back of his mind for the last two hours. His body hurts from not having slept and his brain keeps telling him that his mum was right, it is all his brain’s fault, that’s what Dr. Kissel will tell him today.
He reaches up, snags Phil’s hand to hold on tight, and hums something that isn’t quite affirmative.
It’s the best he can muster this morning.
A frown draws at Phil’s mouth. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to Dan’s forehead. And then a second one, like he doesn’t really want to pull away.
Dan doesn’t want him to. If this broken feeling wasn’t so perpetual, he might ask Phil to call in sick and stay home with him, keep him company when the drone of TV programs isn’t enough to keep him out of his own head. But Phil’s done a lot. Dan’s needed a lot.
He hopes that’ll diminish today.
Hope’s never been his strong suit before doctor’s appointments.
He tugs on Phil’s hand until he leans down, fringe tickling Dan’s brow, and kisses him, soft and gentle and slow.
And then he lets Phil go.
---
Dan: i hate weekdays
Phil doesn’t respond. Not that he should. Dan knows he probably has to do extra since he’s leaving early to come to Dan’s appointment. That doesn’t keep him from flicking his phone on and off over and over again for too many minutes after he sends the message.
It’s been a long morning. The clock on his phone tells him it’s only half eleven and Dan almost wants to cry.
There’s four and a half hours until his appointment. He’s been staring into space for so long his brain is starting to go numb and yet there’s too much going on inside his mind to focus on anything else.
He’d considered sitting down, rambling into the void, also known as his laptop webcam, again. It helped last time. But it feels almost silly, when he’s by himself, without Phil to recommend he do it. That, and the idea of setting any of it up sounds like way too much effort today.
He double taps the screen, copies the message and sends the exact same thing to Taylor.
His phone vibrates when she responds. It stings the skin of his palm, feels like it rattles the bones in his wrists. He doesn’t much care.
Taylor: why?
Dan: phil’s not home
Dan: and my appts this afternoon and i cant stop thinking about it
He swallows, looking back up to stare at the TV. He’s definitely seen this episode of Doctor Who before, probably on another day like today, watching the endless marathons of the same few shows for hours on end when his body doesn’t really let him do much else.
His brain can’t process it today. It’s too busy replaying every appointment he’s ever had in the most painful sort of slow motion.
Taylor: :(
Taylor: i know that feeling
Dan: yea well it sucks
He rests his phone on his leg, where the pressure makes a dull ache bloom like a new bruise. His thumb hovers over the home button until the three little dots of Taylor’s typing pop onto the screen. He watches, because it’s better than staring at white walls and waiting for minutes to tick by.
Taylor: want some company?
Taylor: I know i’m not phil but I also don’t have a job
Dan: pls
---
He has to stand up to let her into the flat.
His steps are slow. The blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders flutters over his skin and leaves phantom burns in its wake. His hand almost feels too weak to turn the doorknob when he gets there. There’s a stabbing pain in his wrist that makes it feel like it might shatter as it twists.
Taylor’s smiling on the other side. It falters, just slightly, when she sees him.
“I’d hug you hello, but you look like you’re dying,” she says.
Dan manages half, or maybe a quarter of a smile. “Feel like it too.”
He leads her back to the sofa, still limping. Walking past the breakfast bar reminds him he hasn’t had anything to eat today, and barely a few sips of water to drink. The thought makes his stomach churn, something burning at the back of his throat. He won’t eat until after the appointment.
Maybe later, if it goes poorly.
Probably later.
Taylor tucks herself against the armrest as Dan sits down, knees drawn up to her chest, face pressed against one. Being sat with her, like this, reminds him of being back in uni. Except she looks better. There’s less darkness under her eyes and less oil in her hair, and Dan wishes he could relate.
His whole body feels heavy. Worse than it did even then.
“That bad, huh?” says Taylor.
“Can’t sleep,” says Dan. “I don’t know what to expect.”
“So you’re expecting the worst?”
He can’t be bothered to nod. The corner of Taylor’s mouth quirks up knowingly, and she reaches out to rest a hand right by Dan’s knee, without touching.
“We should talk about something else,” she says. “Something happy. Keep your mind off it for a while.”
“Like what?”
She shrugs. “Just tell me something good that happened? My therapist makes me do it sometimes.”
“Oh,” says Dan. He stares down at the table, where his phone’s resting, screen down, and his laptop’s closed. His hand curls tight around his blanket.
When he looks back up at Taylor, her brow’s furrowed, smile fallen into a straight line. “You look like you’re thinking about something,” she says.
“I am,” Dan mumbles. He swallows, thumb sweeping across the fleece of his blanket until his fingertip’s gone tingly. “Phil kissed me.”
Taylor’s jaw drops. Her eyes go happy. She reaches over, actually touches Dan this time, just enough to grab his hand and squeeze it once in glee. “Oh my god. That’s, like, the best kind of happy,” she says. “It is happy, right?”
Dan wants to point out that he wouldn’t have mentioned it if it wasn’t, but the smile on her face finally has his anxiety unfurling just enough for him to breathe a little easier. Maybe Taylor’s therapist actually has some useful ideas.
He forces himself not to follow that thought to the next, the ones saying maybe all he needs is therapy over and over again in his mum’s voice in the back of his head.
“Yeah, it’s happy,” he says. “You know that.”
“And you’re not having some sexuality crisis you need me to talk you through?” she says, half laughing now. “I’ve been there. I can try to help.”
Dan actually manages half a chuckle, like he did when she first told him she liked girls, halfway through a complaint about how everyone at uni somehow had a love life except them. “Reckon I got over that when he started kissing my head all the time,” he says. “Thanks for the offer though.”
She nods, still holding his hand, staring at the side of his face with a smile. “So this is just happy, right? No inner turmoil about what it means or anything?”
It’s been so long since Dan’s had anything be that simple that his brain doesn’t quite grasp the concept. He almost tells her no, just because it makes more sense, because his brain is really good at finding problems where there’s probably non right now.
It doesn’t feel like he can be just happy now.
But then he thinks about the soft goodnight kiss Phil brushed against his lips before they went to bed to bed last night, and an actual smile cracks past the fear.
“Yeah,” he tells her. “That’s just happy.”
---
They talk about Phil for a while.
It’s easy, with Taylor, to just ramble about sleepy cuddles and soft kisses and the way it all makes him feel good for the first time in ages. It reminds Dan of being twelve again, before everything went wrong and his body broke and any chance at normalcy crumbled before his very eyes.
Maybe there is room for a sexuality crisis, if he thinks too hard about the crushes he might have had if he’d been healthy.
Dan doesn’t think about it. He lets his head fall back against the sofa and feels his thoughts lapse into everything that came after age twelve. His story about their kiss ended a bit ago, faded into discussions about where he wants things to go from here, and then into silence.
There’s a lot of things Dan wants now. Most of them have nothing to do with kissing Phil.
“Hey,” says Taylor. He’s not sure how long they’ve just been sitting here, but her smile has fallen into a frown. “You okay?”
He shrugs. Vaguely, he processes that people are still talking on the TV, that Taylor’s hand has fallen to rest on his knee. “Just thinking.”
“Not about happy things?”
His chest burns when he chuckles. The rush of giddy conversation has faded, left Dan’s body more exhausted now than it was before. He almost wants to nap, except he knows his brain wouldn’t let him. Days like today are just days where he’s meant to be sore and tired and feel all of it acutely.
“No,” he says. “Not about happy things.”
Taylor squeezes his knee. It hurts. It’s comforting anyway.
“Do you want me to try and distract you with more happy things?”
“Don’t think you can,” he admits. “I think I’ve used up all my happy energy for today.”
His head falls back again, gaze drifting up to the ceiling. His vision goes blurry. It’s not from tears. Dan’s pretty sure his eyes are just tired, too. It takes too much energy to force them to focus again.
He takes a breath. It hurts his throat, his head being bent back like this, and tugs at the tendons in his neck.
“I don’t think it’s going to be a happy day,” he whispers, voice cracking “I’m–”
Scared. He doesn’t say it.
“I know,” says Taylor.
They sit there, listening to the same drawl that Dan usually does. His eyes have fallen closed. He can hear his own breathing, loud compared to Taylor’s, but he doesn’t much care to worry about it. Taylor’s never been bothered by the little ways Dan’s body is different.
She just leans forward, snagging the remote from where it was sitting on the coffee table, and says, “Let’s put on a better film, at least.”
If Dan had the energy, he’d smile.
---
Phil gets home from work earlier than Dan expected.
“I worked my lunch,” he explains. “And my boss deemed me completely useless today. Apparently I was distracted.”
He’s sitting on the armrest, leaning over Dan. Whatever lighthearted smile he’s attempting lasts about half a second before it falls. His hand lands on Dan’s head, drawing his curls back. Taylor’s still sitting next to them, but Phil hardly hesitates before leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of Dan’s brow.
“Wonder why,” says Taylor. It’s a whisper, like she’s trying not to interrupt. “I should get going, though. I’m sure you guys have to get ready or some shit.”
Dan almost asks her to stay, just so he has an excuse to pretend that three thirty isn’t slowly sneaking up on him.
“Thanks for coming over,” says Phil.
“Yeah, of course.”
Dan can hear her smile, can see Phil’s. It makes his chest go warm.
Taylor looks down at him before she leaves. “Good luck,” she says. “Text me when you’re ready to talk about whatever the doctor has to say.”
“I will,” says Dan. He hopes his smile is enough to tell her how much he appreciates the space she permits him.
Phil escorts her to the door. They hug before she leaves. Dan hears the murmur of her voice, too far for him to pick up on any words. He listens to the door open, then close, and then Phil returns by himself, dropping into the seat Taylor was just occupying.
Dan should probably feel bad for how relieved he is that Phil’s here now, but he doesn’t, not really.
His head falls back against the cushions, too, turned so he’s looking at Dan. He looks exhausted, eyes puffy and face all drawn.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Shit,” says Dan. “You?”
“Scared,” Phil whispers.
Dan nods, awkward and crooked with his head still tilted back. He reaches into the space between them, taking Phil’s hand in his. Their fingers interlock, and the pressure against his knuckles is not very comfortable, but it makes the corner of Phil’s mouth quirk up.
“Yeah,” says Dan. “Me too.”
---
They get to the doctor’s office early.
Sitting at home, waiting for the minutes to tick by, had become unbearable. Dan forgot that waiting rooms are always exponentially worse. Phil’s arm isn’t wrapped around him here. They don’t hold hands. Their feet are pressed together between their seats. It’s not enough.
Across from them, a mum is rocking her baby as he fusses. And older man is reading one of the magazines left out for them. Phil had tried to pick one up, and had put it down about thirty seconds later. The secretary who booked this appointment is talking on the phone. The other is checking someone in.
There’s a poster about heart failure on the wall.
Dan stares at it until his chest starts to hurt and the anxiety makes his eyes water.
Phil grabs his hand, holds on tight.
“Your heart's fine,” he says. “You’ve had that tested before, right?”
“Yeah.” Dan lets out a breath. “Yeah. It was fine.”
“Okay,” says Phil. “Okay. That’s good.”
His grip on Dan’s hand loosens, his breath coming easier.
Dan’s stays locked painfully between his ribs until a nurse steps out from the hallway and calls his name.
---
She checks his height, even though he hasn’t grown in over a year. And then his weight, as though it’s fluctuated much since his last growth spurt, since he lost his appetite and ability to exercise all at once.
“Looks good,” she says, like she thinks that’s what Dan cares about.
She leads him into a little room and asks him questions, the familiar kind with automatic answers. No, he’s not diabetic. No, he doesn’t smoke. No, he hasn’t had caffeine in the last couple hours, because just the thought of putting something on his stomach makes him want to be sick.
He doesn’t say that last bit.
She wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm. Dan squeezes his eyes shut against the pain when it tightens. He should be used to it. Part of him doesn’t think he’ll ever be.
His pulse is high, his blood pressure low. The nurse points it out.
“It’s always like that,” he explains.
She looks back at him, brows furrowed, skeptical. Dan hates it. He manages a shrug and a smile, an unspoken apology for something stupidly out of his control like his heart not beating quite right.
He tries not to think about chronic obstructive heart failure.
The nurse jots something down on her triage paper and leads him into an exam room to sit and wait some more. Phil grabs his hand again the moment she closes the door behind her.
---
Dr. Kissel is smiling when she walks in. Dan’s not sure if that’s supposed to be comforting or not.
“How are you doing today?” she asks as she sits down, turning to log into the computer.
“Uh,” says Dan. “As okay as to be expected?”
She hums, turning back to him in her spinny office chair. The collar of her lab coat is popped awkwardly at one side. There’s a pen hanging from its pocket, a stethoscope draped across her shoulders. Her smile hardly falters as she says, “So, not very well at all, I assume?”
It’s so not what Dan expected that he chuckles. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“I take it you want to get straight to your test results, then?” says Dr. Kissel.
He swallows hard. If the nurse thought his pulse was high before, he’d half laugh at what she’d have to say now. “Please.”
Dr. Kissel turns back to her computer at that. He watches her click through what he vaguely recognizes as his chart. Just above the notes from his last appointment are the last things his old doctor ever wrote about him, at the appointment where he counted Dan’s tests one by one and told him that if they were all fine there was nothing he could do unless Dan was willing to accept he was imagining it all.
Dan doesn’t read them, doesn’t want to. He never wants to be exposed to those words again.
He watches Dr. Kissel click on a link of some kind, and a monochrome image fills her computer screen. It takes him a second to realize he’s staring at his own brain, at the results from his MRI, autoplaying on a loop through his entire head over and over again.
Something in his chest spasms. Phil squeezes his hand. He never let it go.
“Okay, so first we have your MRI, which are the results I was most concerned about,” says Dr. Kissel. She turns back towards him, grabbing her pen to use it as a pointer. “If there was any signs of deterioration or abnormal structures like a tumour or aneurysm, we’d see it here.”
Dan stares. He can’t really see anything in his brain. He doesn’t know what a sign of deterioration looks like. He almost doesn’t want to ask.
He doesn’t have to, because Phil says, “And?”
“And I see no signs of any abnormalities with your brain,” says Dr. Kissel. “Your brain appears healthy, Dan.”
“Oh,” he says.
His eyes are burning now. He hates the fact that it’s not from relief, that he doesn’t really know what’s welling in his chest, putting pressure in his skull, but it doesn’t feel good when he knows it should.
“What about the, uh, bloodwork?”
She doesn’t open those results, just leaves the screen playing a morbid cycle of his perfectly healthy brain.
Dr. Kissel smiles, and says, “Those results also came back normal.”
Dan just about breaks down right there in the middle of her office. A tear falls down his cheek. His leg starts shaking. Phil has to reach out and rest a hand on his back just to keep him from giving up on keeping his breathing even at all.
Dr. Kissel reaches out, rests her hand on the armrest, close to Dan’s elbow.
“That doesn’t mean anything, you know,” she says. Her voice has gone soft. Dan’s never had a doctor, not even a therapist, speak to him like that. “I reviewed your medical history and I’m aware of the conclusions drawn by your past physician. That’s not where I’m going with this.”
“It’s not?” says Dan. It sounds choked. He feels like a kid.
Except when he was a kid he didn’t have to deal with any of this.
“It’s not,” says Dr. Kissel. “Rather, I suspect you might have a condition that doesn’t show up on any of our current tests, at least not to our knowledge. Ruling out other conditions is the first step to diagnosing it.”
Phil’s hand starts rubbing circles against his spine at that. If Dan looked over, he’s pretty sure Phil would be smiling.
But he doesn’t. He can’t look away from Dr. Kissel, not now. “What’s the next step?” he whispers.
“Well, there’s two. The diagnostic criteria is in the process of evolving, so I’d like to perform both,” she says. “One of them might be painful.”
“Can we do that one first?”
It’s probably the wrong order to want. Dan doesn’t care. Part of him wants the pain to remind him that she’s actually looking for something physical. For once. For the first fucking time in seven years.
Dr. Kissel smiles like she knows that and nods her head just once. “I’ll need you to stand up for this,” she says. “I’m going to press against specific spots on your body, and you need to tell me if it hurts, okay?”
He nods. His heart’s still racing when he stands. His legs feel weak with something other than exhaustion.
Something almost thrilling, like anticipation.
Dr. Kissel starts by pressing her thumb against the base of his skull, right where his head meets his neck. Dan almost screams at the burst of pain it causes.
It turns into a laugh, delirious and bubbly and out of control. When he turns, Phil’s smiling at him. Dr. Kissel is staring at him expectantly.
“Yeah, that hurts,” he says, so she does the same thing to the other side of his head.
He laughs again, because it hurts and it feels like that’s what it’s supposed to do for whatever mystery illness Dr. Kissel’s testing him for. Phil laughs with him. He’s probably confused, but he doesn’t seem to care. Dr. Kissel moves onto the next spot, right where Dan’s neck meets his shoulder, and mumbles a quiet three under her breath when he squirms away from her touch.
In the end, he gets sixteen out of eighteen spots. Dr. Kissel tells him the minimum for a diagnosis is eleven.
Dan probably shouldn’t be proud of that.
He settles back into his seat. The pressure of it hurts. Pain has bloomed all across his body and Dr. Kissel offered an apology that it would probably take a little while to fade and Dan doesn’t care. His leg bounces even though there was a spot in his hip that almost made it give out completely.
His knee stings from when she pressed there. Dan rests his hand there anyway.
“What’s next?” he asks. He probably sounds insane.
Dr. Kissel just reaches over and draws a packet of papers from her folders. She sets it down on the desk by him. The front page has a picture of a gender-non-specific person with arms spread and eyes closed. The top of it has a header that reads Fibromyalgia Diagnostic Criteria.
Dan has no idea what that means.
“You just need to fill out this assessment,” says Dr. Kissel. And then, “I told you this one would be less painful.”
Phil chuckles. Dan does, too. He grabs the pen she offers him and starts reading.
The first question asks him to check off every area of the body where he’s had pain in the last week. Dan reads the list once, twice, three times before looking up at Dr. Kissel.
“Is it stupid of me to check off all of them?”
“Not if it’s the truth,” she says. “That’s a very common response for people with this condition.”
“Oh,” says Dan. Something twists in his stomach at being included in that. “Okay.”
So he checks off all of them, his shoulders and arms and upper and lower back, and jaw and neck and chest and legs and buttocks. The only thing that goes unchecked in the last option that reads None of the above . Dan’s brain can’t even wrap around that idea.
The second question is called the Symptom Severity Score. It asks Dan to rate some symptoms on a scale of zero to three. It feels like a failure when he needs to check the box next to 1: slight or mild problems when it comes to cognitive symptoms.
Dan’s pretty sure that part of his brain is the only part of him that still works properly. Most of the time.
The last question is just a list of symptoms that tells him to check off all the ones he’s had in the last week. He has to ask what some are. Some are things he has but never really thought were related. His gaze lingers on the word seizures for the first time, printed on a list that includes rashes and dry eyes.
It’s the first thing that’s really scared him. That box stays unchecked. He wonders how much it matters.
When he hands the test back to Dr. Kissel, she’s already nodding like she knows the answer it’ll contain. Dan’s pretty sure he does, too.
She writes a giant 28 in blue pen at the bottom of the page, and looks up at him with a sad sort of smile.
“Okay, this confirms my suspicions,” she says. “Your symptoms appear to be caused by Fibromyalgia.”
Dan swallows, bobs his head. “Okay. Okay,” he says. “Uh, what does that mean?”
---
His legs feel different when he walks outside. Maybe because they still ache from the pressure point test she did, or because there’s a residual tingling from how much he was shaking during the appointment. Except the rest of Dan’s body feels different too.
The sunlight burns his tired eyes. Holding his head up takes too much energy. They stand on the curb waiting for their cab to show up and Dan’s chest aches and yet feels lighter than it has in days.
Weeks. Years, probably.
Dr. Kissel explained to him what it was, with a bunch of fancy medical terms he’ll need to google later. Something called central sensitization means his brain is fucked up and doesn’t know how to process shit and makes everything hurt and it fits so very well with how his body seems to experience the word that Dan doesn’t care that he doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t know much right now. She recommended lifestyle changes as a first step and he has no idea what that’s going to entail. He doesn’t know what meds he might end up on, or how much better he’ll get. Dr. Kissel told him this was usually a life-long condition.
Dan feels like that should be terrifying. Except he’s grown to expect that whatever it was wouldn’t be an easy fix.
He’s not dying, though. She told him that a few times, like reassurance among all the supposed-to-be-bad news.
His weak legs sway under him after standing for too long. Phil reaches out to wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close so Dan can lean against the steadiness of his frame. He doesn’t seem scared anymore. Maybe he will be again, once everything’s had time to sink in.
Phil leans in close, pressing his nose to the side of Dan’s head. “How are you feeling?”
Maybe Dan will be scared again, too. But he’s really not right now.
“Can I say something crazy?” he asks.
“Go ahead.”
He pulls back, just enough to catch Phil’s gaze with his own, and says, “I think this is one of the best days of my life.”
Phil doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy. He smiles, and leans forward to press a kiss to Dan’s forehead, and holds him even tighter when his legs start to feel weak again.
The cab that pulls up looks just like the one that drove them here. Dan climbs into the back seat next to Phil, letting his head fall against the headrest, and feels himself smiling.
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Disappear for Twenty Minutes
Lance has a cousin that can get him and Keith into Disneyland for free. Shiro finds out and hints heavily he'd like to go, too.
Voltron, klance/laith, 5,980 words, rated T, modern/college AU
MASTERPOST
“Rico wanted to know if you can come in Friday. Diana called out so you just gotta cover her,” Shiro said over dinner late Tuesday night.
“Sorry, can’t,” Keith said around a mouthful of chicken Parmesan. “Lance and I are going to Disney.”
“How? Neither of you have money for that.” Shiro frowned.
“Lance’s cousin works at one of the hotels and he can get up to three people in for free. Park hopper pass and all,” Keith explained.
Shiro froze, his wine glass of cranberry juice halfway to his mouth. “Oh, okay that’s pretty cool. Have fun. I’ll tell him no, then.”
Keith arched a brow at Shiro’s reaction. “Do you want me to come in? Is there something going on?”
“No, no nothing like that.” He waved away Keith’s question. “Don’t worry about it. Have fun on your date at Disneyland.”
“Ookaay, uh, yeah. I haven’t gone since I was like, nine? Yeah nine. He says I have to try the Dole whip and churros, and we’re gonna get matching ears” Keith continued on. “I don’t really like churros, but he promised these are the best. And he said he’s got a coupon for the Blue Bayou? It’s a really fancy restaurant inside the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. So I’m gonna be sweaty and gross eating in the fanciest restaurant in Disneyland. He has a whole day planned out, we’re basically going from opening to closing.”
“That’s pretty cool. Bring me back a souvenir?” Shiro had stopped eating and was staring at his now empty wine glass. He sighed. “I heard the new Guardians of the Galaxy ride is pretty cool.”
“Shiro, what’s wrong?” Keith put down his own glass and gave him a firm stare from across the table.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said too quickly, his eyes averted Keith’s glare as he shoved a mouthful of chicken into his mouth. He chewed quickly and stood, gathering his plate and wine glass. “I have a paper to write.” With that, he walked quickly to the kitchen and dumped his dishes into the sink before slinking off into their shared bedroom.
On Wednesday he met up with Lance for brunch at a local cafe in Old Towne before their shared noon class.
“I think Shiro wants to come with us to Disney, but doesn’t want to straight up ask because it’s technically a date,” Keith said.
Lance looked up from his morning tea. “It’s a date, though.”
“Yeah, but last time he went he was like fourteen.”
“Do you want him to come with us? I don’t mind at all, my cousin can let in three people, but it is a date.”
“We could sneak off?” Keith suggested. “I don’t think he’d want to be with us, anyway. He’ll probably run off on his own and end up going on Star Tours over and over.”
“Hm, true. But do you want him to come?” Lance gave him a leveled look. “If he’s gonna go do his own thing, sure. I don’t mind.”
“He might be working, so he probably won’t be able to take us up on our offer, anyway,” Keith noted.
He was wrong.
“I’m gonna call out of work,” was Shiro’s immediate reaction to the invitation. “I’m gonna look for my Star Wars shirt, and get us some water bottles. Should I bring a bag? Yeah, portable chargers, first aid kit, snacks, jacket, extra shirt, sunscreen. . .” Shiro had gotten up from their spot on the couch and wandered to their bedroom to start looking for the stuff. He paused in the doorway. “What time do I need to get up? What time are we leaving?”
“Uh, we’re gonna get there at nine,” Keith said. “It’s a full day thing, cause we’re not gonna get a chance to go until summer.”
“Cool, cool.” Shiro dodged back into the bedroom.
The night before the Big Disneyland Adventure (Lance had dubbed it as such), Keith lounged across his bed texting Lance, while Shiro dug through their closet, his sling bag on his bed and packed full of necessities.
Me
Today 9:37PM
He’s still looking for that
shirt. It’s kind of ugly
but I just barely
managed to convince
him not to bring the
fanny pack.
Lance <3
Today 9:37PM
OMG A FANNY PACK??
MJOKJDFAGAM
Me
Today 9:38PM
Yeah
Today 9:38PM
Are you sure it’s okay?
It’s a date, I don’t want
my brother messing up
anything you have
Planned
Lance<3
Today 9:40PM
Dude it’s cool. Shiros
fun to hang out with. I
really don’t mind
“Let’s get ready for bed. We’re gonna have a busy day and it’s important we get a full eight hours,” Shiro said. He threw the now incredibly wrinkled Star Wars shirt across his bed. The one with Chewbacca and the 80s graphics and read “Party Animal” across the chest.
“It’s not even ten yet, what the fuck?” Keith put down his phone and glared at Shiro. “I don’t go to bed until after one, you know this.”
“Yeah, but you don’t go to Disneyland everyday, so chop chop get to bed,” Shiro said sternly, even clapped his hands to get Keith moving.
“When you do that it makes me not want to do anything for you.”
Shiro ended up getting Keith in bed before eleven. Shiro fell asleep almost instantaneously, snoring heavily into his duvet, the little ocean sounds he played to help him relax echoed from the tiny speaker by his pillow. Keith sighed, tucked in bed, but with his phone out and his text chat with Lance up.
Me
Today 11:03PM
I wanna get a fastpass
for space mountain first
and foremost
Lance<3
Today 11:03PM
I wanna get Guardians
after tho
Me
Today 11:04PM
…
Today 11:04PM
Are you sure this is all
Okay? I can always tell
him never mind, it’s a
date. Or we leave him in
downtown Disney.
Lance <3
Today 11:05PM
I don’t mind, rly. But do
you? This isn’t just
about me tomorrow, it’s
about both of us.
Keith smiled softly at Lance’s last text. He’s seriously too sweet, he doesn’t know how he got a guy like Lance.
Me
Today 11:06PM
I kind of do mind. But I
don’t wanna break his
heart. Besides, we
could still ditch him
Lance<3
Today 11:06PM
ALSKDNKN THATS THE
SPIRIT
Shiro kicked down the bedroom door, bright and early 7:30 AM, with a shout of “GET UP WE’RE GOING TO DISNEYLAND!” and tossed two slices of hot, buttered toast at Keith’s face.
“Shiro,” Keith hissed.
“Lance is gonna pick us up soon,” Shiro said, as he bustled around the room getting the rest of his bag together. “We gotta be ready.”
“He’s probably not even awake yet, let alone on his way.” Keith wiped some butter off his chin and took a bite out of the first slice of toast. “I’m gonna eat this and sleep a ‘lil longer.”
A little after eight, Lance pulled up to the front of their apartment building in his ugly little white car. Keith jogged ahead of Shiro to snag the front seat.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Lance greeted him with a peck on the lips. Keith couldn’t help but check out his boyfriend, with his styled hair and blue eyes still a little droopy with sleep. He hadn’t had any food or caffeine yet, making him a little subdue and more pliant under Keith’s lips. He wore an adorable short sleeve button down, white and decorated in little ice creams. The sleeves were rolled up a bit and the front tucked into a pair of light wash distressed capris. His green army jacket laid across his lap. He was so cutely dressed, like always, it made Keith feel a little weird about wearing dark jeans and his Pizza Planet shirt.
“‘Morning, babe,” Keith said, giving Lance’s cheek and extra kiss. “Thank you for doing this. I’m really excited.”
Lance waved him off. “I been wanting to go with you for awhile.”
Shiro slid into the back seat, grumbling about how he was too damn tall to be crammed in the back when there was a much roomier front seat available for his “incredibly muscular legs”.
They got to the Mickey and Friends parking structure in record time, but was caught up behind the line of cars.
“It’s February,” Keith whined. “On a weekday. Don’t people have jobs? School?”
“Not if it’s Disney,” Shiro said.
“I’d gladly ditch school for Disney anyday,” Lance agreed.
The first problem with bringing Shiro along as a third wheel to their date to Disneyland was met as they got out of the car and got themselves situated.
“Slather on some sunscreen, you two. I have the spray on can and a lotion to use on your face.” Shiro tossed a bottle of sunscreen at Keith. “Are you wearing Converse, Keith? They don’t have support!”
“Jesus, Shiro, are you wearing cargo shorts?” Lance snickered.
“Yes! I can use every single pocket today,” Shiro said. “And you’re wearing Converse, too! Both of you are gonna hate yourselves by like, two o’clock.”
“At least I look good,” Lance murmured.
“You too. Pass the sunscreen to Lance, Keith.”
“I’m Cuban,” Lance said.
“This is the California sun, it doesn’t give a fuck.”
Lance sighed and took the sunscreen bottle from Keith.
The second problem arose once they meandered through downtown Disney and to the meetup with Lance’s cousin outside the World of Disney store.
“Listen up you two,” Shiro started. “Before we get in there I wanna set some ground rules. First of all, this place is huge and there’s a lot of people, so let’s stick together. Second, I love you guys, but I don’t wanna see anything more than G rated hand holding.”
Keith gripped Lance’s hand tighter, also sensing his fun day going down the drain with his helicopter of a brother hovering over them. Lance shot him a side eye look that screamed I can’t believe it but also I can.
A little after nine, they met up with Lance’s cousin, who promptly took them straight to the front gates flashed his ID, and let all three of them go through with tickets handed to them.
“I got Lightning McQueen on mine,” Lance examined his ticket once they got inside. “Lightning McQueen. . . Lance McClain. . . Keith, this is fate.”
“A coincidence.”
Keith was immediately assaulted by so much. The air smelled sugary sweet, and filled with a delightful tune that matched the Main Street USA charm. But God, even forty-minutes after opening, there were so many people. The horse drawn trolley rode by, laden with passengers decked out in Disney merch, people of all walks of life milled about the faux street. Children screamed.
“I’m happy to be here, but I already wanna go home,” Keith said. He saddled up close to Lance and grabbed his hand.
“Nah, the Pirates of the Caribbean ride only has a twenty minute wait, so we’re heading onto that first, but we gotta get fastpasses for Space Mountain before that,” Lance said. He picked up the pace a bit, tugging Keith through the crowd of people milling about Main Street. They were all heading the same way into the park, but Keith couldn’t help but get annoyed with how slow they were moving. They’d stop in the middle of the street, or their whole family would be spread out and make it impossible to walk around.
Tomorrowland was packed with people trying to wiggle into the Star Tours ride. They passed by Storm Troopers, Shiro insisting they stopped and take a picture.
“Move out of the way,” one of them gently nudged a child with his gun and kept walking. The kid laughed and asked if her mom got a picture of that.
“Nevermind, that was really funny, but I don’t want them to be mean to me,” Shiro said.
“Jesus, it’s a fifty minute wait already for Space Mountain?” Keith noted when they reached the entrance.
“And it’s only gonna get worse. Come on, let’s grab a fastpass.” Lance lead them up to the fastpass ticket dispenser, noting that their time would be in three hours.
They hurried back through Tomorrowland, across Main Street, and into Adventureland.
“What’s this line for?” Shiro pointed at the entrance of Adventureland.
“Dole Whip,” Lance said. “It’s pineapple flavored and super good.”
“I want it.” Shiro started to drift toward the back of the line, Keith grabbed his hand and tugged him back into the flow of people heading deeper into Adventureland.
“Later, dude. That lines ridiculous and I wanna get my butt on a ride before I die,” Keith said curtly.
They ended up waiting nearly a half hour for Pirates, standing around awkwardly. Keith and Lance chatted idly, but any topics they really wanted to get into were avoided due to Shiro being there.
The ride was fun when they finally got on it. They crammed into the front seat, Shiro squished in between them. Lance idly told them how there’s rumors that the skull hanging on the bed is real, and there are human remains in the water due to people dumping loved ones ashes in there. Rumors, he reiterated when they got splashed going down the drop.
They wound through the cute back alley of New Orleans Square and found themselves by the train station and the entrance to the Haunted Mansion.
“Hold up, I wanna get a Mint Julep while we’re over here.” Lance practically skipped to the register and ordered three Mint Juleps and a bag of Mickey-shaped beignets. “Cheers.” He held up his own pale green drink, decorated with mint leaves and a lemon slice.
“Oh god, I thought this was going to be alcoholic. This is a baby mint Julep, okay,” Shiro said after taking a sip. “That fucked me up oh my god. Actual mint juleps taste like pain but spicy. This tastes like something I would like to have pumped into my blood. Hook me up to an IV of this.”
“The ones inside the Blue Bayou restaurant have light up ice cubes and skewers with cherries on them. This is the cheaper, less fun version of them,” Lance explained.
“They can be even better?” Keith said softly.
The beignets were fantastic. Shiro accidentally exhaled too hard on his and got powdered sugar down his front. Keith inhaled laughing too hard and took in too much powdered sugar and started coughing.
The Haunted Mansion wait was a little more fun than the Pirates, due to the line being wrapped through the front lawn that was covered in funny gravestones. They took turns reading.
“Wait, wasn’t the Haunted Mansion a scary movie?” Shiro said.
“When I was seven it was scary,” Keith said.
“I actually never saw it,” Lance said. Shiro and Keith stopped and stared at him.
“Then why are we going on the ride?” Keith asked.
Lance shrugged. “It’s a good ride. If the movie is as scary as the ride, then it’s really not that bad.”
“Okay, Mr. Disneyland expert. . . who hasn’t even seen the Haunted Mansion.”
“During Halloween and Christmas they deck it out as Nightmare Before Christmas and I actually like that better than the original Haunted Mansion.”
“Why would you even say such a thing? Keith, can you please break up with him?”
“Not yet.”
Lance gasped and spun to face Keith. “Yet?”
“You’re on thin fucking ice for thinking Nightmare Before Christmas is better than Haunted Mansion.”
“It’s fun! And it combines my two favorite holidays into a family fun musical!”
Lance was right about the ride, it was definitely not scary, but it was a lot of fun.
They rode few more short rides with almost as short lines, and wounded up getting a few churros outside Thunder Mountain.
“I want a hat,” Shiro said, staring off at a child wearing a Lightning McQueen ear hat. Keith prayed that wasn’t the one he wanted. “And Dole Whip.”
“Aw Keith, we should get matching ears,” Lance nudged Keith’s hand and grinned.
“You can have the Minnie Mouse ears,” Keith said,
“I’m down. She has a bunch of cute bows.”
They rode Thunder Mountain, the ride being a two seater roller coaster so Shiro sat in the very front seat by himself and Keith and Lance behind him. After that they took off across the park to get to Space Mountain, weaving through the foot traffic and strollers. Keith lost count of how many times a parent tried to run him over with a stroller, the child legs kicking out aiming for his knees.
“I will literally,” Keith huffed. “Kill the next person who thinks they can run me over with their two seater stroller and nine year old kid in the front seat on a tablet,” As he said that, he got cornered by a large family that split him off from Shiro and Lance, herded him into a trashcan, and nearly got ran over by a two seater stroller with an older child in it, the parent weaving expertly through the crowd with the intent to kill anyone who got in her way. Keith barely dodged out of the way from certain death, almost stumbling into an ice cream cart. He circled back to where Shiro and Lance were walking. “I’m going to kill her.”
“The kid wasn’t on a tablet though,” Lance pointed out.
They made it through the fastpass queue in record time, following the weaving path through the other fastpass checkpoint and into the building. They were belted into the ride in a matter of ten minutes.
“Wow that was kind of fast. It’s a seventy-five minute wait,” Shiro said, a little breathless.
“I’m gonna shit myself this is so cool.” Keith was practically vibrating in his seat, up in the very front with Lance. Like Thunder Mountain, they had asked the cast member if they could get a front row seat and they’d been directed to row number one.
The pictures came out terrible. Lance couldn’t stop heaving with laughter as he snapped a picture of it on Snapchat and posted it to his story. Shiro, chin partially blocked by Keith’s mane of hair, was grinning like that cat meme. Keith looked like he was high, and Lance took the time to pose with a smile and forming a heart with his hands.
“I’m not photogenic,” Keith murmured.
“You were also going thirty-five miles per hour on a roller coaster in a pitch-black room, you didn’t see the camera coming.” Lance gave a comforting pat on his back and placed a kiss on Keith’s cheek.
They got a fastpass for Star Tours and wandered through Fantasyland, riding a couple storybook rides and getting more churros. On the teacups, Keith and Lance weren’t even properly sitting, intent on making the cup spin faster and faster. Shiro had his camera out recording, leaning all the way back so he wouldn’t get hit with a stray elbow. They stumbled off the ride and wound up taking pictures outside The Mad Hatter inside the teacup. Lance managed to convince Shiro to take a picture of Keith and Lance in the teacup. Lance wrapped his arm around Keith and pulled him in and smiled. Keith, not wanting to ruin the obviously couple-y picture he was going for, awkwardly rested his hand on Lance’s knee and leaned in close, smiling at the camera. His cheeks felt warm.
It was nerve wracking, being in public and being openly affectionate with each other. They’ve been together for almost four months, friends for longer. They were still tentative with each other. Keith wanted to always kiss his stupidly pretty face, hold him close and not let go.
Lance, probably reading Keith’s train of thought, tilted Keith’s chin up and placed the gentlest kiss on his lips. He kind of hoped Shiro got a picture of that.
“Knock it off, you two. I wanna go buy a hat.” Shiro slapped Keith’s shoulder and dropped Lance’s bag into his lap as he walked by. Their little bubble was broken.
Keith shot Lance an apologetic smile and climbed down from the teacup, holding out a hand to help Lance down.
Shiro was already looking through the hats. Keith zeroed in on a pair of ears.
“Oh my god, they light up,” Keith gasped. He clicked on the little light, seeing the Millenium Falcon and Death Star flash between the stars.
“Aw, but babe, matching ears,” Lance pouted and held up a pair of ears with a sequin polka dot bow. “This one has interchangeable bows.”
“Is there a Star Wars themed bow?” Keith asked.
Lance scrunched up his whole face in thought. “I don’t think so.”
“Tough luck, I’m getting this.” Keith turned to take it to the register to see Shiro turning away and thanking the cashier, fixing a hat atop his head.
“Are you shitting me, Shiro?” Keith asked, agashed. A mother shooed her son away from Keith, shooting him a dirty look.
Shiro wore the Goofy hat. A tall green, flimsy monstrosity with long ears that dangled to his shoulders, the black band reading “Goofy” in block orange letters. Shiro grinned. “What? I liked this one.”
Lance was guffawing behind Keith. “Shiro, oh my god, Shiro. That’s so fucking funny. I love it.”
“I don’t,” Keith grumbled.
Keith bought his cool light up ears, and Lance got the interchangeable ears with the Little Mermaid bow. Lance sulked out of the shop, disappointed at not matching Keith.
“You guys should get those matching Disney shirts,” Shiro suggested.
Lance sulked more somehow. “No, those are tacky.”
Keith snorted. “And the matching ears aren’t?”
“Yes.”
At that point in the afternoon they meandered over to Adventureland and got in line for Dole Whip. Keith bought one for him and Lance to share. That made him perk right up and forget about the ear thing. They didn’t even bother with spoons, content with taking turns licking off the top. Shiro trailed behind them, his own Dole Whip in hand.
“This is so fucking good, I’m gonna cry,” Shiro said, voice cracking. “This was worth $3.49. No, this is worth $5.49.”
The rode a few more rides before their fastpass for Star Tours was ready. They got side tracked on their way around to Tomorrowland by Captain America, standing outside the Marvel center taking pictures.
“I want Captain America to hold me close and don’t let go,” Shiro sighed, gazing at the cast member.
“I want Captain America to smash me over the head with his shield,” Keith said.
“I want Captain America to hold my hand and tell me I’m valid,” Lance said.
“Steve Rogers will do all of that, except one of the things we said,” Shiro said, eyeing Keith.
“He’s not gonna hold you close, Shiro. He has Bucky,” Lance said. Keith choked on his water.
Inside Star Tours, Keith reached up and flipped on the lights to his ears. “So I’m a nuisance to everyone behind me.”
After the ride, they exited Disneyland and went over to California Adventure, heading straight for the Guardians of the Galaxy fastpass distributor.
“7:30 to 8:30. God, we’re cutting it close,” Shiro said looking at his ticket.
“Let’s go on California Screamin’, that’s one of my favorite rides,” Lance said, tucking his ticket back into his wallet.
They crossed through A Bug’s Land and through Pacific Wharf toward Paradise Pier. Lance was bouncing up and down with excitement.
“This is one of my favorite rides at Disney! There’s a loop, and a lot of cool drops and turns. It takes you over Paradise Pier and the water and. . .” He trailed off, staring out over the water and pass the iconic Mickey Mouse ferris wheel.
“It’s closed for refurbishment,” Keith said.
“What? No! Why?! It’s perfect just the way it is!” Lance cried out. “If the ground wasn’t amusement park ground I’ll fall to it and grovel.”
“Please stop being a Leo, I bet it’ll be open again soon.” Keith rubbed a hand tenderly on Lance’s back.
Shiro let out a low whistle. “Wow, the whole back half of paradise pier is closed. I wonder why.”
They ended up wandering to the Grizzly River Run, the line not being very long due to it being winter still technically. The calendar said it was late February, but it felt more like a nice, spring day.
Lance looked online to find answers about California Screamin’ while he waited, gasping softly when he found his answer.
“They’re renovating Paradise Pier and turning it into Pixar Pier!” He said. “Oh my god, they’re turning all the games and rides Pixar themed instead of the California beach boardwalk theme they had before. And the California Screamin’ is still gonna be the same, just The Incredibles Themed! It opens in the summer! Keith, we have to come back.”
“Okay, just let me in again.”
Shiro got soaked on the ride. His hat had been tucked away thankfully, but the rest of him was drenched. They had come down one of the drops and Shiro was in the splash zone. His forelock was plastered to his forehead, grin bright and eyes shining with mirth when they got off the ride.
They wandered back to Disneyland and got on the Indiana Jones ride. In the line, Keith leaned up against Lance’s sticky back, eyes heavy, and Lance leaned back against Keith. Shiro was shifting his weight between his feet, eyes glazed as he stared down at his dying phone. They weren’t even in the building yet.
“It’s like, almost six, do you guys wanna get some real actual food in us after this?” Shiro suggested.
“I wanna eat the rich,” Keith groaned. “Everything here costs money to buy.”
“That’s how it works, you exchange money for goods and services,” Shiro said.
After the ride, they plopped down outside the Haunted Mansion and dug into some soup and sandwiches they scored. Keith and Lance shared jambalaya soup in a bread bowl and a french dip sandwich, and Shiro had his own meal.
“It’s pricey here, but at least the food’s good,” Keith groaned into his sandwich.
“A bottle of water still shouldn’t be almost five dollars, though,” Shiro said.
“Hey, let’s go to Tom Sawyer’s Island,” Lance suggested.
They finished eating and took the boat over to Tom Sawyer’s Island, Lance grumbling under his breath how it should have been named Jim’s Island. Keith snorted a laugh. The boat was really just a wooden platform that took them across the river, so crowded with people it made Keith press up against Lance’s side. Lance’s hand traced idle patterns across the small of Keith’s back.
Once they landed, Keith took Lance’s hand and they took off down the dirt path and ducked into the first cave passage, wounding their way around the island. Determined to lose Shiro, they ducked down and took every turn they found at a run.
In a shadowy alcove, hidden in a cave and by a skeleton display on the ground, Keith pushed Lance up against the worn, plastic-y walls and kissed him like his life depended on it. Lance kiss him back just as hard, wrapping his arms around his neck and tugging him closer. He opened his mouth to let Keith slip his tongue in. Keith pushed his thigh up between Lance’s, effectively pinning him to the probably gross wall and kissing the life out of him. It was energizing, kissing Lance, Keith decided. His heart raced in a good way, and his skin tingled where Lance touched him. He tugged Lance closer and tangled their tongues together, pulling a small moan from Lance. He melted in his hands.
He wanted to kiss him all the time, hold him close. He wanted to do more with him, touch more, hold more, kiss every inch of his body. Make him fall apart under him and-
“Oh my god you guys!” Shiro’s shout broke their trance. They jumped apart, swollen lipped and red faced. Shiro stood at the mouth of the cave entrance, Goofy hat somehow making him intimidatingly taller. “You disappear for twenty minutes to make out in the corner of a cave? I told you to keep it PG, you horny little fucks!”
“Keith started it,” Lance said, voice hoarse. Keith smacked his arm playfully. They were asked to please get off the island and never do that again by a cast member.
The sun was setting, turning the sky above them shades of pink and gold, streaked with clouds. Lance took a selfie of him and Keith in front of the castle bathed in pink light, Shiro peaking out behind Lance’s ear. They rode Autopia, wandered through a few stores down Main Street and bought some goodies for their friends and headed back to California Adventure for their fastpass at Guardians of the Galaxy.
“I really love this movie, it better not disappoint me,” Shiro said when they were piling into their seats.
“It’s like the Tower of Terror, but less Terror and more 80’s bops,” Lance said.
He was right. Lance’s cousin had given him a free photo op coupon and Lance, laughing so hard at the look of horror on Keith’s face at the final drop, didn’t hesitate to use that coupon and got a hard copy of the photo.
It was dark out by the time they got out, the street lights on and the walkway still milling with a lot of people.
“Don’t they have jobs? Aren’t kids in school now?” Keith asked.
“It’s a Friday, they can stay out as late as they want,” Shiro stated.
“We should have ditched class and work on like, Wednesday. No one misses a Wednesday for Disneyland,” Keith murmured.
“Yeah they do. I’d miss jury duty for Disney.”
They made their way back to Disney, and with everyone lining up for the Fantasmic show over at the River of America. They wove through the crowd of onlookers and to Splash Mountain, which had a fifteen minute wait due to the time of year and the show starting soon.
“That way, this could be the last ride then we can watch the parade and fireworks.”
“Isn’t this based off that really racist movie that Disney is trying to ignore, but Splash Mountain is such an iconic favorite they can’t get rid of it?” Shiro asked while they waited in line.
“Yeah, Song of the South is based off the Uncle Remus stories. We read a couple back in American Lit, remember Keith?” Lance said.
“Oh, the Tar Baby story? That was weirdly written.”
“The dialect was supposed to imitate how a black slave would recite a story in the south, but it was written by this white guy,” Lance explained. “I don’t remember anything about it, honestly.”
“I know I just took the class, but neither do I,” Keith shrugged.
“Anyway, the movie was still racist and they should at least make this ride like, Winnie the Pooh themed,” Shiro said.
“There’s already a Winnie the Pooh ride.”
“I want another one.”
They got wet again. The water was sticky and really, really cold. The drop going down at night, with the flash of the camera blinding you, was absolutely terrifying. Keith reckoned he is never going to take Lance’s suggestion to ride Splash Mountain at night ever again.
Shivering and soaking wet, they made their way to Main Street. They got another round of churros, some popcorn, and each flavor of pretzel and soda and found a seat on the curb to wait for the parade to start.
“I’m gonna go get a coffee real quick at Starbucks, you guys want anything?” Shiro asked.
“A hot tea?” Keith asked. “I don’t care the flavor, surprise me.”
“Same for me, please. You want money?” Lance asked.
Shiro shook his head. “No, you got us into Disneyland and gave us this awesome day, I can buy you a tea.” He stood up and took off down the street.
Keith sighed heavily and leaned against Lance. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“It’s no problem. I’ve been wanting to do this with you for a while, anyway,” Lance said. He intertwined their fingers, stroking a thumb over the back of Keith’s hand.
“Hmm. But I had a lot of fun, even with my brother’s meddling. I’m sorry about that,” Keith sighed.
“You had fun, right? That’s what matters. I don’t mind being cockblocked by your brother. Besides.” Lance leaned in and brushed a kiss to the top of Keith’s head. “I got to see you happy today. Yeah, I’m kind of sad I couldn’t kiss you and whisper sweet, sweet nothings in your ear all day, but you smiled a lot and that made me happy, too. We can make out in the car later, if you want.”
“I do like the sound of that.” Keith couldn’t help feeling the phantom tingle of Lance’s lips against his, the blunt end of his nails scratching against his shoulders. It lead to a spiral of other, much more dangerous thoughts. He shook himself out of his stupor, Disneyland not being the place to think of things like that.
Shiro returned with their tea, with only minutes before the parade started. It was bright and colorful, the music loud and cheerful. Lance lost it over the Cars float. The firework show started immediately after. They piled into the street and heard Julie Andrews introduce the show with Tinker Bell flying over the castle.
He gripped Lance’s hand the whole time, unable to peel his eyes away from the show. He sang along to the songs, and even pulled Lance into a kiss in the finale fireworks. Lance kissed him back with a smile on his lips.
They sluggishly took the tram back to the parking garage and climbed up the escalator to their car. The three of them took a moment to relax and catch their breath in the safety of Lance’s car. None of them said a word.
Keith reached over and touched Lance’s hand, ready to go.
They got home just before midnight. Lance bade Shiro goodnight and Keith stuck around in the car for a second with Lance while Shiro went ahead to unlock the door.
Under streetlight, Keith could clearly see the exhaustion lining Lance’s face.
“Hey, do you wanna stay the night tonight?” Keith asked. Lance only lived barely fifteen minutes away via side streets, but he looked like he was about to collapse with exhaustion.
Lance smiled weakly. “In your tiny bed? And without my skin care stuff?”
“I know you have a travel pack in your glove box,” Keith frowned.
“That’s true, but I wanted to do a full face regime tonight because Disney really fucked with my skin today.” He looked at Keith’s puppy dog eyes. “But I could do that tomorrow morning if you’d really rather have me here.”
Keith leaned in and gave him a slow, heavy kiss. “I’d always rather have you with me.”
Lance dug out his travel toiletry bag and locked the car behind them as they walked up to Keith’s apartment door. Shiro left the door open and the lights off, and the man in question was found snoring in his bed with his shoes kicked off and feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Keith pulled the blankets over him.
They got ready for bed and cuddled up in Keith’s twin sized bed, Lance in one of Keith’s shirts. The bed was way too small for either of them to stretch out, instead opting to curl up into one another.
They were asleep before either of them could properly wish each other good night, but managed to give each other one last kiss before dozing off.
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When I meet you in the summer - Part 3
Summary: Working as a bartender in a five star hotel while a rich and famous family is staying over for a month, and one of their sons, Bucky, happens to have an eye for you, is a dream right? Right? Wrong!
Chapter 3: Get it together!
Fandom: Marvel
Y/N: your name
Warnings: language.
Part 1 - Part 2
A/N: Here it is, the third part of the series. And I’m introducing someone who will be definitely one of my favorite characters (I hope yours as well!). The only and irreplaceable... Just kidding, you’ll have to keep reading to find out.
Previously:
“Wow… Thank you…” his kindness shakes me and, tentatively, I lie my head softly on his shoulder. When he doesn’t pull away, I let my body weight onto him and he shifts his balance so that I’m more confortable, making sure he touches me the least possible.
“No problem. He needs to grow for a damn time.”
“Wait, are you on his side or not?”
He laughs and leans a little over my head. “Well, he doesn’t know how to make gin tonics as well as you do, does he?” I laugh softly at his comment. “He’s still my brother, Y/N. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what happened to that eleven year old that claimed he wanted to be a gentleman when he grew up. And the only conclusion I arrived to is that our world destroyed him. I like to think he’s still in there, somewhere, but I lose hope every day. He’s turning into a monster before my own eyes, and I’m unable to help him. My own brother.” he breathes in deeply. “I’m sorry for… Everything.”
I shake my head, but when I’m about to answer, Maria Hill, the ‘Big Boss’ as everyone calls her, appears on the doorframe.
“Y/N, we need to have a conversation.”
Y/N’s POV:
When the Big Boss wants to talk to you, you know you’ve messed up.
I walk with Maria to her office in a tense silence. She sits behind her gigantic glass desk and looks at me seriously for a few seconds, making me even more nervous. Just when I’m about to scream, she sighs and starts talking:
“Look, Y/N. You’re not a troublemaker. In fact, you’re an exemplar worker. But Mr Barnes has put up a complain about your attitude.”
That fucking son of a bitch. I’m gonna kill him.
Before I can defend myself, Maria raises her hand. “Now, I don’t know what happened, but a complain like that would put you job hunting immediately. However, Mr Barnes has a reputation of playboy and troublemaker in this hotel, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.” Maria smiles briefly, but then her face darkens. “Despite that, I can’t let the complain go unnoticed. Look: a few days ago, Sarah quit her job as the night bartender. She claimed the work was too stressful, with all the parties and discos we do at night, and we couldn’t afford to pay her more. So I’ll make you an offer: you can either choose to be fired altogether or take over Sarah’s job, but without pay.” She lets me think about it for a while. “What do you say?”
I have to make a conscious effort not to cry “Do I even have a choice?”
Maria doesn’t answer.
I leave her office and head immediately to the staff’s bathroom. When I close the door behind me, tears are already steaming down my face.
From now on, my workday will last from ten o’clock in the morning to two in the morning, with an hour rest for lunch and an hour and a half from seven to half past eight. I won’t be able to go home during weekdays, probably not ever during weekends. A shiver runs down my spine when I realize I won’t be able to be there at night, to protect my sister from my father.
I’ll have to be near Barnes the whole day, because he doesn’t look like the kind of person who misses a party. Add to that the ten wasted men that will try to sleep with me each night. And then add to that minimal sleep. Great.
The future looks bright, man. A deep laugh comes out of my chest, stained with fear and desperation. I raise my hand, wanting to punch the mirror out of frustration, but a hand stops my wrist midair.
“Whoa. Be careful girl. What’s the matter?” I look up to see Peggy Carter holding my wrist tightly and looking at me with concern.
“I-I…” I start to cry and she rests my head on her shoulder as I start to vomit words and fears. When I’m done, she looks at me in the eyes and takes out a bag of makeup from her locker.
“Let’s fix you up girl. Look: now you’re going to go out there and rock that cocktail maker. I’ll bring you something to eat in a while and make sure Bucky doesn’t go anywhere near the pool today. Later, I will talk to a few contacts, make sure you always have backup. Don’t worry, you’ll make it out of this. Trust me.” She moves around me, fixing my hair and makeup. When she’s satisfied with the result, my best friend and accountant of the hotel gives me a perk in the cheek and walks out of the bathroom.
Peggy is right. No matter what happens, I have to keep fighting.
I’ve been making cocktails for two hours and Peggy has kept her promise: Barnes hasn’t showed up and about half an hour ago, one of the waitresses, Natasha Romanoff, brought me a sandwich.
She tried to talk about Bucky, mainly just trying to get information out of me, and I tried my best to avoid the subject. Luckily, she was soon called back to the kitchens and left me alone.
Steve isn’t at the pool either, but that doesn’t mean I have less work. In fact, now that the pool is open again, I barely have time to do all the drinks people ask for. I feel like a hurricane as I leave three fruit cocktails on the bar and get an order for a mojito.
The afternoon flies away, and when Scott finally allows me to close the bar, my hands and feet hurt like crazy. At least I haven’t had a chance to think or go over what happened. Now, however, everything I have to do before my next shift overwhelms me as I lean against a wall in the hall.
“Y/N!” I look up to see Peggy walking towards me. “Come, we have to talk a few things.”
She guides me through corridors until we reach a room in the staff floor. She opens it with a card and motions me in. It’s a big and very simple room with a bed and a sofa, a desk, a TV, a mini fridge and a bathroom. I’m still confused and I turn to my friend, looking for answers.
Peggy is smiling excitedly, like a kid. “What do you think?”
“It’s… nice? What’s all this about, Peg?”
“It’s your new room!” she nearly screams, jumping on the balls of her feet.
I feel like a bucket of ice cold water has been dumped over me. “Oh… But Peggy, I can’t pay this.” This rooms are specially designed for the members of staff that can’t go back home after their shift. But they still cost a good amount of money.
“I know. That’s why it’s actually my room!” she throws herself on the bed.
“I’m confused.”
She smiles “I had been thinking for a while about living in the hotel for the rest of the year. It’s way easier, as I don’t have family waiting for me at home. So I decided to book a room for us! You don’t have to pay anything. The only condition is that you sleep in the sofa. It turns into a bed”
I open my mouth to protest, but Peggy is… Peggy. She doesn’t allow me to talk, just pushes me out and orders me to get my bags and come back. When I do so, she helps me place my few clothes in my side of the wardrobe.
“Done! Now you’re just missing…” she takes a card out of her purse and hands it to me “Your key. I’m so excited! I’m gonna have a roomie!”
“Peg, you’re not going to pay this room alone.”
“Of course I’m not. But you’re in a difficult situation right now, so don’t worry. We’ll split the price when things are back to normal. Right now, focus on getting everything together.” she hands me my phone “Message your sister, get some friend of yours to look after her, and while you’re at it, get them to send you some of your stuff. After that, you’ll have time to take refreshing nap for an hour and then half an hour to have supper and get ready for your next shift.”
“You have a slight obsession with control, my friend.” I smile, taking my phone.
“That’s why you love me.” she laughs, winking at me and taking her heels off. “Now if you excuse me, you’re not the only one on break.”
She falls asleep quite fast, so I text and make my phone calls as quietly as possible. Once I have everything more or less together, I turn my phone off and lie on the sofa-bed. I love Peggy’s ability to make everything seem simple and exciting. She’s able to make you feel calmed and organized even when when the world is falling to pieces.
I’m out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Part 4: Coming Soon!
A big thank you to @punkfaress @iamwarrenspeace @marvel-fanfiction @chipilerendi @moosesamdeancasbees @captain-ros3ann3 @marvelouslyloki @eireannhwb @starannoballandocomedeglizingari @fangirlingsatan @opaque-daydream @illusionassasin @girlwith100names @thefiregypsy @scotlandasshole @lexisdisastrousstudies and all of you readers that make my writing real.
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Bb is for Book. Cc is for Cleaning
One of mine, just written...
Me and cleaning.
We're acquainted, you know; we meet in the street, there's a nod of recognition - but we don't put our shopping bags down and chat for five minutes. Still less, adjourn to Costa for coffee and tiffin. It's not that I'm dirty. Or lazy. Or enjoy mess. The nexus of our tenuous connection isn't to be found there. 'It's complicated', people inevitably say of irregular relationships. So say I about me and cleaning. If I was pushed to name names, I could legitimately point the finger of blame at mum. Not that she was a slattern, you understand.
Our house was ever spick and span. The ancient hoover used to rumble and clatter from room to room, and clunked on each and every step of the stair (there were thirteen to the landing, then a turn, and another one). The cupboard under the sink was full of relevant paraphernalia. We stocked Lanry, Vim, Brillo Pads, Windowlene, Swarfega, Pledge, and a forgotten tin of ancient lavender funiture polish. Dusters were ever old pillowcases, torn up - but there was a purpose bought floor cloth. And there were always J-Cloths for kitchen messes.
I've mentioned Vim. Now there was a product. It scoured everthing scrupulously clean – and left a film of white residue on every surface it touched. What on earth was that about? I think it was deliberate. You had to use another product and wipe everything over in order to get rid of the residue. In effect, you had to clean up twice. There was the Protestant Work Ethic and the Capitalist Profit Motive writ large, in bold, and underlined. That we were Catholics and Socialists didn't alter the outcome – we still had to clean up twice.
Next to the Brillo Pads (in the old, handle-less, cream and gilt-patterned teacup) were the donkey stones. One yellow, one white. They've been consigned to history now, along with most of the other products and mores of my childhood. God forbid, back then, that your backyard wasn't swilled and your front / back steps not mopped and donkey-stoned. Not to have that chalky white or yellow edge marking on each step was tantamount to admitting you lived in a hovel. Our donkey stones were sourced from the rag-and-bone man (also consigned to history). Periodically, this affable character would jingle along back streets on an old, wooden, flat-bed cart, pulled by a comfortingly-scented horse, and give out a timeless call; “Aag-Bow!”. You could hear him half a street away, which gave your mum time to rummage about and find some booty. You gave him whatever salvageable detritus you had and he'd give you a donkey stone. It was a sort of anti-bacterial barter arangement. Everyone was a winner. He had stuff to recycle, you got rid of clutter, and your mum was not labelled a brothel-keeper.
You might think I'm undermining my assertion that mum is responsible for my ambivalent relationship with cleaning, since I've given a long litany of cleaning products and house-proud moments worthy of an article in Lancashire Life. But no. Not so. She is the prime culprit.
She encouraged me to read. You know – Aa, Bb, Cc: the alphabet, books...
She was a reader herself – she'd always have a magazine or book to read in the evening after dad had gone to bed. Her magazines were of the era: the People's Friend (with its watercolours of Scotland); the Reader's Digest; or a slim novel. Later in life, her reading was more devotional and always included the Daily Office for the Secular Franciscan Order. I associate mum with magazines, books, puzzles: word searches, crosswords, arrow-cross. She kept her brain exercised long after she'd allowed her body to take more ease: ever a force to be reckoned with if you watched Countdown together. Switched on to the very last, mum.
So, there was mum with her familiar pile of books and magazines and there was dad, saying goodnight and heading off to bed (being a wagon driver, he had to be up early). Now, as I cast my mind back, I see that he had a hand in my aversion to cleaning, too. Not that he, too, was a reader: I can only recall him reading three books in my lifetime: The Robe, Lloyd C Douglas; Cherrill of the Yard, Fred Churrill: and a book about the Border Regiment's campaign in Burma (that was his war). Dad made a more subtle contrbution: the morning routine at 89 Napier Street was built around his need to be up and out early. That routine was instrumental in binding me indissolubly to books.
But I started the story with mum and the fact that she signposted me to the written word.
Not a sporty child, not interested in sport (except for Wimbledon fortnight), I was a devotee of Hollywood musicals, and books. The literary devotion started early. I was a member of the local public library as soon as I could hold cards in my own right. I held six in my name; I was voracious. I was one of the (few) kids who learned to read using the ITA system – the idea being that you if you taught children to read using a phonetic method, where words were written as they were pronounced, it would speed up learning. Then, at age seven or so, you'd switch to regular spelling and ditch the ITA alphabet. Some adults schooled in ITA, I have read, have never been confident spellers, as a consequence of not using the standard alphabet at the beginning of their schooling. As you can see, that is not my story. But, I digress.
I'd walk down to the library almost every Saturday morning, scooping up books before heading home to devour them through the coming week. When I was eleven I sat the 11+ exam. I was one of the last kids to do that (it was phased out in the late 60's and early 70's as Comprehensive Schols supplanted the Grammars and Secondary Moderns). Having pased the exam, I was enrolled at St Thedore's RC High School in Burnley, and the shape of my life was definitively cast.
Mum and I would sit up and read late in the evening, after dad had gone to bed. Then, in the morning, I'd read before getting the bus to St Ted's. Dad would wake me at about 6:15am, as he left the house. (Thinking about it now, I have no idea why he didn't wake either of my elder brothers. Well actually, I probably do – they would have been unrousable. They didn't need to be up, and would have resisted any attempt to stir them into premature activity. I was more pliable.) My job then, by default, was to get up, light the coal fire, and wake up the rest of the household at the appropriate times. The bus I used to reach school was BCN Transport's 60. It wended its way from Nelson to Burnley via Halifax Road, Hill Place, Marsden Road, Briercliffe Road, and Eastern Avenue. I used to get on at Hill Place:if I left the house at 8:10am, I could reach the stop in good time. I'd be joined there by Andrew Thornton and Keith Haydock - classmates at St Ted's.
So, now you see me - solidly located in the 70's, on any given weekday morning. Dad's up and gone, the fire's lit, and I am aged eleven and I have nearly two hours to fill before I go for the bus. What is there to do but read? No such thing as Breakfast TV back then. Nowadays, when there is breakfast TV, I still prefer to read. In fact, I get up 90 minutes before I'm due at work so that I can read. By doing so, I invite another snag: I can't put the bloody book down! I'm usually 'last minute' or marginally late, arriving at work. But we're talking books... What can you do? The setting conditions for my literary efflorescence were present throughout my adolescence: mum was promoting literary explorations and dad was affording me ample opportunity to stick my nose where it belonged.
All of this may appear to be but tangentally related to my allergy to cleaning up but the two are, actually, inextricably bound. In my universe, Books and Cleaning are binary stars; suspended in the vacuum of space, locked in an eternal embrace.
The incomparable Quentin Crisp had an unique perspective on cleaning. He said, “There's no need to do any housework at all. After the first four years, the dirt doesn't get any worse”. Now, that's a sterling silver quotation – great to deploy if the Aggie and Kims of this world ring your doorbell, step into your home, and proceed to look snootily down their noses at you, whilst pinching their nostrils firmly closed. So, thank you, Quentin.
But don't think this lets you off the hook. I haven't forgotten how you died the night before I was scheduled to see you on stage in Manchester, in November, 1999. You owe me for that lack of consideration. When we meet in the heavenly (diabolical?) Cage aux Folles in the sky, I expect you to obtain a corner table for our exclusive use, with mood lighting. If push comes to shove, we can always drape one of your pink chiffon scarves over the table lamp. I'll stand us drinks but I anticipate, from you, a cavalcade of hilarious and outre anecdotes. Don't disappoint. Though I appreciate Quentin's contribution to the debate, we're not allies. We may both be Friends of Dorothy but I don't subscribe to his philosophy of detergence. I like clean and neat. I like minimalist.
I am my mother's son, after all. She liked elbow grease and order, and knick-knacks were strictly regulated; few in number and of weight and moment. We're similarly constituted, she and I. I readily confess that this outlook on the house beautiful lends itself well to spick-and-span, clean and calming. I sign up to that: I love it when my space is elegantly muted, crisply orangised, dust-free and soft-sheened. But the truth is, my impulse to clean always defers to my impulse to read.
Some people say that when food whispers to them, Eat me, they are helpless to resist. I sympathise. Books, I tell you, are equally invidious.They beckon, invitingly. They murmur, insistently, Read me. I try to be motivated by hoovers and mops. I urge myself to be excited by Mr Sheen. It'd be great if Cilit Bang raised my blood pressure. But it doesn't. I struggle. Even the most jaundiced comentator will acknowledge that Descartes' aphorism states Cogito, ergo sum not Expurgo, ergo sum. Still, I'm no slothful coward. I am not one to admit defeat easily. I've devised a graded cleaning routine to spur me to action.
I'm not one to boast, but the USA has adopted something similar to grade their national preparedness to defend against threats: they call it DEFCON. The Yanks and I share an ordered sequence of alert settings. You can find theirs on the internet. For simplicity's sake, I decribe mine below.
DEFCON 4: There's visible dust on flat surfaces.
Response: SCOWL DISAPPROVINGLY OVER THE EDGE OF THE BOOK
DEFCON 3: Visible dust, an assortment of specks / crumbs on the carpet. Response: PAUSE MOMENTARILY IN MY READING. CONSIDER HOOVERING, at some unspecified future date
DEFCON 2: As above, plus fluff balls near skirting boards.
Response: SET BOOK ASIDE, WITH ILL-GRACE. QUICK HOOVER and a bit of DAMP DUSTING
DEFCON 1: Imminent arrival of guests (particularly transatlantic ones) or, threat levels as detailed above, plus shower cubicle and bathroom sink clouded by soap scum.
Response: BLITZ EVERYTHING
Sometimes, for reasons I don't quite understand, the C-in-C seems to initiate DEFCON 1 without adequate justification. I mean, if book precedes clean in the dictionary, by how much more does it precede deep-clean? Ah well. Fits of absence of mind have been know to happen. Or maybe it's the breath of God blowing through me - a burst of genuine enthousiasm? Of course, it's possible, too, that (in the depest bunker of my brain) there is some unimagined Stellar Intelligence Service that continually monitors the binary stars Book and Cleaning and detects perturbations in their orbit. Once an aberration is discovered, the agency leaps into action to rectify any threat to the creative tension that holds them in equilibrium. A bit like NASA, but with Marigolds and a pinafore. If so, it's effective.
The upshot of DEFCON 1 – however it's triggered - is a mad two hours; every resource is allocated. There's a burst of frenetic activity which I sustain until, sweat dripping off my nose end, I have successfully transformed my homely abode into a showpiece. I must admit, the sense of statisfaction arising therefrom is a natural high. It's lush. I beam, inwardly. And what is it that I do next, when I hit this high? I'll tell you.
I make a pot of tea, get comfy on the sofa, and pick up my current book.
© Damian, June 17th, 2019.
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